An erudite but inexact parable with more artifice than art and more farce than wit, full of white noise and existential angst. Signifies nothing.

I so much wanted to like this book. Really.

Short response: if you want to read some Rushdie (and right now there are some extra reasons to do so), start with one of his later books. If you get into him and are a completest, yeah, go ahead and read this so you can read the complete oeuvre.

My problem with the book: it seemed like the plot just meandered and I had a hard time caring much about any of the characters. As for the genre — I can get into fantasy, I can get into SciFi, I can get into philosophical metaphor. This touched on all of these without feeling particularly comfortable in any of these genres.

Two stars because, well, I cared a little bit about some of the characters, and one or two of the puns and anagrams were cute (not all, though) But mostly because I did like formal arrangement (and I did smile when I got to Chapter 54). Am I damning with faint praise?

I'm a huge fan of Rushdie, but this did nothing for me. The bit about being willing to try anything twice is about all I even remember.

I'm always fascinated with first novels: how the author tries so hard to make an impression; the youthful indiscretions; the eccentricities; the fabulous plots. Rushdie's first has all of these and more. It has a story that cannot be summarised easily without recourse to trite and inaccurate cliches, and it is one of the most inventive pieces I've ever seen. I can't wait to read more.