“When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist.”

“And that’s when things get messy. When people begin moving beyond charity and toward justice and solidarity with the poor and oppressed, as Jesus did, they get in trouble. Once we are actually friends with the folks in struggle, we start to ask why people are poor, which is never as popular as giving to charity. One of my friends has a shirt marked with the words of late Catholic bishop Dom Helder Camara: “When I fed the hungry, they called me a saint. When I asked why people are hungry, they called me a communist.” Charity wins awards and applause but joining the poor gets you killed. People do not get crucified for living out of love that disrupts the social order that calls forth a new world. People are not crucified for helping poor people. People are crucified for joining them.”

“Mine is no caste or cult, what care I for one or the other…
No one is of any use to me, nor am I of any use to anyone.
Don’t have a son to need, someone’s daughter to wed.
Tulsi is the slave of Rama, whoever may say whatever he likes.
Begged for food, slept in a mosque, have nothing to take and nothing
to give, call me a swindler or a saint, call me a Rajput or a Julaha.”

“My poor health was matched, as it often is when one is sick, by my poor mood. A deep melancholy often overtook me, and at times I asked myself whether life was worth the trouble of living.”

“That's why I call this place the Haunted Bookshop. Haunted by the ghosts of the books I haven't read. Poor uneasy spirits, they walk and walk around me. There's only one way to lay the ghost of a book, and that is to read it.”

“We have the finest food, the finest equipment, the best spirit, and the best men in the world. Why, by God, I actually pity those poor sons-of-bitches we're going up against. By God, I do.”

“I am the poet of the poor, because I was poor when I loved; since I could not give gifts, I gave words.”

“You see, cuckoos are parasites. They lay their eggs in other birds' nests. When the egg hatches, the baby cuckoo pushes the other baby birds out of the nest. The poor parent birds work themselves to death trying to find enough food to feed the enormous cuckoo child who has murdered their babies and taken their places."
"Enormous? Did you just call me fat?"
"It was an analogy."
"I am not fat.”

“This homeless guy asked me for money the other day. I was about to give it to him and then I thought he was going to use it on drugs or alcohol. And then I thought, that's what I'm going to use it on. Why am I judging this poor bastard?”

“When I was a little boy, they called me a liar, but now that I am grown up, they call me a writer.”