rest of my energies should be devoted to advocating ambiguity in practice of literature.Much of the potential energy of literature lies unlocked in the gap between word and referent.This plasticity of meaning is still exploited quite explicitly in poetry,and certainly tolerated by most within this increasingly marginalized activity.Prose,however,appears these days to come under a different jurisdiction.I was happily not aware of this when I sat down,more than fifteen years ago to write my first novel-Memories of Rain.I had no preconceived desire to play with words or sentence structure,but what emerged was an English that was largely devoid of fullstops,and where clauses often belonged to both its flanking sides. Para 14:Unlike The Glassblower's Breath.Memories of Rain received no severe criticism (first novels rarely do,if they are reviewed at all)but was definitely labelled avant-garde.This shocked me-coming as it did exactly seventy years after a work such as Ulysses was published!I am not for a moment suggesting that the richness of literature resides entirely in flouting convention.Many of my favorite authors write in perfectly grammatical sentences,using other devices such as narrative or imagery to create meaning.Indeed,I have a very high regard for prose whose complexity lies outside the structure of its sentences,but there is a certain tyranny in the expectation that we all write that way.It grieves me that the battles fought by so many writers to free us from such an expectation have not led to any sustained victory,for we all write from the heart,and if the heart eschews punctuation at that given moment,that is the only way to be true to oneself. Para 15:My reaction to punctuation is truly visceral.I physically abhor the repeated use of the full-stop.Interestingly called the 'period'by some,the full-stop to me is simply not the satisfactory musical interval between the statements or ideas that I wish to put forward.There is something too final about the full-stop-I am happy to use it judiciously,but mostly I rely on commas to separate interlinked ideas.Conversely,sometimes,the finality of a full-stop is not enough,and I need to employ paragraphs or even blank lines or a row of asterisks to create the correct pause between sections of prose.It is natural that a writer's relationship with punctuation should be emotional.I was reading on the plane to Melbourne,Conor Cruise O'Brien's excellent biography of Edmund Burke,and was delighted to note this phrase-'the brackets are like handcuffs'-I may return to it later in the context of language and morality Para 16:For the moment though,I would still like to explore why we write in sentences.I was fortunate enough last Saturday to see after a very long time,my cousin Tista Bagchi who is a distinguished linguist at the University of Delhi and happens to be writing a book on what she rather beautifully described as the archeology of the sentence.According to her,the sentence arose in English out of the need for a language suited to legal needs,and in Greek was imposed by the Stoics out of a need for logic(they called them axioms).Thus the sentence was created out the need for unambiguity.Finally,it became clear to me why I had such a visceral dislike of short sentences containing one clear idea.Again,I will stress that 'sentences'as we normally recognize them can be,and have been,very productively employed by many writers of fiction,but to demand it of all prose smacks to me of a certain fundamentalism,or at the very least the misplaced importation of the concerns of mathematics,logic and law into an arena which thrives on ambiguity rather than precision.rest of my energies should be devoted to advocating ambiguity in practice of literature. Much of the potential energy of literature lies unlocked in the gap between word and referent. This plasticity of meaning is still exploited quite explicitly in poetry, and certainly tolerated by most within this increasingly marginalized activity. Prose, however, appears these days to come under a different jurisdiction. I was happily not aware of this when I sat down, more than fifteen years ago to write my first novel – Memories of Rain. I had no preconceived desire to play with words or sentence structure, but what emerged was an English that was largely devoid of fullstops, and where clauses often belonged to both its flanking sides. Para 14: Unlike The Glassblower’s Breath, Memories of Rain received no severe criticism (first novels rarely do, if they are reviewed at all) but was definitely labelled avant-garde. This shocked me – coming as it did exactly seventy years after a work such as Ulysses was published! I am not for a moment suggesting that the richness of literature resides entirely in flouting convention. Many of my favorite authors write in perfectly grammatical sentences, using other devices such as narrative or imagery to create meaning. Indeed, I have a very high regard for prose whose complexity lies outside the structure of its sentences, but there is a certain tyranny in the expectation that we all write that way. It grieves me that the battles fought by so many writers to free us from such an expectation have not led to any sustained victory, for we all write from the heart, and if the heart eschews punctuation at that given moment, that is the only way to be true to oneself. Para 15: My reaction to punctuation is truly visceral. I physically abhor the repeated use of the full-stop. Interestingly called the 'period' by some, the full-stop to me is simply not the satisfactory musical interval between the statements or ideas that I wish to put forward. There is something too final about the full-stop – I am happy to use it judiciously, but mostly I rely on commas to separate interlinked ideas. Conversely, sometimes, the finality of a full-stop is not enough, and I need to employ paragraphs or even blank lines or a row of asterisks to create the correct pause between sections of prose. It is natural that a writer’s relationship with punctuation should be emotional. I was reading on the plane to Melbourne, Conor Cruise O’Brien’s excellent biography of Edmund Burke, and was delighted to note this phrase – 'the brackets are like handcuffs' – I may return to it later in the context of language and morality. Para 16: For the moment though, I would still like to explore why we write in sentences. I was fortunate enough last Saturday to see after a very long time, my cousin Tista Bagchi who is a distinguished linguist at the University of Delhi and happens to be writing a book on what she rather beautifully described as the archeology of the sentence. According to her, the sentence arose in English out of the need for a language suited to legal needs, and in Greek was imposed by the Stoics out of a need for logic (they called them axioms). Thus the sentence was created out the need for unambiguity. Finally, it became clear to me why I had such a visceral dislike of short sentences containing one clear idea. Again, I will stress that 'sentences' as we normally recognize them can be, and have been, very productively employed by many writers of fiction, but to demand it of all prose smacks to me of a certain fundamentalism, or at the very least the misplaced importation of the concerns of mathematics, logic and law into an arena which thrives on ambiguity rather than precision