n  Adesso ricorda: gli aveva parlato, tanto tempo fa, delle poesie di Jumpy. Sta cercando di farne una raccolta. Un libro. L'artista col pollice in bocca e le sue visioni infernali. Un libro è il frutto di un patto col Diavolo, che è l'opposto del contratto faustiano, aveva detto ad Allie. Il dottor Faust sacrifica l'eternità in cambio di due dozzine d'anni di potere; lo scrittore accetta la rovina della propria vita e guadagna (se ha fortuna) non l'eternità, forse, ma alemno una posterità. In entrambi i casi (era la tesi di Jumpy) è il Diavolo che vince.
Cosa scrive un poeta? Versi. Che cosa tintinna nel cercello di Gibreel? Versi. Che cosa gli ha spezzato il cuore? Versi, ancora versi.n

Mi ferisce che si parli di questo romanzo solo per motivi paratestuali. È cosa nota che, dal momento che alcuni capitoli dei Versi Satanici contengono una versione romanzata del profeta Maometto, l'imam Ruhollah Khomeyni, all'epoca guida suprema dell'Iran, lanciò una fatwa contro l'autore, Salman Rushdie, condannandolo a morte per eresia e promettendo una taglia da capogiro all'eventuale boia. Viste le continue minacce, il governo britannico assegnò la scorta a Rushdie. Purtroppo, lui non era l'unico nel mirino dei fondamentalisti islamici. L'editore norvegese e il traduttore italiano riuscirono a scampare agli attentati. Il traduttore giapponese fu più sfortunato e venne pugnalato a morte nel suo ufficio. Di tutto questo se ne è parlato e, per molto tempo, si è parlato solo di questo.

Ancora più tristemente, si è smesso di parlare del tutto dei Versi Satanici. Una volta eravamo volterianamente difensori della libertà d'espressione nostra e altrui, eravamo tutti Charlí Hebdó anche se non lo avevamo mai sfogliato in vita nostra, libera chiesa in libero stato, almeno in teoria, ma soprattutto liberi stati dalle chiese altrui. Poi un giorno ci siamo svegliati vergognandoci di noi stessi, troppa libertà!, e sentendoci in colpa per tutti i mali del mondo. Là dove non siamo stati più capaci di criticare, o comprendere, abbiamo preferito il silenzio. Adesso, quando si parla si Salman Rushdie, si dice che sì, I Figli della Mezzanotte è bellissimo, bellissimo, bellissimo! E gli altri romanzi: che bellezza, che fantasia! Con quello lo stile così visionario, eccentrico, eppure elegante, sofisticato e al tempo stesso godibilissimo. In fondo Rushdie è uno dei fondatori del realismo isterico - espressione che il critico James Wood aveva inventato per parlare dispregiativamente di Denti Bianchi, l'esordio di Zadie Smith e di cui proprio una giovanissima e orgogliosa Zadi Smith si riappropriò, nobilitandola. Si parla insomma di Rushdie, ma non dei suoi Versi Satanici. Ci siamo accorti che è un romanzo 'problematico', forse 'islamofobico', quindi non ne dobbiamo parlare più. Di leggerlo, non lo abbiamo mai letto. Va bene leggere Céline, perché lui era un genio. Chi se ne frega se era antisemita e collaborazionista? E poi è morto, quindi non c'è problema e, anzi, va letto. Va bene anche leggere Houellebecq, perché la voce del popolo, che è divina, ha decretato che anche lui è un genio, e mica è islamofobico e sessista, no, lui è 'satirico', è un 'pugno nello stomaco alla borghesia ben pensante', quindi va bene. Non è morto, però è brutto, quindi va letto, se no poi dicono in giro che sei bruttofobo. Invece il romanzo di Rushdie no, non va letto, non bisogna parlarne, va consegnato alla dimenticanza, perché è semplicemente inconcepibile, è semplicemente un'eresia che uno scrittore di origine indiana non ci parli dei poveri indiani sottomessi e colonizzati, non ci descrive le malie di una nazione soprannaturale e misticheggiante, ma è fieramente ateo e scrive per metterci in guardia dagli estremismi e dai fanatismi. Quello che fece Rushdie in questo romanzo, e che è molto di più e va molto più in là delle lamentele houellebecquiane, viene in un certo qual modo percepito come osceno, offensivo. Un peccato. Un'eresia.

Nell'agosto 2022, a distanza di più di trent'anni dalla fatwa, un fondamentalista islamico ha accoltellato Salman Rushdie durante un evento pubblico. All'epoca dei fatti, Rushdie aveva 75 anni. Siccome ha la pellaccia dura, è sopravvissuto, ma c'ha rimesso un occhio e il funzionamento di una mano. E chi ne ha parlato? In Italia sono stati in pochi a parlarne ed esporsi. Gli scrittori nostrani, poi, sembravano più impegnati a discutere della piccola politica di casa nostra, di Draghi, di Giorgia Meloni, perché si sa che gli scrittori devono essere 'impegnati', se no come la portano la pagnotta a casa? Poi magari di Salman Rushdie si tornerà a parlare quando sarà morto, visto che a quel punto toccherà santificarlo. Si leverà il lamento di prefiche addolorate che improvvisamente si scopriranno orfane, avranno perduto il loro scrittore preferito in assoluto, di cui hanno letto tutto tutto tutto, persino quel problematico romanzo islamofobico, che hanno letto, sì, anche se non ne hanno parlato. E poi, forse, fra un paio di secoli, finalmente qualche studioso si prenderà la briga di leggerlo davvero, I Versi Satanici, di commentarlo, studiarlo, discuterlo e amarlo.

Ferisce, questa situazione. Ed è anche molto deludente. Soprattutto, perché I Versi Satanici è un romanzo bellissimo. Cominciamo dal punto più controverso: Maometto. Ebbene, Maometto (o meglio, 'Mahound') appare solo in alcuni capitoli del libro. Quei capitoli raccontano dei sogni visionari di Gibreel, uno dei due protagonisti, che appunto sogna le vicende che hanno portato all'ascesa religiosa e politica di Mahound. Secondo quanto raccontato dal Corano, Satana sussurrò i suoi 'versi' al Profeta per indurlo in inganno. Lui, che di solito conversava con l'Altissimo, scambiò la voce del demonio per quella divina e si fece convincere ad accettare tre divinità pagane all'interno del pantheon della nuova religione, minando quindi le fondamenta del monoteismo, salvo poi accorgersi dell'inganno e rimangiarsi ciò che aveva decretato sotto inganno. Tutta questa storia, però, assieme a molte altre, sono rese da Rushdie in una chiave onirica, fantastica: c'è una città di sabbia, in cui il crimine più grande è versare l'acqua, perché ciò rischierebbe di distruggere ogni cosa; donne politiche e potentissime, da una parte, e dall'altra prostitute perdute in labirinti di veli e tendaggi, talmente abituate a interpretare qualcun altro da smarrire i confini fra la loro identità e quella dei loro personaggi; viaggiatori, commercianti, leoni rossi, vendette...

L'uso romanzesco di un episodio religioso ha, evidentemente, un'origine letterariamente nobile. Alcuni capitoli di Il Maestro e Margherita, di Mikail Bulgakov, parlavano del processo di Ponzio Pilato a Gesú Cristo. Quei capitoli non vogliono raccontare una qualche verità evangelica, ma costituiscono il manoscritto del Maestro, a tutti gli effetti un romanzo-nel-romanzo, proprio come la vicenda di Mahound nei Versi Satanici è contenuta nei sogni di uno dei personaggi e rappresenta una specie di romanzo-nel-romanzo. E come Bulgakov mescola religione, miti ed elementi fantastici per criticare i danni del sovietismo, così Rushdie mescola religione, miti ed elementi fantastici per criticare i danni del fondamentalismo.

I protagonisti sono Gibreel, quello dei sogni, divo di Bollywood dalla straordinaria bellezza, specializzato nell'interpretare parti di angeli e santi; e Chamcha, indiano trapiantato in Inghilterra, o meglio fuggito dall'India, anche lui attore, ma più della tradizione del teatro Shakespeariano. Questi due uomini così simili (entrambi indiani, entrambi attori) eppure così diversi (uno che ha fatto fortuna in casa, l'altro che quella casa l'ha rinnegata e si sente, a tutti gli effetti, inglese) si trovano in un aereo dirottato da un gruppo di estremisti. Quando questi ultimi decidono di farsi saltare per aria, Gibreel e Chamcha precipitano per diecimila metri e miracolosamente si salvano, venendo ritrovati da una vecchia signora in riva al Canale della Manica. A quel punto, succede un fatto inspiegabile. Mentre i sogni rivelatori di Gibreel diventano più vividi e frequenti, lui comincia ad 'angelizzarsi': gli spunta l'aureola, le persone si inginocchiano al suo passaggio, sta innegabilmente diventando l'Arcangelo Gabriele. Chamcha, invece, progressivamente si 'demonizza'. In Inghilterra, dove lui viveva e lavorava, non lo riconosce più nessuno, perché gli sono spuntate le corna, la coda, i peli dappertutto; sua moglie si è convinta della sua morte e si è messa con il suo miglior amico; e lui, il mefistofelizzato Chamcha, invece di sognare viene sognato dagli indiani, dai neri, dai poveri, da tutti gli esclusi di quella società inglese a cui lui, un tempo, voleva appartenere a tutti i costi.

Ma questa non è che la struttura di base, lo scheletro del plot, che già così appare un milione di volte più mirabolante e sofisticato delle trame miserabili di molti romanzetti da quattro soldi che vengono pubblicati al giorno d'oggi, capaci di raccontare solo il dolore di un lutto, il dolore di un abuso, il dolore di una malattia, il dolore di un lutto, un lutto, il dolore, il dolore, il dolore. I Versi Satanici è uno di quei romanzi incredibili e strabilianti capaci di raccontare la realtà attraverso la fantasia. Si parla di amore, di fede, di identità sociali e politiche, di gelosia, di amicizie tradite, del valore dell'arte, di patrie cercate, perdute, acquisite, adottate, della ferita degli immigrati. È un otto volante di emozioni, un turbinio di personaggi, situazioni, illuminazioni che danno il capogiro, come il buon vino. È un capolavoro. E spero che almeno fra qualche secolo verrà riscoperto.

n  Rimasto solo, si rocordò subito che lui e Pamela erano stati un tempo in disaccordo, come su tutto il resto, su un racconto che avevano letto entrambi e che aveva appunto come tema la natura dell'imperdonabile. Un uomo e una donna erano stati amici intimi (ma non amanti) per tutta la loro vita d'adulti. Per il suo ventunesimo compleanno (allora erano tutti e due poveri), lei gli aveva regalato, per scherzo, il vaso di vetro più brutto e volgare che era riuscita a trovare, con colori che erano una parodia pacchiana della gaiezza veneziana. Venti anni dopo, quando entrambi avevano avuto successo e stavano diventando grigi, lei andò a trovarlo a casa sua e si mise a rimproverarlo per come aveva trattato un amico comune. Nel corso della lite, i suoi occhi si posarono sul vecchio vaso, che lui teneva ancora al posto d'onore sulla mensola del soggiorno, e senza interrompere la sua tirata, lo fece cadere sul pavimento dove si ruppe in mille pezzi. Da allora lui non le rivolse più la parola; e quando lei morì, cinquant'anni dopo, si rifiutò di andare a trovarla sul letto di morte o di assistere al suo funerale, bencé fossero arrivati dei messaggeri a dirgli che questo il suo desiderio più grande. "Ditele" dichiarò agli emissari, "che lei non ha mai saputo quanto era prezioso per me ciò che ha rotto". Gli emissari discussero, implorarono, s'arrabbiarono. Se lei non sapeva di quale significato lui aveva investito quella cosetta, come si poteva, oggettivamente, fargliene una colpa? E nel corso degli anni non aveva forse tentato infinite volte di scusarsi e di espiare? Adesso poi, perdio, stava morendo; non era possibile appianare questa antica e puerile divergenza? Avevano già perso tutta una vita d'amicizia; non potevano almeno dirsi addio? "No" disse l'implacabile uomo. "Ma è davvero per il vaso? O ci stai nascondendo qualcosa di più misterioso?" "È per il vaso" rispose lui. "Per il vaso e niente altro". Secondo Pamela, l'uomo era meschino e crudele. Ma Chamcha aveva già allora apprezzato la strana privacy, il carattere intimo e inspiegabile del problema. "Nessuno può valutare una ferita interiore dalle dimensioni di quella esteriore, del foro".n

“Soll er das Werkzeug des Zornes Gottes werden? Oder seiner Liebe? Ist er Rache oder Vergebung? ... (Ich gebe ihm keine Anweisungen. Auch ich warte mit Interesse darauf, wie er sich entscheiden wird- auf das Ergebnis seines Ringkampfes. Charakter gegen Vorbestimmung...)” (S. 597)

61st book of 2024.

The short version: Midnight’s Children is way better. The long version:

I recently read Knife like lots of folks and actually found it made me like Rushdie less. Not that I don’t respect him and everything he has gone through: he is the epitome of resilience and a champion of literature vs ignorance. And it’s no surprise that this book’s reputation proceeds it. I’ve read a few times over the years that it’s a shame this one got so much press and attention, because it’s actually one of his weaker books. Obviously, other people say it’s a masterpiece. Page 1,

n  

"To be born again," sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, "first you have to die. Hoji! Hoji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly. Tat-taa! Taka-thun! How to ever smile again, if first you won't cry? How to win the darling's love, mister, without a sigh? Baba, if you want to get born again . . ." Just before dawn one winter's morning, New Year's Day or thereabouts, two real, full-grown, living men fell from a great height, twenty-nine thousand and two feet, towards the English Channel, without benefit of parachutes or wings, out of a clear sky. "I tell you, you must die, I tell you, I tell you," and thusly and so beneath a moon of alabaster until a loud cry crossed the night, "To the devil with your tunes," the words hanging crystalline in the iced white night, "in the movies you only mimed to playback singers, so spare me these infernal noises now." Gibreel, the tuneless soloist, had been cavorting in moonlight as he sang his impromptu gazal, swimming in air, butterfly-stroke, breast-stroke, bunching himself into a ball, spreadeagling himself against the almost-infinity of the almost-dawn, adopting heraldic postures, rampant, couchant, pitting levity against gravity. Now he rolled happily towards the sardonic voice. "Ohé, Salad baba, it's you, too good. What-ho, old Chumch." At which the other, a fastidious shadow falling headfirst in a grey suit with all the jacket buttons done up, arms by his sides, taking for granted the improbability of the bowler hat on his head, pulled a nickname-hater's face. "Hey, Spoono," Gibreel yelled, eliciting a second inverted wince, "Proper London, bhai! Here we come! Those bastards down there won't know what hit them. Meteor or lightning or vengeance of God. Out of thin air, baby. _Dharrraaammm!_ Wham, na? What an entrance, yaar. I swear: splat."

n

It's got all the ingredients of other postmodern beasts. I was surprised how much it reminded me of Pynchon, actually (Rushdie has had the honour of meeting Pynchon, and didn’t say much: “[I] found him very satisfyingly Pynchonesque”. Interestingly, too, Rushdie said once in an interview the book that influenced him the most was Gravity’s Rainbow and he wrote an entire draft of a novel called The Antagonist which was so obviously a copy of TP that it wasn’t publishable — it now resides in the archives of Emory University in Atlanta). And this is not to say Rushdie is a bad writer, but no sentences or passages blew me away like those ones you stumble across in Pynchon out of nowhere that remind you, however frustrating he is, he is very good. Rushdie’s prose is dense, sometimes humorous. I didn’t care for the whole parallel vision plot going on, though I am sure it is chockfull of symbolism that went over my puny head. The magical realism, compared to other writers, didn’t have the depth or awe to it, though I did like certain ideas; I presume there was more symbolism hidden in all the inexplicable details. I thoroughly enjoyed the beginning of the novel and a good portion in the middle, but the bits around it and the ending were disappointing. At times it felt aimless, and Rushdie was excitably leading me on by the hand when I just wanted to slow down or even stop.

But I’m glad I read it, after owning it for so many years. What gave me the kick to do it was something he said in Knife about his books being able to ‘look after themselves’; I like this idea, and think it holds truth. Some books can look after themselves, and I guess I wouldn’t jump to say this isn’t capable of handling itself. It clearly is.

“Have ye thought upon Al-Lat and Al-‘Uzzá
and Manāt, the third, the other?
These are the exalted gharāniq [cranes], whose intercession is hoped for.”

The above verse is from a set of verses that were temporarily included in the Qur’an by the Islamic prophet Muhammad. The three goddesses mentioned—Al-Lat, Al-‘Uzzá, and Manāt, daughters of Allah—were from the pagan religion that existed within Mecca before the spread of Islam in the seventh century. The verses concede the existence, worship, and worthiness of those three particular deities. This acted as a seductive segue for the pagans to merge their beliefs into a new, monotheistic religion. Those who had fled Mecca earlier because of religious persecution with the advent of Islam decided to return home after the persecution was rumored to be over. Eventually, Muhammad informed the people that those specific verses were of satanic origin, not coming from the angel Gabriel as Allah spoke to him, but deceptively whispered by Satan (or Shaitan). Thus, the persecution of those worshiping ostensibly false gods began again.

Seeing the irony and paradox of this historical issue, British-Indian writer Salman Rushdie was inspired to create a work of art titled The Satanic Verses. When Rushdie was working on this masterpiece, which mentally tormented him, he didn't know if he was writing one book or multiple books. “I thought of the novel as a huge monster I was wrestling with,” Rushdie told Vanity Fair. “I was often worried that I would not be able to get on top of the beast and pin it to the ground. [When it was done,] I was utterly exhausted. One holds so much of a novel in one’s head during the years of work that when it’s done and the thing in your head evaporates it’s a little like having your brain removed. I felt lobotomized.”

The complexity manifests itself not only in the prose but also the narrative, which is interlaced with three dream-like sub-narratives in different places and times. The main story features the two protagonists, Gibreel Farishta and Saladin Chamcha, Indian emigrants living in Britain, who fall out of the sky at the beginning of the novel. Farishta is a Bollywood superstar known for portraying Hindu deities on film, while Chamcha has attempted to do away with his Indian identity and is fitfully employed as a voiceover artist in England, where the complexion of his skin is unable to betray his real identity. The novel follows them as they attempt to repair their lives after Farishta transforms into an angel and Chamcha into a devil.

The first sub-plot describes Muhammad’s life in seventh century Mecca as he gathers a following and begins to spread the word of Allah, revolving around the incident of the satanic verses. It also follows the poet Baal, who eventually goes into hiding within a brothel, where he assumes the identity of one of Muhammad’s wives.

An Indian peasant girl is the protagonist of the second sub-plot. She, like Muhammad, seems to be receiving revelations from the Archangel Gabriel (which is actually Farishta developing schizophrenia). Her revelations dictate that she must lead the entire village on a foot pilgrimage to Mecca where they will reach and subsequently walk over the Arabian Sea.

The third and final sub-plot features a character called the Imam, reminiscent of the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, who was the supreme leader of Iran for ten years beginning in 1979. The character is sitting in exile, just as Khomeini was in exile for fifteen years due to his opposition to the preceding Shah. Through similar revelation from Farishta, the Imam goes to fight the goddess Al-Lat in order to gain control of Desh.

Overall, the tale of The Satanic Verses overlaps in on itself. It all seems to fit in a ghostly, multi-dimensional jigsaw puzzle, exploring not only religion but racism, government tyranny, love, hope, death, fear, and finding one's self in the world, or becoming one's self, whether it's in the East or West or both. Farishta and Chamcha rain back down to earth, which is populated by others who are equally as ambitious and broken and looking to be fixed. Metaphorically speaking, this is what the satanic verses are: the verses that stick in our head and we don’t know their origin, the voices and urges within us that compel us to act, which could be from, as it were, Satan, the angel that fell, or from Allah, the god who rules with an iron fist. Farishta is perplexed by this: “All around him, he thinks as he half-dreams, half-wakes, are people hearing voices, being seduced by words. But not his; never his original material. —Then whose? Who is whispering in their ears, enabling them to move mountains, halt clocks, diagnose disease?” But, really, it is us. The Human Condition. Socrates called it the ‘inner daemon,’ the conscience. Plus all those who implicitly or explicitly influence us.

The stories are anything but disparate; they meld together to form a microcosm of allegory, and they are weeping and dripping with magic—the magic that Rushdie is known for, grounded by realism, of course, which borrows from the master: Gabriel Garcia Marquez. “I knew García Márquez’s colonels and generals,” explained Rushdie in an essay for the New York Times, “or at least their Indian and Pakistani counterparts; his bishops were my mullahs; his market streets were my bazaars. His world was mine, translated into Spanish. It’s little wonder I fell in love with it—not for its magic (although, as a writer reared on the fabulous ‘wonder tales’ of the East, that was appealing too) but for its realism.” The Satanic Verses is a combination of the magical and the real, the historic and the fictitious; Rushdie’s imagination augments reality, making metaphors and allegories into tangible truths.

When it was published in 1988, it was considered blasphemy by the Muslim community and was met with violent reaction. The genesis of this reaction comes from the Ayatollah Khomeini, who issued a fatwa (Islamic ruling) calling on the death of Salman Rushdie and all involved in the publication of the novel. Those unable to deal out the punishment were instructed to inform someone who could. Rushdie was put on constant police protection. He wrote about his eight years in hiding in his third-person memoir Joseph Anton, titled after his alias at the time (a combination of two of his favorite writers: Joseph Conrad and Anton Chekhov). By the end of the affair the Japanese translator Hitoshi Igarashi was stabbed to death, the Italian translator Ettore Capriolo was seriously injured in a stabbing, and the Norway publisher William Nygaard was shot three times but survived, among other incidents. For nearly thirty years the book has been and continues to be banned on religious grounds in twenty-one countries, including India, Saudi Arabia, and other Middle Eastern countries. Those who would most benefit from reading the book have not been able to; such is the goal with the suppression of ideas. The late journalist Christopher Hitchens considered the reaction to the book as the beginning of a culture war, or, to be exact, a war against culture. Not too long ago, South African author and psychologist Zainub Priya Dala was brutally beaten after she expressed admiration for Rushdie’s work at a literary festival in Durban, according to the Guardian. She was then forced into a psychiatric clinic under the guise of mental illness, but was eventually released after the international literary and human rights organization PEN started a campaign on her behalf. As Hitchens put it, “Two decades on, Salman himself is thriving mightily and living again like a free man. But the culture that sustains him, and that he helps sustain, has twisted itself into a posture of prior restraint and self-censorship in which the grim, mad edict of a dead theocrat still exerts its chilling force.”

Some have said that only esoteric Islamist theologians can discern what was so 'blasphemous' and 'offensive' in the novel. That doesn’t seem to be the case. The novel is full of religious commentary and irony and other explorations of religion, which is one of its many themes. The Muhammad-based character in the novel is called Mahound, which is a derogatory version of Muhammad’s name. But the novel intelligently explains the use of the name: “To turn insults into strengths, whigs, tories, Blacks all chose to wear with pride the names they were given in scorn.” But if one is offended, what does that mean? Well, other than a propensity to whine, someone who is constantly offended is having his or her beliefs challenged. In general, the book challenges its readers to think, like any book worth its page count. Only someone who is mentally unstable would react with violence to a piece of art or literature, which is all the more disconcerting considering that a novel doesn’t have to be opened to begin with (and probably never was in the case of those foaming at the mouth for Rushdie’s death). Allow me to sum up the viewpoint of someone who is violently offended, as demonstrated by a Muslim character in the novel: “I hate admitting that my enemies have a point. Damn sight better to kill the bastards, I've always thought. Neatest bloody solution.” One should appreciate the irony of the very last remark. This is the mindset of the Medina Muslims, a term coined by Ayaan Hirsi Ali in her latest book Heretic: Why Islam Needs a Reformation Now. These are not the billions of peaceful Muslims who follow Muhammad’s teachings when he was in Mecca, but the millions of violent Muslims that follow or condone the methods of Muhammad after he was exiled to Medina, where his strategy went from door-to-door preaching to the summation of convert or die, or, if you are a Christian or Jew, demotion to second class citizen status, where one is required to pay a tax called jizyah. Medina Muslims include Al-Qaeda, ISIS, Boko Haram, and the Muslim Brotherhood, whose violent strategy of conversion is supported by verse 9:29 of the Qur’an: “Fight those who do not believe in Allah or in the Last Day and who do not consider unlawful what Allah and His Messenger have made unlawful and who do not adopt the religion of truth from those who were given scripture—[fight] until they give the jizyah willingly while they are humiliated.”

The Satanic Verses is a symbolic representation in the real world of the ironic and artful and erudite, as opposed to the literal and barbarous and close-minded. Not everyone can see that, and the character Mahound demonstrates that inability when he says, as if the novel is joining the conversation it started, “Writers and whores. I see no difference here.” With everything that has occurred in the news for the past couple of years or even decades, The Satanic Verses could not be more important and relevant today. As the novel explains, “A poet's work [is] to name the unnamable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world and stop it from going to sleep.”

This is the third Rushdie book that I have read and he has a way of making me feel not smart enough to really get his books so I have a hard time rating them.

This one has been on and off my reading radar for at least 25 years. I remember all the controversy surrounding it when it came out and the fatwa that was placed on the author. I found I was more interested in the circumstances and the author than I was the actual book so I never read it.

Picking it up now I expected it to be somewhat dated (it's not). From what I remember the fatwa was placed on the author because he suggested that because Mohammed was illiterate and had the Qu'ran read to him by the Archangel Gabriel he could have fallen asleep at some point and Satan could have jumped in and impersonated Gabriel thus writing some of the verses in the Holy Book (Satanic Verses). So, I expected the book to be about this. This is not the main story of the book it's only a dream sequence of a character who fell from the sky from a blown up airplane (yep you read that right). The main part of the story is really about India and the race relations with England. I don't know a lot of history of this (hence the not smart enough comment earlier). What I found interesting, for lack of a better word, is that these same race issues are still happening. That's a bit disturbing considering this book was first published in 1988.

While I didn't enjoy this one as much as Midnight's Children or the Ground Beneath Her Feet, I did like it and think that it is (still) an important book to read.

برای تحلیل و نقد یک اثر، می‌شه اول اون رو به لحاظ محتوایی بررسی کرد؛ این که چه حرف‌هایی می‌خواد بزنه و در نهایت چه پیامی رو می‌رسونه.

در وهله بعد، می‌شه به سراغ بحث‌های تکنیکی و فنی رفت و فرم اثر رو بررسی کرد. ساده‌ترین تعریفی که می‌شه از فرم ارائه داد، اینه که چطور اثر مذکور قراره محتوای مورد بحثش رو به مخاطب عرضه کنه.

در کتاب آیات شیطانی هیچ محتوایی برای ارائه وجود نداره؛ به لحاظ ادبی با یک فاجعه طرفیم و در نهایت به جای این‌که نویسنده به صورت ریشه‌ای
نقدهای خودش رو به دین وارد کنه، به توهین و تمسخر روی آورده که اینا برای نگارش یک اثر خوب، کافی نیستن

در مجموع فکر می‌کنم که اگه این همه حاشیه برای این کتاب ایجاد نمی‌کردن، خیلی از ماها حتی اسمش رو هم هیچ‌وقت نمی‌شنیدیم؛ ولی متاسفانه کلا کار زمامداران ما در تمامی زمینه‌ها پرداختن به فرعه نه به اصل

"When you've fallen from the sky, been abandoned by your friend, suffered police brutality, metamorphosed into a goat, lost your work as well as your wife, learned the power of hatred and regained the human shape, what is there left to do except demand your rights?"

So this is one of the many cadences found in Mr Rushdie's indictment of religion, movies, relationships, and of conflicts of the human condition that is at once uproariously funny, yet tinged with pain and great sadness.

Gibreel Farishta and Saladin Chamcha, the two actors and central characters that fall off a plane on a fateful day hijacked by terrorists and live to weave in and out of each other's lives is a frenetic novel of voices, ideas, and magical realism.

هب ان كاتباٌ ما قرر أن يؤلف رواية طبقاٌ لفكرة تيار الوعي وكان بطلها الرئيسي هتلر وقام فيها بإظهار هتلر علي أنه حاكم عادل وانه شخصية عظيمة قامت من اجل بلادها بكل شئ وتفاني فى خدمته وأنكر فيها قيامه بابادة اليهود والغجر وانكر سعيه لسيادة العرق الأري وجعل الكاتب الفكرة النازية فكرة نزيهة وتستحق ان تسود العالم

هل كان سيلقي الكاتب دفاعاٌ من منظمات حقوق الانسان وهل كان سيحظي بحقوق اللجوء السياسي والحماية ممن سيسعون للبطش به انذاك ؟
وهل ستقبل قيم الحضارة الاوروربية وحرية التعبير هذا ؟

هذا التساؤل المشروع هو رد علي كل ما يمكن أن يدافع به شخصاٌ من مدعي الليبرالية والحرية فى التعبير
مع طبعاٌ الفارق الكبير بين ديكتاتور نازي دموي مثل هتلر والنبي صلي الله عليه وسلم نبي الهداية والرحمة الذي بعث رحمة للعالمين

I'm doing my best not to think "Here goes Rushdie again." I never read this one before although I read every other book he ever wrote. And now, to fill the gap, I am stuck with the last unread jewel, except that it's somehow lackluster because Salman doesn't age or accumulate well. I mean, the more you read him the more he sounds the same. And has this ever happened to you: that you discover in a writer just a wisp of too much wit and it's wit that bores you?
Yes, I'm reading on, with strange compulsive patience that some readers acquire... Maybe we think, it'll get better or it'll reach a moment when all the nonsense will have become justified.
And then, there is the miserable expository didactic style. You don't believe me? Ok, how about this: "Now, however, change had begun to feel painful; the arteries of the possible had begun to harden."
Arteries of the possible?!? No, really, is that writing?
Or this: "...she had no confidence at all, and every moment she spent in the world was full of panic, so she smiled and smiled and maybe once a week she locked the door and shook and felt like a husk, like an empty peanut-shell, a monkey without a nut."
A monkey without a nut? Now how exactly do you imagine such a character? And is she a husk or a monkey... Or is it both?
Amendment, if you'll allow me: finally, I reached the end and must say, almost despite myself, that it is worth the effort. What happens? Various disconnected and initially confusing strands of the story come together, more or less. There is, in any case, a feeling of wholeness and an idea that seems to animate it. And it is in this "main" idea that I recognize Rushdie and realize that he has always been faithful to himself. I think he tries, here as elsewhere, to address the question of faith, but in a sense much broader than the mere religious one. What does it mean to believe something so strongly that the fiction comes to be real or reality is denied and becomes a miracle? This question matters as much to literature as it does to religion and here the two overlap. This I find to be a very powerful achievement of The Satanic Verses: to ask you when and how you believe and what the consequences of that belief may be... Or when and how you don't believe and what the consequences of that unbelief may be... So my favorite aspect of the book: the steady, intricate focus on fiction -- its reality and its delusions.

It's always interesting returning to a book read years before and gaining a different perspective. I first read this my final year of highschool and it blew my mind at the time; I don't think I stopped talking about it for months. A few months ago I returned to the book and, while I still think it's great, and I probably got a lot more of the references, it's not as amazing to me as it was over ten years ago. Rushdie's style is occasionally flowing and lyrical, but then he'll throw in all sorts of references to pop culture or some obscure Indian films that go right over my head and occasionally even put a big, barely digestable lump in the narrative. Still, when this book is good, it's really poignant, tragic, and sometimes full of mirth.

I never liked the term "magic realism" much, but I suppose it can be applied to this novel. I do think it probably fits better with Midnight's Children though, as parts of The Satanic Verses are outright, unashamed fantasy (though fairly allegorical of course) and quite good at that. The premise of the book is that an Indian movie star and an expatriate Indian voice artist living in London meet on a plane that gets hijacked and blows up, and for some reason they survive their fall to earth, but become angelic beings in the process. Gibreel, the flamboyant, pompous film star, walks around with a big glowing halo (even if you can't always see it) and seems to be unable to do any wrong, except to his sometime lover, the mountain-climber Aleluia Cone, , whereas Saladin Chamcha looks like a goat-man, smells horrible and, until over halfway through the book, can only speak in animal noises. I understand better what Rushdie was trying to do with this parable in 2012, whereas in 1999 I just thought it was a crazy and awesome story, although I did grasp the moral implications well enough. Salman has a lot to say about prestige, what it means to be outcast, what it means to have a country, or be an alien in a country that you really wish was your own. Sometimes he's quite subtle with this, but at other times the heavy hand of symbolism causes a slight flinch.

In between the chapters telling the story of Gibreel and Saladin are historical stories running through about three separate narratives. Much of this has to do with the birth of islam, or pilgrims on the Haj, and these may be my favourite sections of the book. Rushdie brings the setting of ancient Jahilia to a strange, distant sort of life, and portrays the dealings and political machinations and religious fervour with a good deal of subtlety. It is, I think, these chapters that got Rushdie into so much trouble, as they do indeed appear quite blasphemous and make the prophet Mohammad out to be a bit of a huckster and a charlatan. I like a big helping of irreverent mockery and this book does deliver on that count. It's interesting to observe, too, how these "side narratives" end up weaving into the main story in a way and tackling similar themes in different ways. I think that brings me finally to the greatest strength of the book: It's not just a simple, clear-cut tale that you can distill to a single statement or fragment of moral. There are many, many layers, and many things Rushdie wants to bring out into the open. Some of his messages even appear slightly contradictory, and yet that's part of the pleasure of the experience; this book will have you thinking and asking questions about your perceptions of the world around you, the home you live in and the people with whom you share it.

Desisto. Realismo demasiado mágico para mim. Sei que se fizesse o esforço de ultrapassar a barreira da fantasia encontraria aqui ideias interessantíssimas e bem laboradas. Contudo, depois de tentar voltar ao livro mais de 5 ou 6 vezes, ao longo de um ano, nunca me prendeu, por mais que avançasse tudo me fazia sentir tédio, fazendo perder toda a minha capacidade de concentração. Por outro lado, se com "Midnight's Children" tinha conhecimento sobre a relação entre a Índia e Inglaterra, aqui falta-me conhecimento sobre o Corão para poder chegar a muitas das metáforas e simbolismos.

So this is it. The book that earned Rushdie the sentencing of the fatwa, a death sentence that sent him into hiding for years (review of those years to come as soon as I have read his biography detailing exactly that period). Even publishers and translators of this book from across the world were attacked and, in some cases, killed by religious fanatics. Amazingly, the fatwa is still in effect as can be witnessed by the latest attack on Rushdie that cost him an eye and injured him further.

You might be asking WHY. Well, I read this book in order to find out.

The story is about two men, both Indians, both actors, both Muslims, both expatriates living in England. They both sit on a plane that gets hijacked by Sikh separatists. When the plane explodes, they are both magically transformed - one into the archangel Gabriel and one into the devil. But the novel also tells of racist profiling and police brutality, of mental health issues, of the search for one's identity, and more. It read more like a commentary on British colonialism and immigration than anything.

As almost expected, there is no real faux-pas here. Sure, there is that third and last dream sequence where a fanatic expatriate Imam is a satiric take on Khomeini and we all know that religious fanatics aren't taking satire very well (just ask the people at Charlie Hebdo), but the reaction is definitely way over-the-top.
I presume the second reason is that the title and an element of the story tells of the (by now "erased") part of Mohammed's story where he accidentally believes something Satan tells him, thinking it was God's word. Meaning, the prophet isn't infallible and religious people usually don't respond well to that either.

Now, as for the book itself, all I can say is that Rushdie has an amazing writing style. It's dense but never boring, it never feels like a chore to read but like a trip through a wonderful dreamland. The description never read like something I'd enjoy too much but the richness of the prose, the craftmanship, the erudite mythological elements, all combined to form a wonderful tale.

As a last note, I'd like to draw attention to how pleased I am that this book exists in the first place. Given all the fanatics did, how many people died at protests and in attacks, I'm appreciating the ones that dared publish it regardless all the more - it certainly wouldn't happen nowadays (I have no faith in the bravery of journalism or the publishing industry, they just don't make them like that anymore).