‘Yet her novel was no tortured, obviously autobiographical affair. It was simply a tale of adventure, of a girl on an island who learns to make do. The narrative shimmered with hope, and although it was for the most part rather spare, it paused often to delight in the little details: in the texture of the skin of a piece of fallen fruit, for example, or in the swaying antennae of crayfish in a stream.’

– Mohsin Hamid, The Reluctant Fundamentalist

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