by Salman Rushdie

Could the Booker Prize have gone to a novel that treats three generations of an extended family but remains emotionally dead-flat aside from twin swellings of self-pity and self-love?  Was a career launched by a book that contains 50 years of intricately plotted interconnections, parallels and synchronicities across the breadth of the subcontinent but scarcely a single meaningful insight?   Am I tired of snide snark sarcasm and twee wordplay all in the service of convincing us of the cleverness of the author?  Did I really give up on a book that bloats to 700 pages with endless never-ending repeating repetition and flashback throwback foreshadow for every one plot point? Friends, it could. It was. I am. I did.

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Published by bingregory

Official organ of an American Muslim in Malaysian Borneo, featuring plants, pantuns and pictures from the Malay archipelago. Oversharing since 2002.

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  1. Not just the Booker but the Best of Bookers too.

    I have never been able to finish a novel of Rushdie’s, but I keep my thoughts to myself because people are quick to assume that I dislike him for the “wrong” reasons, regardless of what I say. However, this review was too short for catharsis, lol.

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