An Indian Dante

The prologue to this brilliant book opens "in this dark wood… in what ought to be the middle pathway of my life." The reference to Dante is but one of a number of literary allusions crammed into almost every densely-textured page, but it turns out to provide a key to the curious structure of this ambitious work, which is basically a violent family saga with the even more violent birth-pangs of modern India as its background.

Rather than starting in the Inferno, the book quickly rises to a sort of Paradise, and holds the reader there, enthralled, for the first two-thirds its length. Rushdie's fictional Gama-Zogoiby family mingles ancient bloodlines—Portugese, Moorish, Jewish, Hindu—and they come together in a sort of nuclear fusion. He writes in language at once false and true, brighter than Technicolor, spiced with pepper and coriander, erotic, witty, wildly inventive, and rich with more references than this reader can count.

In its last third, however, the book somewhat loses its élan. First, it plunges its eponymous hero into the Bombay underworld as a kind of living Hell. Then, in the deceptively simple writing of its final section, it uproots him from India and wafts him to a surreal vision of an Andalusian village overrun by expatriates, to end in a stateless Purgatory. It is an unusual journey for this modern Dante, but (as others have commented) it may reflect the author's own life since his exile. One feels his grief for India, his lost Eden.

Rushdie's title, besides being a bilingual pun (dernier soupir / last supper), is the name of a painting by the hero's mother, a famous artist. If the book has any one overarching theme, I would say it is about art itself: its passion, its power to simultaneously define and distort experience, and (sadly) its ultimate impermanence.

[As a footnote, it is curious that The Moor's Last Sigh joins two other novels I have read recently in having a protagonist whose life-clock runs in an unorthodox manner. The hero of Andrew Sean Greer's [book:The Confessions of Max Tivoli|776137] lives his life backwards. The hero of Audrey Niffenegger's n  The Time Traveler's Wifen skips around freely in time. And Rushdie's Moor, Moraes Zogoiby, ages two years for every one. Although this is the finest of the three books, I am not sure what purpose is served by the distortion of time, except that it parallels the headlong rush of Rushdie's writing, and perhaps his own tragic sense of leaving life behind faster than he can catch it up.]

If love is not all, then it is nothing: this principle, and its opposite (I mean, infidelity), collide down all the years of my breathless tale.

And breath-taking it was, this epic saga on the rise, thriving and fall of four generations of an eccentric, wealthy Indian family - at least, such is the imprint the novel left on me, having read it about twenty years ago.

n  n

Deception, hatred, revenge and murder are the ingredients of an exhilarating story ultimately revolving around love: scorching pepper love, motherly love, love of beauty and art (one of the characters, Aurora Zogoiby, is inspired by the painter Amrita Sher-Gil). Like in Midnight's Children and Shame, Rushdie emerges as a fabulous storyteller, sailing airily on the waves of his powerful imagination and wit when interweaving the fortunes of the da Gama-Zogoiby families with twentieth century Indian history and religious issues (Partition, Hindu nationalism), blending fiction and real historical events.

n  n


I wanted to cling to the image of love as the blending of spirits, as mélange, as the triumph of the impure, mongrel, conjoining best of us over what there is in us of the solitary, the isolated, the austere, the dogmatic, the pure; of love as democracy, as the victory of the no-man-is-an-island, two’s-company Many over the clean, mean, apartheiding Ones. I tried to see lovelessness as arrogance, for who but the loveless could believe themselves complete, all-seeing, all-wise? To love is to lose omnipotence and omniscience. Ignorantly is how we all fall in love; for it is a kind of fall. Closing our eyes, we leap from that cliff in hope of a soft landing. Nor is it always soft; but still, I told myself, still, without that leap nobody comes to life. The leap itself is a birth, even when it ends in death, in a scramble for white tablets, and the scent of bitter almonds on your beloved’s breathless mouth.

The vigorous narrative pace, the kaleidoscopic range, the alluring settings (Cochin, Bombay, Spain) and Rushdie’s characteristic style and prose (almost baroque, surrealistic, fast, dancing forwards, recoiling, tiptoeing sideways, digressing, almost baroque, coloured with word play and amusing references to film, music and literature) left me bedazzled and somewhat word-enebriated. Though the story lines and the many characters have mostly faded, I remember my younger self adored the flavour of Salman Rushdie’s writing, wondering now if the more mature reader self still would be enraptured by his spicy exuberance.

n  n


n  Als liefde niet alles is, dan is ze niets.n

Bedrog, haat, wraak en moord vormen de ingrediënten van een spannend verhaal waarin alles uiteindelijk om de liefde draait: verzengende peperliefde, moederliefde, liefde voor schoonheid en kunst. Rushdie is een rasverteller met een uitzonderlijk rijke verbeelding. Luchtig en spitsvondig verweeft hij de lotgevallen van de families Da Gama en Zogoiby met de Indiase geschiedenis en religieuze kwesties. Rushdies taal is zwierig, bijna barok en krioelt van woordspelletjes en persiflerende verwijzingen naar film, muziek en literatuur. Een wervelend boek dat je onderdompelt in een heel eigen wereld.

Tõeline maiuspala ühele raamatukoile, mida nautida dessertlusikaga vähehaaval iga suutäit korralikult mäludes. Žanrimääratlusega on keeruline - ehk perekonnasaaga maagilise realismi vaimus. Samas täiesti teistsugune kui Marquezi "Sada aastat üksildust". Sest kuigi Rushdie raamatus on palju müüte, legende, pärimusi ja fantaasiat, on selles ka palju tõelist India ajalugu, ühiskonnalugu ja -kriitikat. Teos on täis erudiidist kirjaniku kultuuriloolisi vihjeid, millest aru saab vaid see, kes vastava kultuurifenomeniga (nt koomiksitemaailmaga) kokku puutunud. Rushdie kadedust tekitav fenomen seisneb selles, et ta on ühtviisi kodus nii Ida kui Lääne kultuuritraditsioonide tundmises. Lugedes tekkis huvi India kultuuri, ajaloo ja poliitilise arengu vastu, kuidas vabaneti Briti koloniasmist ja mis jäljed see aeg jättis. Kuigi raamatut võib lugeda kindlasti ka ilma nende taustateadmisteta sellest tõelisest "multi-kulti" riigist lihtsalt kui perekond da Gama-Zogoybi tõusust ja langusest.

Über diesen außergewöhnlichen Roman kann man eigentlich schwer etwas in Kurzform erzählen. Eine Bilderwelt aus Indien, Zusammenspiel von Judentum, Christentum und Hindu-Nationalismus. Die Gewürzhändler-Dynastie Da Gama/Zogaiby, ihrem Aufstieg und ihrem Untergang durch einen angeheirateten Nachfahren des letzten Emirs von Granada, mit dem Beinamen Zagoiby. Moraes Zagoiby, der letzte der Familie ist der Erzähler dieser Geschichte über fast ein Jahrhundert.

Multi-generational story of the da Gama Family, Portuguese colonial spice traders in Cochin. The last of the da Gamas is Moraes, the narrator, who is called the ‘Moor’. Many references (including the title) to Boabdil, the last moorish king of Granada. Highly informative, funny, and inventive writing.

Rushdie offers a richly detailed family saga, full of passion and genius as well as secrets, lies and betrayals. Told by the multidimensional Moor of the title, Moraes Zogoiby, the tale begins with his grandparents generation and ends with the Moor's own demise. But between those two points Rushdie, in impeccable form, creates a fantastical exploration of Indian history, presents complex arguments about and descriptions of art, and questions the place and meaning of various religious affiliations on societies as a whole.

The plot is a dazzling mechanism which plays like a modern fairy tale, while simultaneously developing many layers of subtext that enrich the reading experience immeasurably. The story is so clever and thought provoking I won't reveal it and rob others of the joy of discovering it themselves.

I must admit there were a few overly ornate passages and the character of the art restorer, so crucial to the denouement, was woefully underdeveloped (which the author oddly writes into the narrative) adding to the hurried feel of the ending but overall these are fairly small criticisms.

This was Rushdie's first novel after the fatwa was placed on him by Iran's Grand Ayatollah
Ruhollah Khomeini following the publication of The Satanic Verses; obviously he was able to use this terrible trial to great artistic ends. I certainly felt this was the best Rushdie novel I have yet read.

Es un Indija kaut kā nevaram sadraudzēties. Pat nezinu, kas par lietu, bet tā īsti sajūsmā neesmu.

The Moor's Last Sigh is Rushdie's best book since Midnight's Children and is superior to The Ground Beneath Her Feet. Rushdie puts his spin on the multi-generational family novel. Like most such novels, it takes awhile to get the characters and families straight, but once you have the whole picture, you can begin to enjoy the magic that Rushdie is weaving through this genre. His first-person narrator ranges from funny to absurd to cruel, and Rushdie's playfulness with language is in full force here. As in Midnight's Children, Rushdie's characters are set in the context of India's turbulent history, and in typical Rushdie fashion, it isn't clear whether history is affecting the family or the family is molding history. The very end of the book seems a bit over-blown, but it's one of the few weaknesses in this very good novel.

Actual rating: 4.7 stars

As you can see the margin between date started and date finished, it took me more than ten days to finish this masterpiece.

The review is simple:

Moor a.k.a Moraes Zogoiby, is narrating his family history - of how he is a half Jew and a half Catholic.

I am not going into the details because that would mean spoilers, but everything about this book is intriguing and worth reading.

I, for one reason couldn't consider reading it for all long time at a stretch as it was a very heavy read. The language, the narration, all sat on your head at once making you dizzy and allowing you to be a part of the happenings in the book.

This book was geographically quite relatable for me- I am from Bombay and have my roots in the state of Kerala (Cochin is a city in Kerala), so the read was more of a pleasant experience owing to the relative nature.

Overall a beautiful story embedded in the folds of a man growing old physically, twice his mental age to be exact.

Conclusion:

Maybe confusing for a few readers, it is a heavy read too. But once you start reading, you may not want to stop.

I picked this book up after reading Cutting For Stone because I was looking for another tremendous book. I was a bit put off by Rushdie when I tried to read The Enchantress of Florence - simply because I was not so well versed in the historical setting he had used for the story.

I'm glad I moved past my own shortcoming in historical fiction and picked this book up. Although dense and a bit loquacious at times, it was splendid. I loved his blend of delivery - both the erudite and the simplistic, nearly silly.

It did take some time to read, which can make me feel a bit overwhelmed because I feel like while I'm reading one book others are staring me in the face. That said, it kept me up at night and very much enjoyed the originality and the way he wrapped up the story in the end.

Much as I like Salman Rushdie, I’ll be blatantly honest, this was not an easy read. It may have taken a month but it didn’t help that I was reading other books at the same time and starting and finishing books in between. He seems to ramble a bit in places but it almost became a DNF which I haven’t done in quite a while

1st part of the review - https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

So don’t let Rushdie fool you into thinking that “it is Moor/Zogoiby’s story and heck!, they’re somewhat flat, or Rushdie makes an allegory and fails on both counts – both the upperstory and understory are not
well-developed – happens when you want to ride two horses at once.” But, oh, dear, it is one horse, not two.

*sigh* this review just doesn’t end. But Rushdie is a crazy fellow, maker of an atom bomb – large scale destruction squeezed into a bomb the size of a fist. But I should end now, though I have a lot more to babble-o-fy about, I know…

What all did I like in this Rushdie, let me sum up fast – the blasphemy, the profanity, the creativity, the chutneyfication of language, the masterly interweaving of fact and fiction, the literary references generously peppered all over the hot, spicy dish, the scathing political references that only a bold, fearless, audacious and blasphemous person can dare to make. (Dear Indian, do you have the guts to call Hindustan Dumpistan?)

I’m quite surprised, (not really, when the readers do not have EXTENSIVE knowledge of India) that the book is rated badly or averagely. Let me tell you, even if it sounds pompous. I’ve read this book the 10th time today in 5 years. I read it for the first time just after I read To Kill A Mockingbird for the first time. (How vastly different the tone, the manners, of the two books!) Then in two years, I read it 8 more times, until I got used to it. I’ve picked it up again after a gap of three years and am actually amazed by the fact that I’ve got a lot more out of this reading than any of those before. Simply because I am far better-armed with Indian History now than I was three years back. My recent obsession with Indian history, mythology and politics paid off today in very unexpected ways.


And yet, I still know I have failed to understand some points he made, and will need to read more history still. And much more of global popular and literary culture as well. I mean, I was introduced to
the legendary Johnny Cash and his civil war songs only two years back – how could I have discerned the reference 4-5 years ago when Rushdie brings in a new character, a businessman-cum-charming musician/guitarist singing country songs about trains, named Jimmy Cash (Cashondeliveri)?


So I still don’t know who Kekoo Mody is in real life, or Justice Kachrawala is (the Bofors scandal judge, I think) This little book, didn’t I say, is a dynamite filled to the brim with everything Rushdie could squeeze in…?


If A Fine Balance, a book I love immensely, is one of the finest pictures of the contradictions of modern India, A Moor’s Last Sigh too shares the pedestal. While AFB is stoic, serious and
mournful, MLS is loud-mouthed, comic and mocking. AFB is the incarnation of naked, unadulterated pain, but MLS is the incarnation of pain masquerading as comic, insincere blasphemy – the only way left
to tell honestly one’s sordid saga without making someone flinch. AFB is the ultimate Indian tragedy. MLS is the ultimate Indian tragi-comedy. Take away from it what you will.


(The review has ended. Don’t roll-o-fy your biggie eyes at me, you chose to read it, Sir-or-Madam, I didn’t force-o-fy your decision. I’m not the impotent Jaw-Jaw all-bark-no-bite-bitch, I bite-o-fy real hard, and I won’t bite so fast, and like little 13-year old Aurora who bide-o-fied her time to kill her grandma Epifania, I will bide-o my time too, to bite-o you. I’m no sweet Mother India).