I think I’m going to read the oeuvre of Salman Rushdie. Having only read the two “biggest” (Midnight’s Children and The Satanic Verses) I started with this one, Fury.

I’m always ok reading about despicable characters in literature. As a father and husband, Malik Solanka is so terrible. Yeah, yeah you’re miserable. Get over it. Know what? Makes for an excellent novel and dissection of what can drive us to do bad things. Fantastic. Can’t wait to read more. Oh, and it’s a terrific New York novel.

An irredeemable piece of garbage. Sloppy and uninteresting, filled with trite observations and vapid, transparent characters bumbling around in a lame social satire that amounts to nothing deeper or insightful than whatever you and your friends might say about celebrity culture while watching "Entertainment Tonight". For instance: "Celebrity's are stupid. There are more important things in the world." Hey, you're Salman Rushdie!

Even Rushdie's lauded language can't get him out of the stink-pit he dug himself into here, because his "virtuosity" is, in reality, verbosity, and his extended metaphors only serve his own obnoxious, pompous voice and idiot characters rather than any kind of compelling narrative. I only finished this book because I was on an island in the Philippines. I would have thrown it into the ocean but for my respect of the Filipino people and oceans in general.

I had forgotten how much I hated this book until I saw it on my shelf this morning. Seeing it there, eating up valuable space, I began to hate myself terribly. But still not as much as I hate this book.

What lies dormant beneath our skin waiting to rise up and destroy us and the world around us? What demons do we push deep into our bellies and hope to forget only to have them claw their way out in a new form? The truth is that the raw emotion that we curtail can lead to our salvation.

Основен белег на литературните титани е острата мисъл и футуристичното мислене. Седмият роман на Салман Рушди – „Ярост”, е писменото доказателство за писателската мощ на британеца с индийски произход, който през 2001-а година пише историята на професор Соланка и куклата му Малоумка, който разказ близо 20 години по-късно звучи все така актуално, реалистично и дори плашещо. Може би Съдбата е това – доживяхме времената, които Рушди предсказа и всички тъжно констатираме тезата му, че нещо не е наред със света; загърбваме постепенно оптимистичната философия за мир и любов от младостта си и не знаем как да се примирим с все по-фалшивата заобикаляща ни действителност. Вероятно единственото спасение е бягството в литературата, която Салман уж пише като фикция, но утре тя всъщност се превръща в реалност. „Ярост” е част от каталога на издателство „Колибри”, в превод на Надежда Розова.

Нажежен до червено, остроумен, философски и, както вече стана ясно, в голяма степен пророчески е романът на Рушди, който е сравнително кратък по обем, но не и откъм съдържание, обхващащ в себе си митология, световна литературна класика и проблемите на 21 век. Салман не изневерява на познатия си стил, смесващ митология и фантазия с реалния живот и разказва трагикомичната биография на милионера Малик Соланка – индиец от Бомбай, образован в Кеймбридж, университетски преподавател, майстор на кукли. Потънал в мисли около монотонното си битие и раздиран от колебания за евентуален развод, Соланка констатира, че гробът е зейнал за всеки от нас, но за колежанските професори се прозява отегчено. И накъде оттук нататък? В дома си в Кеймбридж той създава свой микрокосмос, където се пръква и пътуващата през времето Малоумка – любознателна кукла, задаваща въпроси, която впоследствие става звезда и се разпродава в огромен брой екземпляри по цял свят, надминавайки многократно славата на своя създател.

Измисляйки играчки, Малик Соланка успява да представя човешкия живот дребен, умален до куклени размери. Какво обаче ще се случи, ако куклите имат душа? По произход куклата не е самостоятелен обект, а образ. В древността хората са изработвали кукли и винаги е било грешка да допуснеш друг да притежава кукла по твоя образ – който притежава твоя идол, той притежава и важна частица от теб. Крайната проява на това виждане е куклата за вуду, която можеш да бодеш с игли, за да нараниш човека, когото тя представлява. С появата на масовото производство връзката между човека и куклата прекъсва, куклите стават самите себе си и клонинги на себе си.

Една от основните теми в романа на Рушди е защо жени от плът и кръв желаят да приличат на кукли, да преминат границата и да изглеждат като играчки? Куклата се е превърнала в оригинал, а жената – в образ. Тези живи кукли, марионетки без конци, не само изглеждат „куклено”. Зад изисканата им външност се крият чипове, регулиращи поведението, постъпките им, гардероба им. Всички са еднакви, мислейки си, че са различни и оригинални. Ако попиташ тези млади жени, тези високи и самоуверени красавици на път да завършат колеж с отличие и да се отправят на лъскави уикенди на яхти, тези принцеси на настоящето, с техните лимузини, благотворителност, скоростен живот, питомни и възхитени обожатели, които се борят да спечелят благоразположението им, биха ти казали, че са свободни, по-свободни от която и да е жена, в която и да е страна, когато и да било, че не принадлежат на никой мъж, бил той баща, любовник или шеф. Те не са ничии кукли, а независими жени, които сами избират външността си, сексуалните си предпочитания, историята си, контролират живота си. Но дали?

В „Ярост” Салман Рушди се фокусира върху победата на виртуалното над реалното, изгубването на човека в шумотевицата и празнодумието на големия град. Стига до заключението, че животът е краен, съзнаваш, че нямаш нищо, че не принадлежиш никъде, а просто използваш разни неща за известно време. Неодушевеният свят ти се присмива: скоро ще си отидеш, но той ще остане.

Със сладкодумната си бъбривост и през призмата на вродената си изто��на философия Рушди разсъждава за едни от най-екзистенциалните проблеми на 21 век – смъртта, човешката самота, кризата на средната възраст, емиграцията, очакванията от света. В основата си „Ярост” е присмех над дехуманизацията, развиващият се и все по-налагащ се материален Запад над Изтока, изграждането на училища, но липсата на знание, изграждането на социални жилища, но липсата на добросъседство.

Четенето на Салман Рушди гарантира удоволствие, заради лекотата, с която се лее инак сериозната му и интелигентна проза. Безспорно Рушди е сред литературните титани, но романите му в никакъв случай не са за избрана публика и вероятно в това се крие гениалността му – умението да предава на достъпен за всички език философските си виждания, вълненията му срещу глупостта и броженията му срещу посредствеността.

Роден през 1947 г. в Бомбай, Салман Рушди е британски писател от индийски произход. Той си спечелва признание още с публикуването на втория си роман „Среднощни деца“ (1981), за който е удостоен с наградата „Ман Букър“ през същата година. През 1988 г. неговият четвърти роман „Сатанински строфи“ предизвиква силна реакция в ислямския свят, книгата е забранена в много страни, иранският аятолах обявява автора за вероотстъпник и за убийството му е определена голяма парична награда. Стилът му, смесващ митология и фантазия с реалния живот, често се определя като магически реализъм, примесен с исторически измислици, а темата за взаимните прониквания, противоречия и недоразумения при преплитането на двата тъй различни свята – света на Изтока и света на Запада – минава като основна нишка през произведенията му.

Rushdie wants us to see the "fury" inside the main character Solanka, but what we see is basically, a 55-year-old man abandoning his wife and kid without saying a word because 'he was afraid he would hurt them', moving to NYC, having an affair with a quite young and attractive neighbour, and then dumping her as well for an incredibly beautiful (also young) woman.

The first chapter of Fury is a striking portrait of New York in the summer of 2000, and excited me with the prospect of a Rushdie novel shorn of his magical elements, giving instead an urgent and vital realism of the moment: for Fury was written and set in New York immediately prior to 9/11, and while Rushdie could not have known exactly what was coming, reading it now the benefit of hindsight, it is impressive how clearly he felt the impending disaster, how this coming doom pervades the text:

"On nearby Amsterdam Avenue there was a summer block party, a street market, doing good business in spite of the showers. Professor Solanka surmised that in the greater part of the planet the goods piled high on these cut-price barrows would have filled the shelves and display cabinets of the most exclusive little boutiques and upper-echelon department stores. In all of India, China, Africa, and much of the southern American continent, those who had the leisure and wallet for fashion - or more simply, in the poor latitudes, for the mere acquisition of things - would have killed for the street merchandise of Manhattan, as also for the cast-off clothing and soft furnishings to be found in the opulent thrift stores, the reject china and designer-label bargains to be found in downtown discount emporia. America insulted the rest of the planet, thought Malina Solanka in his old-fashioned way, by treating such bounty with the shoulder-shrugging casualness of the inequitably wealthy. But New York in this time of plenty had become the object and goal of the world concupiscence and lust, and the "insult" only made the rest of the planet more desirous than ever." p.6

And later: "This golden age, too, must end, Solanka thought, as do all such periods in the human chronicle." p.114

What a shame, then, that instead of riding out this approach, the book becomes increasingly whimsical and silly, without ever strictly abandoning reality - although nothing magical happens, the massive global success of Solanka's philosopher-dolls TV show never feels plausible, nor does the global-politics of not-quite-Fiji subplot. Fury starts with a stunning bang but putters out by the half-way point, and slogging through to the end was unrewarding.

Very esoteric storyline that was in turns both interesting and bizarre and then pretentious and confusing. I would very much like to read Rushdie's most well-known book Midnight's Children at some point as I think I would enjoy it more.

Surprisingly, after reading all the negative reviews I enjoyed Fury and Malik Solanka’s bizarre meltdown and weird doll making and complicated love life. Rushdie use of language and imagination is excellent with the imagery and back story of Little Brain and then the Puppet Kings.

The three women in his life make up the furies and also Malik’s psychological displacement problems. He sublets an apartment in New York after abandoning his wife and son in London without explaining why.

At times the story is amusing, compelling and with lots of twists. Revolution, greed, madness, a possible serial killer and the insecurity of Malik in why he is angry all the time.

The last sentence left me wondering what next for Professor Malik. “Look at me, Asmaan! I’m bouncing very well! I’m bouncing higher and higher!”

Navel-gazing, self-indulgent crap, vain to the core.

A middle aged academic (i.e. Rushdie) finds fame and fortune by creating intellectual dolls (i.e. books) that capture the zeitgeist, has pretty women become infatuated with him, then sacrifice themselves on his behalf.

On top of that, Rushdie wrote this love letter to himself in the third person, which multiplies the vanity, allowing him to inflict a few paper cuts with one hand whilst shoveling rich spoonfuls of narcissism into his fat lips with the other.

Yes, this is awful stuff.

The first paragraph of chapter 3 almost made me pack it in there and then. I won't write it out, my computer might disown me. This is a guy utterly in the thrall of celebrity, talented yet bloated with self-importance.

I think this may well be the worst novel by a gifted writer that I have ever read.

If time does not allow you to read Salman Rushdie's 2001 novel, Fury, just watch Edward Norton's five-minute bathroom mirror rant from Spike Lee's 25th Hour.

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Rushdie pads his own diatribe of everything he hates about New York and America with reflections on creativity and destruction, repression and Cambridge, pop culture, classics, race, sex and Disney's Robin Hood, web design, Units, and plenty of dolls and puppet kings.

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Potted plot: well-to-do middle-aged guy, tired of his wife, legs it over to New York and mumbles all sorts of profanities loud enough to get booted out of all-night diners. In kinky ways he shags a couple of twenty-something chicks whose names rhyme, after which he feels much better.

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Amidst all the rationalization and wacky revelations, Fury contains some less-than-favorable comments about Buffy the Vampire Slayer. This is never wise.

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In its favor: Rushdie may be a lofty uberintellect who refuses to condescend to interaction with quirky American book nerds, but he is not above writing well about the baser human instincts. Fury contains a spot-on analysis of the different attitudes and practices toward oral sex in Britain and the US. Bill Clinton agrees!

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Fave bit: Rushdie's descriptions of a hottie that literally stops traffic.

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Crime fic fans can read Rushdie's book as a psychological thriller: is Professor Malik Solanka, during his blackouts, the "Concrete Killer" who has murdered three beautiful, privileged socialites? That thread of the novel plays out very slowly as Rushdie indulges in shock-value asides about necrophilia and incest. His mystery would have been improved by a giant crime-fighting giraffe. (I am not making this up. Fury would have been groundbreaking if there was a swift, silent detective who could peek over walls and hedges, spying in through the windows of upper-story flats. The public yearns to see a bite taken outta the inaccessible top bough of the Big Apple tree.)

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This is being unfair to an ambitious and innovative novel, but Fury has no kindness for anyone.

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Critical Mick says: Interesting if abrasive and slow-moving, Fury is the first Salman Rushdie novel that Critical Mick read and judged for himself. At points it feels like Chuck Palahniuk lite, American Psycho lite, F. Scott Fitzgerald lite. The dialog is weak and there is a lot of opinion being sold as revelatory truth. The pacing is random. In other points Fury engages and transports. If nothing else it is convincing portrait of New York immediately before September 11.

Having thoroughly enjoyed Midnight's Children, I was eager to sink my teeth into another Rushdie. This novel, however, makes me furious. Barf.

Rushdie's prose is very intelligent; actually, it's academically pretentious throughout, which is challenging to read and disengaging but in all honesty, fun to encounter. It's just that the academic tone really pulls the reader well out of caring for the characters and situations. The first chapter is extremely clever and overtly academic. After this, the novel subtly touches on the life of its protagonist, making him completely inapproachable to readers.

I was also turned off by the dialogue. Every single character, regardless of cultural background, education, or class, speaks with the exact same unbelieveably pretentious discourse, which is, obviously, Rushdie's own voice. In short, it prevented me from giving a lickity split about any of these fools.

Also, America. I get it: you're criticising American culture. And although there are some poignant responses to the more repulsive aspects of Americana (trust me, many of us Americans feel a great distaste for much of our [pop] culture) there is a overreaction and disorganization of the true concept of the country. It almost seems like Rushdie is basing his claims on prejudicial sterotypical complaints against America rather than concrete empiracal evidence. I would expect an educated and cultured writer to know better.

There are some interesting plot developments, but they are generally unbelievable, outside the scope of the reasons for the story, and tend to go nowhere. The first chapter is academic ranting. The last chapter is decent poetic writing. Everything in between is something to shake our collective heads at.

“I know that when people pull apart - they usually employ misunderstanding as a weapon, deliberately getting hold of the stick's wrong end, impaling themselves on its point in order to prove the perfidy of the other.”