What do you think?
Rate this book
Fury
Even before it was published, Salman Rushdie's novel Fury was the subject of controversy. Holland's literary community was livid that a novel written by a non-Dutch writer was funded by their government. Rushdie watchers will spend column inches playing "spot the unmistakable biographical references": the main character Malik Solanka is a 55-year-old Indian professor; he later comes to live in England and flees to New York, leaving his wife and young son; in America, he falls for the beautiful Neela, clearly modelled on Rushdie's partner. However, tempting as it may be to focus on the circumstances of a book, rather than the text alone, ultimately it is the prose that must speak for itself.
The Fury of the title refers both to the mid-life rage of the protagonist, who finds himself standing over his sleeping wife and son armed with a kitchen knife, and the mythological furies who tore to pieces those men whom the gods had judged. As in his previous novel The Ground Beneath Her Feet, he explores the relationship of the artist to his creation and to his audience. Solanka--Cambridge philosopher, doll-maker and possible serial killer--is the unlikely and unwilling creator of a pop-culture phenomenon that comes to represent everything he despises about modern cultural malaise. He is a part-creator of a culture he hardly understands--an anachronism. The novelist's prose reflects this alienation, but unfortunately with few insights or pleasures for the reader used to his contemporary mythological lyricism. Rushdie's pop references check-list the late 20th-century US from Clinton to OJ to the World Wide Web, and this, combined with their built-in obsolescence, renders Solanka/Rushdie's narrative strained. The urban culture of New York and Webspeak provide rich seams of traditional and new vocabularies and grammar for this most magpie-like of playful language lovers to line his literary nest with. However, in so doing, he cuts himself off from the emotional intensity and drive, combined with layered cultural complexity, that has distinguished his work, the most celebrated being Midnight's Children. Rushdie at his best is an intriguing writer; ultimately, it may be easier to extract him from the media circus that surrounds him than from the comparisons with his own compelling body of work. --Fiona Buckland
259 pages
First published August 30, 2001
285 people are currently reading
5737 people want to read
About the author
Salman Rushdie
196 books13.1k followersSir Ahmed Salman Rushdie is an Indian-born British and American novelist. His work often combines magic realism with historical fiction and primarily deals with connections, disruptions, and migrations between Eastern and Western civilizations, typically set on the Indian subcontinent. Rushdie's second novel, Midnight's Children (1981), won the Booker Prize in 1981 and was deemed to be "the best novel of all winners" on two occasions, marking the 25th and the 40th anniversary of the prize.
After his fourth novel, The Satanic Verses (1988), Rushdie became the subject of several assassination attempts and death threats, including a fatwa calling for his death issued by Ruhollah Khomeini, the supreme leader of Iran. In total, 20 countries banned the book. Numerous killings and bombings have been carried out by extremists who cite the book as motivation, sparking a debate about censorship and religiously motivated violence. In 2022, Rushdie survived a stabbing at the Chautauqua Institution in Chautauqua, New York.
In 1983, Rushdie was elected a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. He was appointed a Commandeur de l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres of France in 1999. Rushdie was knighted in 2007 for his services to literature. In 2008, The Times ranked him 13th on its list of the 50 greatest British writers since 1945. Since 2000, Rushdie has lived in the United States. He was named Distinguished Writer in Residence at the Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute of New York University in 2015. Earlier, he taught at Emory University. He was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters. In 2012, he published Joseph Anton: A Memoir, an account of his life in the wake of the events following The Satanic Verses. Rushdie was named one of the 100 most influential people in the world by Time magazine in April 2023.
Rushdie's personal life, including his five marriages and four divorces, has attracted notable media attention and controversies, particularly during his marriage to actress Padma Lakshmi.
After his fourth novel, The Satanic Verses (1988), Rushdie became the subject of several assassination attempts and death threats, including a fatwa calling for his death issued by Ruhollah Khomeini, the supreme leader of Iran. In total, 20 countries banned the book. Numerous killings and bombings have been carried out by extremists who cite the book as motivation, sparking a debate about censorship and religiously motivated violence. In 2022, Rushdie survived a stabbing at the Chautauqua Institution in Chautauqua, New York.
In 1983, Rushdie was elected a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. He was appointed a Commandeur de l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres of France in 1999. Rushdie was knighted in 2007 for his services to literature. In 2008, The Times ranked him 13th on its list of the 50 greatest British writers since 1945. Since 2000, Rushdie has lived in the United States. He was named Distinguished Writer in Residence at the Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute of New York University in 2015. Earlier, he taught at Emory University. He was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters. In 2012, he published Joseph Anton: A Memoir, an account of his life in the wake of the events following The Satanic Verses. Rushdie was named one of the 100 most influential people in the world by Time magazine in April 2023.
Rushdie's personal life, including his five marriages and four divorces, has attracted notable media attention and controversies, particularly during his marriage to actress Padma Lakshmi.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 674 reviews
May 5, 2020
Eat Me, America
Anger, unaccountable, existentially driven, psychologically depressing, non—directive anger is the subject matter of Fury. It is anger without a source and without any definite object, pure anger at being alive. It is anger that cannot be assuaged by apology or bought off by restitution. If one were religious, it might be directed toward God in a Job-like tirade. But in an atheist like Solly Solanka it can only be bottled up and leak out unexpectedly for the most trivial reason.
Solly, a cosmopolitan native of the sub-continent, is aware of his paradoxical situation. He has no reason to be angry; yet he is. This makes him angrier still. The world is alien to him. Not just the people but also the architecture, the food, the culture. Everything irritates him from the insane chat of the cleaning lady to the trivialities of the gossip mags. Every comment, every sound, every person grates. He knows it’s his fault, not theirs. But does that really matter?
Solly collects dolls. In fact he made a fortune through dolls - not by collecting but by creating a best selling one called Little Brain. His commercial success has allowed him to bail from his academic Cambridge donnery (dondom? donnage?) to join the New York glitterati as a media luvvie. This is somewhat strange because one of the few things that Solly knows he is really, really angry about is America. He hates its foreign policies, its garish superficiality, its casual racism, its self-satisfied neediness to make anything worthwhile in the world into a commodity it owns.
Solly has escaped Europe precisely because of what America is. “America is the great devourer, and so I have come to America to be devoured,” he says. His anger is not even noticed in America where everyone is angry about something, and where there are even people like him who are angry about everything. Solly is in his element - the pseudo-sophisticated sham of the Manhattan bien-pensant baroque culture of death. He doesn’t want to be a part of this culture, he wants to be consumed by it as a response to his own self-disgust.
Unfortunately all this anger goes nowhere. It is never explained or resolved but peters out in an unfortunate and sordid set of romances. Kingsley Amis’s Money covered more or less the same ground but with much less hoopla and name dropping. As an almost prophetic statement of the psychological situation of the world just prior to 9/11, I suppose it has merit. But as a novel it’s a collection of snappy lines and even snappier digs that goes nowhere..
Anger, unaccountable, existentially driven, psychologically depressing, non—directive anger is the subject matter of Fury. It is anger without a source and without any definite object, pure anger at being alive. It is anger that cannot be assuaged by apology or bought off by restitution. If one were religious, it might be directed toward God in a Job-like tirade. But in an atheist like Solly Solanka it can only be bottled up and leak out unexpectedly for the most trivial reason.
Solly, a cosmopolitan native of the sub-continent, is aware of his paradoxical situation. He has no reason to be angry; yet he is. This makes him angrier still. The world is alien to him. Not just the people but also the architecture, the food, the culture. Everything irritates him from the insane chat of the cleaning lady to the trivialities of the gossip mags. Every comment, every sound, every person grates. He knows it’s his fault, not theirs. But does that really matter?
Solly collects dolls. In fact he made a fortune through dolls - not by collecting but by creating a best selling one called Little Brain. His commercial success has allowed him to bail from his academic Cambridge donnery (dondom? donnage?) to join the New York glitterati as a media luvvie. This is somewhat strange because one of the few things that Solly knows he is really, really angry about is America. He hates its foreign policies, its garish superficiality, its casual racism, its self-satisfied neediness to make anything worthwhile in the world into a commodity it owns.
Solly has escaped Europe precisely because of what America is. “America is the great devourer, and so I have come to America to be devoured,” he says. His anger is not even noticed in America where everyone is angry about something, and where there are even people like him who are angry about everything. Solly is in his element - the pseudo-sophisticated sham of the Manhattan bien-pensant baroque culture of death. He doesn’t want to be a part of this culture, he wants to be consumed by it as a response to his own self-disgust.
Unfortunately all this anger goes nowhere. It is never explained or resolved but peters out in an unfortunate and sordid set of romances. Kingsley Amis’s Money covered more or less the same ground but with much less hoopla and name dropping. As an almost prophetic statement of the psychological situation of the world just prior to 9/11, I suppose it has merit. But as a novel it’s a collection of snappy lines and even snappier digs that goes nowhere..
June 28, 2020
Absolutely terrible. I detested it immensely. Probably the worst novel I've ever read. Got hold of a pre-owned copy for only 50p and still felt completely ripped off! Can't see myself reading Rushdie again, unless I'm paid to do so.
May 18, 2024
I read this book without knowing it was on the 1001 books to read that I do not know. It's a mixture of genres that brushes all situations through the demons of a man suddenly grappling with an outburst of madness. Even though there are good times, whether erotic or humorous, the whole thing is very confusing.
Read
August 2, 2019Λόγω του ότι έχω αυτό το χούι να αγοράζω βιβλία και ως αντικείμενα, ως συλλέκτης, συνήθως την πατάω και απογοητεύομαι.
Αυτό το βιβλίο το αγόρασα από ένα thrift shop κυρίως λόγω του ότι ήταν υπογεγραμμένο από τον Σαλμάν Ρούσντι τον ίδιο. Δηλαδή αυτό το βιβλίο το άγγιξε ο ίδιος ο Ρούσντι, περιέχει το DNA του.
Χωρίς να ήταν υπογεγραμμένο θα το προσπερνούσα απλά. Αλλά την πάτησα.
Χωρισμένο σε τρία μέρη αυτό το βιβλίο ξεκίνησε όμορφα (και τηλεφωνικό κατάλογο να έπαιρνα μετά απ' εκείνο το ανυπόφορο βιβλίο του Νταλί θα ήταν ενδιαφέρον), μου άρεσε που άκουγα ξανά την φωνή του Ρούσντι, γέλασα σε μερικά σημεία, και υπέθεσα ότι θα απολάμβανα αυτό το βιβλίο όπως έγινε και με το βιβλίο του Μπουκόφσκι αλλά δεν.
Το μομέντουμ που απέκτησε αυτό το βιβλίο εμφανίστηκε και χάθηκε στο πρώτο μέρος. Έτσι τα επόμενα δυο μέρη μου φάνηκαν χλιαρά, επαναλαμβανόμενα, με αχρείαστες λεπτομέρειες και βιογραφικά κομπάρσων (τυπική τεχνική του Ρούσντι) και βρέθηκα να το διαβάζω μόνο και μόνο για να τελειώσει.
Είχα αποφασίσει να του βάλω 2,6 να εμφανίζεται ως 3άστερο αλλά το γελοίο τέλος με ξενέρωσε μέχρι τον μυελό των οστών που το βάζω ένα καθαρό 2.
Πρωταγωνιστής της ιστορίας είναι ο Μάλικ Σολάνκα, ένας Βρετανός καθηγητής του Κέιμπριτζ ινδικής καταγωγής που ξαφνικά του την βάρεσε να παρατήσει την γυναίκα του και το τρίχρονο αγοράκι του και να πάει στην Αμερική να χαθεί, να τον ρουφήξει αυτή η Αμερική που απορροφά κουλτούρες, λαούς, έθιμα, να τον ρουφήξει και αυτόν και τον θυμό (ή παραφορά κατά τον ελληνικό τίτλο).
Ως έναν βαθμό τον καταλαβαίνω να είναι θυμωμένος με τη ζωή του να έχει τάσεις φυγής όπως εμένα, να θέλει να κάνει ένα διάλειμμα από γνωστούς και φίλους, αλλά - όπως εμένα- δεν διάβασε πρώτα τους στίχους του Καβάφη που λένε:
Έτσι όπως λέει και το ποίημα ο καθηγητής αυτός δεν μπόρεσε να ξεφύγει απ' το θυμό του, το πρόσφατο παρελθόν του, το μακρινό παρελθόν του (που όπως κάθε ινδικής καταγωγής χαρακτήρας του Ρούσντι, θέλει να ξεχάσει). Η πόλις τον ακολουθεί, τον κυνηγάει . . .
Αλλά όπως είπα η ιστορία έχασε το μομέντουμ (στο πρώτο μέρος) που είχε με την ωραία γραφή, την καυστικά αστεία κριτική πένα του Ρούσντι για την αμερικανική κοινωνία.
Έτσι το υπόλοιπο βιβλίο ήταν απλά μια επανάληψη που δυστυχώς δεν ήταν το ήμισυ της μαθήσεως.
Αυτό το βιβλίο το αγόρασα από ένα thrift shop κυρίως λόγω του ότι ήταν υπογεγραμμένο από τον Σαλμάν Ρούσντι τον ίδιο. Δηλαδή αυτό το βιβλίο το άγγιξε ο ίδιος ο Ρούσντι, περιέχει το DNA του.
Χωρίς να ήταν υπογεγραμμένο θα το προσπερνούσα απλά. Αλλά την πάτησα.
Χωρισμένο σε τρία μέρη αυτό το βιβλίο ξεκίνησε όμορφα (και τηλεφωνικό κατάλογο να έπαιρνα μετά απ' εκείνο το ανυπόφορο βιβλίο του Νταλί θα ήταν ενδιαφέρον), μου άρεσε που άκουγα ξανά την φωνή του Ρούσντι, γέλασα σε μερικά σημεία, και υπέθεσα ότι θα απολάμβανα αυτό το βιβλίο όπως έγινε και με το βιβλίο του Μπουκόφσκι αλλά δεν.
Το μομέντουμ που απέκτησε αυτό το βιβλίο εμφανίστηκε και χάθηκε στο πρώτο μέρος. Έτσι τα επόμενα δυο μέρη μου φάνηκαν χλιαρά, επαναλαμβανόμενα, με αχρείαστες λεπτομέρειες και βιογραφικά κομπάρσων (τυπική τεχνική του Ρούσντι) και βρέθηκα να το διαβάζω μόνο και μόνο για να τελειώσει.
Είχα αποφασίσει να του βάλω 2,6 να εμφανίζεται ως 3άστερο αλλά το γελοίο τέλος με ξενέρωσε μέχρι τον μυελό των οστών που το βάζω ένα καθαρό 2.
Πρωταγωνιστής της ιστορίας είναι ο Μάλικ Σολάνκα, ένας Βρετανός καθηγητής του Κέιμπριτζ ινδικής καταγωγής που ξαφνικά του την βάρεσε να παρατήσει την γυναίκα του και το τρίχρονο αγοράκι του και να πάει στην Αμερική να χαθεί, να τον ρουφήξει αυτή η Αμερική που απορροφά κουλτούρες, λαούς, έθιμα, να τον ρουφήξει και αυτόν και τον θυμό (ή παραφορά κατά τον ελληνικό τίτλο).
Ως έναν βαθμό τον καταλαβαίνω να είναι θυμωμένος με τη ζωή του να έχει τάσεις φυγής όπως εμένα, να θέλει να κάνει ένα διάλειμμα από γνωστούς και φίλους, αλλά - όπως εμένα- δεν διάβασε πρώτα τους στίχους του Καβάφη που λένε:
Καινούριους τόπους δεν θα βρεις, δεν θά βρεις άλλες θάλασσες.
Η πόλις θα σε ακολουθεί. Στους δρόμους θα γυρνάς
τους ίδιους. Και στες γειτονιές τες ίδιες θα γερνάς·
και μες στα ίδια σπίτια αυτά θ’ ασπρίζεις.
Πάντα στην πόλι αυτή θα φθάνεις. Για τα αλλού — μη ελπίζεις—
δεν έχει πλοίο για σε, δεν έχει οδό.
Έτσι όπως λέει και το ποίημα ο καθηγητής αυτός δεν μπόρεσε να ξεφύγει απ' το θυμό του, το πρόσφατο παρελθόν του, το μακρινό παρελθόν του (που όπως κάθε ινδικής καταγωγής χαρακτήρας του Ρούσντι, θέλει να ξεχάσει). Η πόλις τον ακολουθεί, τον κυνηγάει . . .
Αλλά όπως είπα η ιστορία έχασε το μομέντουμ (στο πρώτο μέρος) που είχε με την ωραία γραφή, την καυστικά αστεία κριτική πένα του Ρούσντι για την αμερικανική κοινωνία.
Έτσι το υπόλοιπο βιβλίο ήταν απλά μια επανάληψη που δυστυχώς δεν ήταν το ήμισυ της μαθήσεως.
November 12, 2019
"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."
With each day that passes, the world matches this novel more accurately. The fury of the word is mirrored in the fury of the world. Read it, all of you out there who surprisedly find yourselves increasingly, undyingly furious at what happens around you, in this poor world of plenty!
Who else could possibly describe the complexity of primal anger? That must be the topic that was created only for Salman Rushdie, his custom-made story, assembled and ready to put on paper by a global rage unseen and unheard of before. His to find words for. The most frightening part is the publication date. Were we really that far gone already in 2001, on the day before 9/11?
Read this novel now, it is getting better and better, the clearer it becomes that Rushdie was right (sadly!).
Shared fury is fury well channelled.
With each day that passes, the world matches this novel more accurately. The fury of the word is mirrored in the fury of the world. Read it, all of you out there who surprisedly find yourselves increasingly, undyingly furious at what happens around you, in this poor world of plenty!
Who else could possibly describe the complexity of primal anger? That must be the topic that was created only for Salman Rushdie, his custom-made story, assembled and ready to put on paper by a global rage unseen and unheard of before. His to find words for. The most frightening part is the publication date. Were we really that far gone already in 2001, on the day before 9/11?
Read this novel now, it is getting better and better, the clearer it becomes that Rushdie was right (sadly!).
Shared fury is fury well channelled.
November 3, 2018
My first brush with Salman Rushdie proved to be, frankly, uneventful (perhaps like my experience with Coetzee’s “Disgrace”, sorta, kinda). He writes of this “fury, born of long injustice, beside which his own unpredictable temper was a thing of pathetic insignificance, the indulgence, perhaps, of a privileged individual with too much self-interest.” This is what happens when a man accumulates too much wealth having ideas which blow up to become global phenomenons—hopefully not an autobiographical theme for Rushdie. Why are writers with so much fame becoming so self-aware of it & exploit this to the fullest in their works? Guess I'm still enchanted with that (now-mythical) figure of the penniless artist. Coetzee, Rushdie, McEwan, Cunningham… they all write about the rich folk having feelings too.
Another thing: if you have not familiarized yourself with mythology well enough, this novel may become murky, blurry. Why are narrators so cranial nowadays? Not everything goes back to ancient Greece, that story of a lucky individual can never become globalized… that is too fake an anecdote, almost elitist; too unfortunate a plot to undertake with brilliant, neat prose. Plus hearing about the Zeitgeist from an older British gent, his take on post-millennium Americana, is not as riveting as, say, ANY GIVEN/TOKEN U.S. TEEN’s daily diary confessions.
Another thing: if you have not familiarized yourself with mythology well enough, this novel may become murky, blurry. Why are narrators so cranial nowadays? Not everything goes back to ancient Greece, that story of a lucky individual can never become globalized… that is too fake an anecdote, almost elitist; too unfortunate a plot to undertake with brilliant, neat prose. Plus hearing about the Zeitgeist from an older British gent, his take on post-millennium Americana, is not as riveting as, say, ANY GIVEN/TOKEN U.S. TEEN’s daily diary confessions.
Read
January 9, 2008An 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.
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.
April 16, 2015
القراءة لسلمان رشدي تضعك في إشكالية مستمرة منذ القدم , وهي حدود الإبداع و حرية التعبير , هل أخطاء مبدع (أيًا كان حجمها أو زمنها ) تجبرك على مقاطعة هذا المبدع وأعماله , أم أنك لابد أن تنتصر للحرية حتى مع من تختلف معهم !
أنا قرأت (أطفال منتصف الليل) وكانت أفضل عمل قرأته في 2014 على الإطلاق , ولم أتردد في اقتناء أعمال أخرى للكاتب ,لأني أحببت أسلوبه , أما تهمته الكبرى (آيات شيطانية ) فلم يسعفني حظي بعذ في اقتناءها والاطلاع عليها , فهو برئ إلى أن يثبت العكس .
المهم : نحن أمام عمل يناقش الأزمة الإنسانية التي يتعرض لها المثقف , أزمة الصراع مع نفسه ومع بيئته المحيطة ومع حتى نظام حكمه , فهي أزمة نفسية سياسية مجتمعية , ولطالما وقع فيها الكثيرون , من النخب إلى عامة الشعب , ولطالما اختلف في علاجها البشر , منهم من يفضل المواجهة (وتكون مدى الحياة) ومنهم من يفضل المثالية في التعامل والصبر على الإصلاح , ومنهم من يختار البُعد والعزلة التامة ليقيم حياته و تصرفاته و ردود فعله المختلفة .
نحن هنا أمام عمل يتناول الشريحة الأخيرة وهى من اختارت العزلة , يتناول سيرة مثقف اختار طريق الوحدة لعلاج نفسه من المشاكل المحيطة به , كل ذلك مع عرض مميز لذكرياته الكثيفة يستعرض من خلالها حياته المليئة بالأحداث .
عن العصر الحديث بصخبه وعنفه والهشاشة التي انتابت مواطنيه في مختلف العالم , لينتج لنا مجتمعات ممسوخة تعاني من ازدواجية عفنة تضغط على المواطنين باستمرار ليكونوا في النهاية معدومي الهوية الحقيقية , و يعانون من انصام بشع بيم مُثل يسعون إليها وواقع زائف مضطرين للتعامل معه .
عن شخص رأى في لحظة تجلي استحالة الحياة بشكلها المعتاد فترك أسرته (زوجته وابن وحيد كانوا أكثر من عشقهم) وترك بيئه التي توغل فيها وصنع اسم محترم له , ترك كل ذلك وآثر الوحدة التامة ليضع نهاية لحياته لا بالانتحار بل بقطع كل الصلات عن عالمه القديم.
العمل نفسي بامتياز , يتناول تفاصيل النفس الانسانية ببساطة وعمق في آن واحد , ليعرض لنا أكثر من وجهة نظر لنفس الشخص بسلاسة ممتعة .
ترجمة العمل معيبة للغاية , العمل به شئ ناقص , هذا ليس أسلوب الكاتب (من خلال تجرتي الأولى له) الترجمة جامدة لا حياة فيها , وإن نجحت في أن توصل هدف الكاتب وغايته في النهاية .
في المجمل عمل جيد.
أنا قرأت (أطفال منتصف الليل) وكانت أفضل عمل قرأته في 2014 على الإطلاق , ولم أتردد في اقتناء أعمال أخرى للكاتب ,لأني أحببت أسلوبه , أما تهمته الكبرى (آيات شيطانية ) فلم يسعفني حظي بعذ في اقتناءها والاطلاع عليها , فهو برئ إلى أن يثبت العكس .
المهم : نحن أمام عمل يناقش الأزمة الإنسانية التي يتعرض لها المثقف , أزمة الصراع مع نفسه ومع بيئته المحيطة ومع حتى نظام حكمه , فهي أزمة نفسية سياسية مجتمعية , ولطالما وقع فيها الكثيرون , من النخب إلى عامة الشعب , ولطالما اختلف في علاجها البشر , منهم من يفضل المواجهة (وتكون مدى الحياة) ومنهم من يفضل المثالية في التعامل والصبر على الإصلاح , ومنهم من يختار البُعد والعزلة التامة ليقيم حياته و تصرفاته و ردود فعله المختلفة .
نحن هنا أمام عمل يتناول الشريحة الأخيرة وهى من اختارت العزلة , يتناول سيرة مثقف اختار طريق الوحدة لعلاج نفسه من المشاكل المحيطة به , كل ذلك مع عرض مميز لذكرياته الكثيفة يستعرض من خلالها حياته المليئة بالأحداث .
عن العصر الحديث بصخبه وعنفه والهشاشة التي انتابت مواطنيه في مختلف العالم , لينتج لنا مجتمعات ممسوخة تعاني من ازدواجية عفنة تضغط على المواطنين باستمرار ليكونوا في النهاية معدومي الهوية الحقيقية , و يعانون من انصام بشع بيم مُثل يسعون إليها وواقع زائف مضطرين للتعامل معه .
عن شخص رأى في لحظة تجلي استحالة الحياة بشكلها المعتاد فترك أسرته (زوجته وابن وحيد كانوا أكثر من عشقهم) وترك بيئه التي توغل فيها وصنع اسم محترم له , ترك كل ذلك وآثر الوحدة التامة ليضع نهاية لحياته لا بالانتحار بل بقطع كل الصلات عن عالمه القديم.
العمل نفسي بامتياز , يتناول تفاصيل النفس الانسانية ببساطة وعمق في آن واحد , ليعرض لنا أكثر من وجهة نظر لنفس الشخص بسلاسة ممتعة .
ترجمة العمل معيبة للغاية , العمل به شئ ناقص , هذا ليس أسلوب الكاتب (من خلال تجرتي الأولى له) الترجمة جامدة لا حياة فيها , وإن نجحت في أن توصل هدف الكاتب وغايته في النهاية .
في المجمل عمل جيد.
September 1, 2014
I dont understand why it has garnered so many negative reviews. Once you plow past the initial few pages of languid storytelling and excessive emphasis on unimportant details, its a truly enthralling read. The narrative vacillates from borderline facetious to a melancholic antipode. Its a given that Rushdie novels are not natural page-turners and require patience and coaxing. But it has paid off for me every single time so far. Even the few instances of irrelevant verbosity is alleviated by the flowery language that leaves you spellbound nevertheless. Once you hit the stride its smooth sailing then on. The final fourth held me captive, completely oblivious to my surroundings. And despite the compelling story he weaves, the somber themes he explores, it somehow doesn't weigh on your mind much, which can sometimes be a good thing.
September 17, 2013
I’d known before I picked this up that ‘Fury’ was one of his critically most damned works – despite that warning, I gaily went ahead. Because I’m simply in love with the genius of that man. Of the 4 works I’ve read of his, my reactions have ranged from ever-growing adoration (The Moor’s Last Sigh, which I’ve read 9 times in 4 years and will read yet again) to reluctant reading (The Satanic Verses, which has some nuggets of pure brilliance and heady defiance in an otherwise dump of garbage). But never have I encountered such a disastrous piece of fiction, especially by him.
Why do I read Rushdie?
Because I love his verbal density that draws blood under the garb of comic relief and unapologetic, Bambaiya, forbidden language of lavish absuses. Because he deftly weaves complex layers of satire, story-telling and colonial history into a multi-hued carpet full of motif, signifiers and signs, some of them obscure and some right in-your-face. Because he is irreverent. Because nothing is sacred to him. Because he boldly says what needs to be said, without mincing his words. Because he insults where insults need to be thrown. Because he is rude, crude, bitter, sharp, cynical, unbowed, unfettered – you cannot control him. You cannot deny the truth in his fiction. He breathes fire. Because he cruelly lifts masks off the Grand Narratives about whoever he picks to star in his works. Much of the really beautiful aspects of his works are esoteric – they are references that only people really, deeply aware about India can understand, so I’m not surprised at non-Indians not falling so deeply in love with him.
I love people like that – who break taboos, who make me swallow the bitter-tinged filth of my identity when I open my mouth to laugh hard at his explicit expletive-laden language. Because his language is not just a gimmick to shock and scandalize – read between the lines, and there is bitter, biting sarcasm, political satire, loads of historical/cultural references, psychological insights into the era of the setting, the numerous popular-culture references crucial to the shaping of that time. It is a rich, rich tapestry that is clever, deep and entertaining. And to many conservatives, shamelessly offensive. And I love that.
But none of it this time. This is not the Rushdie I know and adore. It’s almost like a ghost-writer penning a Rushdie-lookalike, a dummy writer forging a pseudo-Rushdie and failing miserably. This book has no charm, no intriguing layers of history, culture, political commentary, vivid picturing of people, places and their fetishes. Where every single line had a meaning, a reference, a significance in his other works, entire paragraphs here serve to do nothing but fill empty pages. It is like someone ate away all the luscious cream from my chocolate truffle gateau, leaving only the plain sponge behind, mocking me with the erasure.
In a word, it is bland, tasteless, almost unmemorable. The only time I caught a faint flicker of Rushdie was at the end of Chapter 9 where he attacked an extremely unpleasant aspect of Gandhi every Indian has either chosen to overlook or furiously deny and forget:
”Like Gandhi performing his brahmacharya (celibacy) ‘experiments of truth’, when the wives of his friends lay with him at night to enable him to test the mastery of mind over limb, he (Solanka) preserved the outward form of high propriety; and so did she, so did she.”
The narrative is extremely disinterested, even if the change in “trademark” Rushdie style is admitted – it just doesn’t connect with the reader. Unlike some of his other works, this has neither content, nor style. Solanka’s motivations, even towards the end, seem plain unbelievable. Eleanor’s sudden appearance, Neela’s sacrifice, everything, in fact, seem too dry and contrived. The only reason I did not lem this book was that I wanted to know if this ceaseless criticism on the book was justified, or if it was plain unacceptance of any methodological deviance from the signature Rushdie style.
All I can say is that it was well-deserved, and I’m not going to waste my time dwelling on what already other reviewers have pointed out. Off to something better.
Why do I read Rushdie?
Because I love his verbal density that draws blood under the garb of comic relief and unapologetic, Bambaiya, forbidden language of lavish absuses. Because he deftly weaves complex layers of satire, story-telling and colonial history into a multi-hued carpet full of motif, signifiers and signs, some of them obscure and some right in-your-face. Because he is irreverent. Because nothing is sacred to him. Because he boldly says what needs to be said, without mincing his words. Because he insults where insults need to be thrown. Because he is rude, crude, bitter, sharp, cynical, unbowed, unfettered – you cannot control him. You cannot deny the truth in his fiction. He breathes fire. Because he cruelly lifts masks off the Grand Narratives about whoever he picks to star in his works. Much of the really beautiful aspects of his works are esoteric – they are references that only people really, deeply aware about India can understand, so I’m not surprised at non-Indians not falling so deeply in love with him.
I love people like that – who break taboos, who make me swallow the bitter-tinged filth of my identity when I open my mouth to laugh hard at his explicit expletive-laden language. Because his language is not just a gimmick to shock and scandalize – read between the lines, and there is bitter, biting sarcasm, political satire, loads of historical/cultural references, psychological insights into the era of the setting, the numerous popular-culture references crucial to the shaping of that time. It is a rich, rich tapestry that is clever, deep and entertaining. And to many conservatives, shamelessly offensive. And I love that.
But none of it this time. This is not the Rushdie I know and adore. It’s almost like a ghost-writer penning a Rushdie-lookalike, a dummy writer forging a pseudo-Rushdie and failing miserably. This book has no charm, no intriguing layers of history, culture, political commentary, vivid picturing of people, places and their fetishes. Where every single line had a meaning, a reference, a significance in his other works, entire paragraphs here serve to do nothing but fill empty pages. It is like someone ate away all the luscious cream from my chocolate truffle gateau, leaving only the plain sponge behind, mocking me with the erasure.
In a word, it is bland, tasteless, almost unmemorable. The only time I caught a faint flicker of Rushdie was at the end of Chapter 9 where he attacked an extremely unpleasant aspect of Gandhi every Indian has either chosen to overlook or furiously deny and forget:
”Like Gandhi performing his brahmacharya (celibacy) ‘experiments of truth’, when the wives of his friends lay with him at night to enable him to test the mastery of mind over limb, he (Solanka) preserved the outward form of high propriety; and so did she, so did she.”
The narrative is extremely disinterested, even if the change in “trademark” Rushdie style is admitted – it just doesn’t connect with the reader. Unlike some of his other works, this has neither content, nor style. Solanka’s motivations, even towards the end, seem plain unbelievable. Eleanor’s sudden appearance, Neela’s sacrifice, everything, in fact, seem too dry and contrived. The only reason I did not lem this book was that I wanted to know if this ceaseless criticism on the book was justified, or if it was plain unacceptance of any methodological deviance from the signature Rushdie style.
All I can say is that it was well-deserved, and I’m not going to waste my time dwelling on what already other reviewers have pointed out. Off to something better.
January 14, 2016
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.
January 9, 2009
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.
March 16, 2010
My first Salman Rushdie book and I loved it. He has become one of my favorite authors.
This book is about a cambridge-educated professor who has a messed up childhood and becomes a creator of alternate worlds in his bid to live a better life. His creation becomes wildly popular and lucrative. But in its popularity, he loses control of his creation which combined with his earlier childhood experiences creates a seething fury within him. This latent fury betrays his external successes and echoes the US prosperity boom of the late 90's and its dormant rage due to people's disappointment in themselves for not being "successful" enough.
This book also shows the power of imagination in creating social realities and the loss of the creator's ideal perfection when his ideas are implemented, sometimes with disasterous consequences. Sometimes when life imitates art, the consequences are not as a great as the ideal. A real life parallel to this theme is communism. I wonder what Marx and Engels would think of their utopian idea of communism if they were alive to see his how it effected Stalinist USSR?
This book is about a cambridge-educated professor who has a messed up childhood and becomes a creator of alternate worlds in his bid to live a better life. His creation becomes wildly popular and lucrative. But in its popularity, he loses control of his creation which combined with his earlier childhood experiences creates a seething fury within him. This latent fury betrays his external successes and echoes the US prosperity boom of the late 90's and its dormant rage due to people's disappointment in themselves for not being "successful" enough.
This book also shows the power of imagination in creating social realities and the loss of the creator's ideal perfection when his ideas are implemented, sometimes with disasterous consequences. Sometimes when life imitates art, the consequences are not as a great as the ideal. A real life parallel to this theme is communism. I wonder what Marx and Engels would think of their utopian idea of communism if they were alive to see his how it effected Stalinist USSR?
March 19, 2013
You'd want to qoute every single line in this novel.
December 31, 2018
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 източна 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.
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 източна 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.
April 22, 2009
If you are a fan of the band Neutral Milk Hotel and/or Rock Plaza Central, you’re familiar with the way some of the songs descend into a glorious cacophonous mess at the end (similar to The Beatles song “A Day in the Life”). What seems to be a chaotic aural blend of instrumentation somehow works; it’s pleasing to the ear. When I started Salman Rushdie’s Fury, I had the same hope for it, that somehow the jumbled chaos of characters, settings, and events would evolve into a story not simply understandable but beautiful, and not beautiful in spite of its flaws but because of them. Unfortunately, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Rushdie’s exegesis on the supposed furies that we all feel hinges on his protagonist, Malik Solanka, an Indian philosophy professor who previously lived in England but moved to The Big Apple when he suddenly found himself standing over his wife and children with a carving knife. He became famous in England for making dolls, specifically one called “Little Brain,” a little girl puppet who interviews famous philosophers. The show became a huge success, Solanka sells out to commercial producers, and this ultimately leads to his "fury." Oh, and did I mention that he drinks? A lot?
He’s not the most likable fellow on whom to pin a story; not that protagonists need to be likable (look at Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky, hell, almost anything by an Eastern European author), but they do need to be engrossing and, sadly, Solanka just isn’t. Indeed, every character in this book is simply a cardboard cutout: Lifeless and un-interesting. And then there are the numerous sub-plots (the murders of NYC women for example) that are never completely realized or related to Solanka, so I question what they are even doing in the story.
I understand that this is supposed to be satirical, that Rushdie is poking fun at contemporary American life among the intellectual and the wealthy. I also understand that he is playing with our conception of the furies (female spirits of justice and vengeance) of ancient Greek and Roman mythology. “Life is fury. Fury—sexual, oedipal, political, magical, brutal—drives us to our finest heights and coarsest depths. This is what we are, what we civilize ourselves to disguise—the terrifying human animal in us, the exalted, transcendent, self-destructive, untrammeled lord of creation. We raise each other to the heights of joy. We tear each other limb from bloody limb,” Solanka says. However, good satire is supposed to expose certain profound truths about its subjects, and I don’t think Rushdie does this with any success. He doesn’t make us feel for his characters (in fact, the entire story strikes me as a bit misogynistic), and he doesn’t make us want to investigate what he is mocking.
Don’t peg me as a Rushdie hater; I loved Midnight’s Children! But this definitely does not do for New York what Midnight’s Children did for Bombay. This is a different Rushdie; this Rushdie has embraced certain critics’ views of his work, the critics who praise him for doing things with style and language that no one else can accomplish and say that this makes up for his somewhat loose grip on plot and character development. It’s almost as if he took these reviews as a personal challenge to see how far he could go before readers noticed that he’s just fucking with us. And the result sucks.
Rushdie’s exegesis on the supposed furies that we all feel hinges on his protagonist, Malik Solanka, an Indian philosophy professor who previously lived in England but moved to The Big Apple when he suddenly found himself standing over his wife and children with a carving knife. He became famous in England for making dolls, specifically one called “Little Brain,” a little girl puppet who interviews famous philosophers. The show became a huge success, Solanka sells out to commercial producers, and this ultimately leads to his "fury." Oh, and did I mention that he drinks? A lot?
He’s not the most likable fellow on whom to pin a story; not that protagonists need to be likable (look at Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky, hell, almost anything by an Eastern European author), but they do need to be engrossing and, sadly, Solanka just isn’t. Indeed, every character in this book is simply a cardboard cutout: Lifeless and un-interesting. And then there are the numerous sub-plots (the murders of NYC women for example) that are never completely realized or related to Solanka, so I question what they are even doing in the story.
I understand that this is supposed to be satirical, that Rushdie is poking fun at contemporary American life among the intellectual and the wealthy. I also understand that he is playing with our conception of the furies (female spirits of justice and vengeance) of ancient Greek and Roman mythology. “Life is fury. Fury—sexual, oedipal, political, magical, brutal—drives us to our finest heights and coarsest depths. This is what we are, what we civilize ourselves to disguise—the terrifying human animal in us, the exalted, transcendent, self-destructive, untrammeled lord of creation. We raise each other to the heights of joy. We tear each other limb from bloody limb,” Solanka says. However, good satire is supposed to expose certain profound truths about its subjects, and I don’t think Rushdie does this with any success. He doesn’t make us feel for his characters (in fact, the entire story strikes me as a bit misogynistic), and he doesn’t make us want to investigate what he is mocking.
Don’t peg me as a Rushdie hater; I loved Midnight’s Children! But this definitely does not do for New York what Midnight’s Children did for Bombay. This is a different Rushdie; this Rushdie has embraced certain critics’ views of his work, the critics who praise him for doing things with style and language that no one else can accomplish and say that this makes up for his somewhat loose grip on plot and character development. It’s almost as if he took these reviews as a personal challenge to see how far he could go before readers noticed that he’s just fucking with us. And the result sucks.
April 17, 2012
Giving this book three stars is not really fair. It is a very good, but it also could be much better. The problem here is not necessarily what the book does, it conveys itself very well, the problem is that the beginning of the book sets you up for a spectacular and philosophically challenging plot that Rushdie just can't pull off.
Sure the outward storyline flows smoothly and unpredicatably, bouncing the reader through neat unexpected events and witty commentary, but for all its quick cadence and New York (where it is set) cool, it starts to grow stale. Like your tenth fizz candy, or juicy fruit that has been chewed to long, it begins to become a little bland.
The main problem is that Rushdie seems content to constantly tell you what his characters are experiencing, tell you what is wrong with the society, tell you what is upside down and backwards yet upfront and expected about New York; instead he needs to dramatize these concepts and experiences and show his characters living them, allow us to come to understand how they feel instead of having them go on a page long tangent in their subconscious so that he can pontificate on American youth, or his internal fury. His characters don't actually seem as alive as they should, his very interesting insights don't catpure our attention as they could, his book doesn't hurt when it ends like we wish it would. Because, there is no attachment created, no bond between character and reader.
I have read a few of Rushdie's books since 'Midnights Children' blew my mind, and I have come to the conclusion that Rushdie is just a little too clever for his own good. It is too easy. His book dances, but by the end of this short novel your feet hurt and you are tired of spinning around and around in circles, you feel like you have seen something interesting but it is all a blur.
Sure the outward storyline flows smoothly and unpredicatably, bouncing the reader through neat unexpected events and witty commentary, but for all its quick cadence and New York (where it is set) cool, it starts to grow stale. Like your tenth fizz candy, or juicy fruit that has been chewed to long, it begins to become a little bland.
The main problem is that Rushdie seems content to constantly tell you what his characters are experiencing, tell you what is wrong with the society, tell you what is upside down and backwards yet upfront and expected about New York; instead he needs to dramatize these concepts and experiences and show his characters living them, allow us to come to understand how they feel instead of having them go on a page long tangent in their subconscious so that he can pontificate on American youth, or his internal fury. His characters don't actually seem as alive as they should, his very interesting insights don't catpure our attention as they could, his book doesn't hurt when it ends like we wish it would. Because, there is no attachment created, no bond between character and reader.
I have read a few of Rushdie's books since 'Midnights Children' blew my mind, and I have come to the conclusion that Rushdie is just a little too clever for his own good. It is too easy. His book dances, but by the end of this short novel your feet hurt and you are tired of spinning around and around in circles, you feel like you have seen something interesting but it is all a blur.
September 30, 2014
While reading the first chapters of this book, I felt like highlighting every line. The sentences were so nicely constructed and the turn of phrases made each line delightful. I thought the whole book would be like this, but it wasn't.
This is not my first Rushdie and ever since I read "Shalimar the Clown" (my first book by Rushdie) which was amazing, I hoped that I would find at least one of his books as good as this one. So far, I haven't. Not even "Midnight Children" was at the height of my expectations (It was a very good book, but at some points also very annoying).
Fury starts like a masterpiece and turns into a total crap. I try to finish all the books I start as I truly think there must be something good in them, something that I would enjoy, and I also got through all this book, but it was quite an effort to be attentive until the end. If it weren't for the beginning which was quite striking, I wouldn't give this book 2 stars.
This is not my first Rushdie and ever since I read "Shalimar the Clown" (my first book by Rushdie) which was amazing, I hoped that I would find at least one of his books as good as this one. So far, I haven't. Not even "Midnight Children" was at the height of my expectations (It was a very good book, but at some points also very annoying).
Fury starts like a masterpiece and turns into a total crap. I try to finish all the books I start as I truly think there must be something good in them, something that I would enjoy, and I also got through all this book, but it was quite an effort to be attentive until the end. If it weren't for the beginning which was quite striking, I wouldn't give this book 2 stars.
July 9, 2019
wow. just wow.
maestralan je. želim pročitati cijeli njegov opus.
maestralan je. želim pročitati cijeli njegov opus.
January 25, 2013
The 3 stars are a very generous assessment of Fury. I was expecting to not like it, as I had read reviews, and Rushdie himself mention it as one of his worst reviewed books. And I didn't. This is continuous word vomit from page 1 to page 272.
There are threads of plot amidst all the verbal diarrhea posing as FURY. But, they don't come together, and to be honest, I have no idea what they needed to be there for. Let's see. The main character is a philosopher called Malik Solanka, who doesn't do well academically and decides to become a dollmaker. The doll becomes bigger than its creator and while Malik appreciates the royalties pouring in, he's still overcome with rage and ends up holding up a knife over his sleeping wife and son. This gives him the excuse he needs to abandon them without so much as a note, and to run off to New York. In New York, he has a weird (but sexy) neighbor Mila who enacts her daddy issues with him as a surrogate. He dumps her as well for an impossibly beautiful (and sexy) denizen of Lilliput-Blefescu (which in the context of this book is real, but they seem to be of normal size), called Neela, who he wins from a best friend. But the best friend may or may not be involved in a secret BDSM club whose rich-fuck members may or may not have killed and scalped their slaves. There is another plot involving a fictional sci-fi universe called [I can't remember already], where a doll maker makes living dolls who take over their universe and a coup d'etat in (real in the context of the book) Lilliput-Blefescu who use the symbols of the sci-fi universe. None of this makes any sense whatsoever except Rushdie maintains that we are meant to be seeing FURY in all of the character's situations.
Well, it's bad. But it still works in a way as a curiosity piece. In Fury, Rushdie writes, the Furies hovered over New York and America. He speaks of how everything is America centered, and even the anti -Americans center their envy and their rage on America. He has a character speak in a fit of road rage, you will be cleansed by the righteous fire of Islam! While this has nothing to do with the plot, it's certainly prophetic thematically, considering that Fury was scheduled to release in Sep 2001. There's also the fact that Rushdie makes the stylistic choice of inundating the book with pop culture references. This firmly puts the book down in pre-9/11 2001. While I would argue this might be a bad thing with other books, I think it works very well here. Fury tells the story of a New York with the twin towers still standing, but vulnerable to envy and rage nonetheless. This is the only reason the book is worth checking out.
Unfortunately, there's nothing in it to really recommend it as a story worth reading. Malik Solanka is a weak character to base a book on, and he's not at all sympathetic. His infidelities are brushed over, and his being painted as helpless in the face of a desirable woman is really creepy (especially since it sort of parallels where Rushdie himself was at the time of writing this). The plot dangles in several different places. There's a lot of noise, but not much worth listening to. The only (dubious) worth it has is as a keepsake from a seminal period of world history. 3 stars, grudgingly.
There are threads of plot amidst all the verbal diarrhea posing as FURY. But, they don't come together, and to be honest, I have no idea what they needed to be there for. Let's see. The main character is a philosopher called Malik Solanka, who doesn't do well academically and decides to become a dollmaker. The doll becomes bigger than its creator and while Malik appreciates the royalties pouring in, he's still overcome with rage and ends up holding up a knife over his sleeping wife and son. This gives him the excuse he needs to abandon them without so much as a note, and to run off to New York. In New York, he has a weird (but sexy) neighbor Mila who enacts her daddy issues with him as a surrogate. He dumps her as well for an impossibly beautiful (and sexy) denizen of Lilliput-Blefescu (which in the context of this book is real, but they seem to be of normal size), called Neela, who he wins from a best friend. But the best friend may or may not be involved in a secret BDSM club whose rich-fuck members may or may not have killed and scalped their slaves. There is another plot involving a fictional sci-fi universe called [I can't remember already], where a doll maker makes living dolls who take over their universe and a coup d'etat in (real in the context of the book) Lilliput-Blefescu who use the symbols of the sci-fi universe. None of this makes any sense whatsoever except Rushdie maintains that we are meant to be seeing FURY in all of the character's situations.
Well, it's bad. But it still works in a way as a curiosity piece. In Fury, Rushdie writes, the Furies hovered over New York and America. He speaks of how everything is America centered, and even the anti -Americans center their envy and their rage on America. He has a character speak in a fit of road rage, you will be cleansed by the righteous fire of Islam! While this has nothing to do with the plot, it's certainly prophetic thematically, considering that Fury was scheduled to release in Sep 2001. There's also the fact that Rushdie makes the stylistic choice of inundating the book with pop culture references. This firmly puts the book down in pre-9/11 2001. While I would argue this might be a bad thing with other books, I think it works very well here. Fury tells the story of a New York with the twin towers still standing, but vulnerable to envy and rage nonetheless. This is the only reason the book is worth checking out.
Unfortunately, there's nothing in it to really recommend it as a story worth reading. Malik Solanka is a weak character to base a book on, and he's not at all sympathetic. His infidelities are brushed over, and his being painted as helpless in the face of a desirable woman is really creepy (especially since it sort of parallels where Rushdie himself was at the time of writing this). The plot dangles in several different places. There's a lot of noise, but not much worth listening to. The only (dubious) worth it has is as a keepsake from a seminal period of world history. 3 stars, grudgingly.
own-might-read
July 6, 2008Everything I've heard about this one is terrible. That being said, I got it for $3.95 in first-edition hardback at a Flying J's of all places. I guess those truckers like to get their late Rushdie on while they're gassing up?
October 25, 2022
Tot op heden is Salman Rushdie (1947) de enige niet-Nederlandstalige schrijver geweest die op uitnodiging van Stichting Collectieve Propaganda van het Nederlandse Boek (CPNB) een boekenweekgeschenk schreef. Destijds was er kritiek op de keuze: afgezien van een paar lafhartige verwijzingen naar het Rijksmuseum en een voetbalwedstrijd van het Nederlands elftal (6-1 winst), die doen vermoeden dat CPNB ternauwernood nog aan een subsidievoorwaarde dacht, zie ik de meerwaarde van Woede (originele titel: Fury) voor de Nederlandse literatuur inderdaad niet in.
Het boek overtuigde me sowieso niet. Rushdie is werkelijk een groot schrijver, waarvan hij hier en daar akte geeft, maar in Woede neemt hij teveel hooi op de vork. Het verhaal gaat over de Brits-Indische Malik Solanka, een ‘ideeënhistoricus in ruste en heetgebakerd poppenmaker’ die in New York een celibatair en solitair bestaan leidt. Woede is in zekere zin een tijdbeeld van het prille begin van het millennium, nog vóór de aanslagen van 9/11, waarin het internet, reclame en merchandising in opkomst zijn. Rushdie zou Rushdie echter niet zijn als hij zijn kennis niet op het verhaal zou botvieren, dat inderdaad bol staat van de culturele referenties: van academische nostalgie tot riooljournalistiek, van thriller tot sciencefiction, van India tot de Griekse Oudheid, samengevoegd in verhaallijnen over poppen, moorden, oude mannen met huidhonger en natuurlijk woede.
Het boek overtuigde me sowieso niet. Rushdie is werkelijk een groot schrijver, waarvan hij hier en daar akte geeft, maar in Woede neemt hij teveel hooi op de vork. Het verhaal gaat over de Brits-Indische Malik Solanka, een ‘ideeënhistoricus in ruste en heetgebakerd poppenmaker’ die in New York een celibatair en solitair bestaan leidt. Woede is in zekere zin een tijdbeeld van het prille begin van het millennium, nog vóór de aanslagen van 9/11, waarin het internet, reclame en merchandising in opkomst zijn. Rushdie zou Rushdie echter niet zijn als hij zijn kennis niet op het verhaal zou botvieren, dat inderdaad bol staat van de culturele referenties: van academische nostalgie tot riooljournalistiek, van thriller tot sciencefiction, van India tot de Griekse Oudheid, samengevoegd in verhaallijnen over poppen, moorden, oude mannen met huidhonger en natuurlijk woede.
Hoe had hij zich ooit kunnen verbeelden dat hij helemaal vanzelf gered zou worden door deze geldgekke burcht, dit Gotham City waarin Jokers en Penguins de beest uithingen zonder een Batman (of zelfs een Robin) om hun plannetjes te dwarsbomen, dit Metropolis van kryptoniet waarin geen Superman een voet durfde te zetten, waar overvloed werd aangezien voor rijkdom, en het genot van bezit voor geluk, waar mensen zulke gepolijste levens leidden dat de grote, grove waarheden van het rauwe bestaan waren weggepoetst en gladgewreven, en waarin de zielen van de mensen al zo lang zo ver uiteen waren gedreven dat ze nog maar nauwelijks wisten hoe ze elkaar konden raken; deze stad met zijn legendarische elektriciteit, waarmee de elektrische hekken werden gevoed die waren opgericht tussen mannen en mannen, en ook tussen mannen en vrouwen? Rome ging niet ten onder omdat de legers verzwakt waren maar omdat de Romeinen vergaten wat het betekende Romein te zijn.Het niveau van het boek schommelt; soms deed het me denken aan Midnight's Children of Quichot , soms echter ook aan het werk van schrijvers van een lager niveau, getuige ook een aantal weinig geïnspireerde citaten:
De matige zomer was van de ene op de andere dag verdwenen, als een geflopte Broadway-show.
Hij had een moeder nodig, geen waterleidingbedrijf zoals op het Monopoly-bord.Voorlopig heb ik mijn dosis Rushdie wel weer even gehad.
June 7, 2012
The overwhelming feeling after reading this book is of an immense waste - of the reader's time, of the writer's undoubted talent and of the multitude of pages on which its printed, which could have been put to much better use. Right from the start, it seems like a pointless book. This feeling remains & intensifies throughout the book and at the end, is confirmed beyond doubt.
The story is about a man in the grip of fury (the reason for which we aren't given until almost the end, and that reason, to me at least, is not convincing enough). Anyway, he has become a threat to those he loves and so just takes off to another continent (without so much as a goodbye to his wife and son), where he tries to undo his old self, hoping that whatever is wrong with him will be destroyed along with his old identity. The book chronicles his efforts to defeat his furies with the help of the people he encounters.
So, not a wholly stupid plot. What makes it bad is the unbelievably bad writing. Sometimes its hard to believe this is the same guy who wrote 'The Moor's Last Sigh'. There is no continuing thread through the story. It frequently runs off on tangents and doesn't bother to rejoin the main theme. Rushdie's books usually need a lot of patience and I've become quite patient reading his books, waiting for the point to appear out of the fog of fancy words and tedious abstractions; but with this book it was a hopeless exercise because there is no point to it.
Even more unforgivable than the bad writing is the fact that the story seems forced, somehow. As if the writer's publishers told him to come up with something quickly and he started writing about the first thing that came to his mind without bothering about plots, themes, coherence and all the other things that make a decent book, trusting his reputation to ensure it would be accepted, even acclaimed. And sadly, it worked. Reading the reviews, you'd think this was a masterpiece. When in actual fact, it could be the worst book Rushdie has ever written ('Shame' was depressing, but at least it was well-written). This is just an ego-trip of sorts, most evident by the resemblance of the protagonist to the author himself, and the tiring fact that rather than battling his furies, he seems to be spending too much time encountering stunningly beautiful women with all of whom he has his way.
In the end I'm left salvaging what little good I can from this disaster of a book. The only thing I come up with is this line - 'Do not contemplate what lies beyond failure while you are still trying to succeed!'
Not so much a bad book, as an unnecessary one!
The story is about a man in the grip of fury (the reason for which we aren't given until almost the end, and that reason, to me at least, is not convincing enough). Anyway, he has become a threat to those he loves and so just takes off to another continent (without so much as a goodbye to his wife and son), where he tries to undo his old self, hoping that whatever is wrong with him will be destroyed along with his old identity. The book chronicles his efforts to defeat his furies with the help of the people he encounters.
So, not a wholly stupid plot. What makes it bad is the unbelievably bad writing. Sometimes its hard to believe this is the same guy who wrote 'The Moor's Last Sigh'. There is no continuing thread through the story. It frequently runs off on tangents and doesn't bother to rejoin the main theme. Rushdie's books usually need a lot of patience and I've become quite patient reading his books, waiting for the point to appear out of the fog of fancy words and tedious abstractions; but with this book it was a hopeless exercise because there is no point to it.
Even more unforgivable than the bad writing is the fact that the story seems forced, somehow. As if the writer's publishers told him to come up with something quickly and he started writing about the first thing that came to his mind without bothering about plots, themes, coherence and all the other things that make a decent book, trusting his reputation to ensure it would be accepted, even acclaimed. And sadly, it worked. Reading the reviews, you'd think this was a masterpiece. When in actual fact, it could be the worst book Rushdie has ever written ('Shame' was depressing, but at least it was well-written). This is just an ego-trip of sorts, most evident by the resemblance of the protagonist to the author himself, and the tiring fact that rather than battling his furies, he seems to be spending too much time encountering stunningly beautiful women with all of whom he has his way.
In the end I'm left salvaging what little good I can from this disaster of a book. The only thing I come up with is this line - 'Do not contemplate what lies beyond failure while you are still trying to succeed!'
Not so much a bad book, as an unnecessary one!
February 13, 2015
I think I'd honestly rate different parts of this book differently, if that would make any sense. It takes a while to explain enough to get things going, and wanders off in the weeds toward the end a bit (in my view). There's some good stuff in here, but the book as a whole didn't function as a complete machine for me. There was a lot I liked, but I've liked other things Rushdie has done more.
April 30, 2023
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!”
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!”
July 16, 2012
Glancing at the other reviews here that say this is one of Rushdie's worst books, I seem to be in the minority. I actually liked this, whereas the only other book I've read by Salman Rushdie – Midnight's Children – I pretty much hated.
Fury tells the story of Malik Solanka, a successful dollmaker who stepped out on his family one night and left them behind in London as he went to escape his inner demons in New York City. As Rushdie writes:
"He had come to America as so many before him to receive the benison of being Ellis Islanded, of starting over. Give me a name, America, make of me a Buzz or Chip or Spike. Bathe me in amnesia and clothe me in your powerful unknowing. Enlist me in your J. Crew and hand me my mouse ears!"
Solanka is an angry, mostly unlikable man with a tortured past. As he makes his new way in America, his backstory slowly unfolds to reveal that he had tremendous success followed by bitter disappointment, with his invention of the doll Little Brain, that he's had two unhappy marriages and that he suffered abuse at the hands of his stepfather while a child in India. He's described as a rather unattractive man in his 50s, but yet he has a somewhat unbelievable ability to attract beautiful women. It's hard not to imagine that Rushdie wrote Solanka in his own image. As Solanka story unfolds, along the way there are murders of socialites and a coup in the fictional Lilliput-Blefuscu that ultimately comes to engulf Solanka and his lover Neela.
The story in and of itself was quite interesting, but what I liked best about Fury was its description of pre-9/11 America as seemingly wealthy and carefree, but with a weakness and fragility just beneath the surface. Rushdie effectively captured the late 90s/early 00s boom that was due to burst in so many ways just a few short years later.
"Might this new Rome actually be more provincial than its provinces; might these new Romans have forgotten what and how to value, or had they never known? Were all empires so undeserving, or was this one particularly crass? ... O Dream-America, was civilization's quest to end in obesity and trivia, at Roy Rogers and Planet Hollywood, in USA Today and on E!; or in million-dollar-game-show greed or fly-on-the-wall voyeurism; or in the eternal confessional booth of Ricki and Oprah and Jerry, whose guests murdered each other after the show ... Who paved Paradise and put up a parking lot? ... Yes, it had seduced him, America; yes, its brilliance aroused him, and its vast potency too, and he was compromised by this seduction ... America was the world's playing field, its rule book, umpire, and ball."
Also prescient was Rushdie's circa-2000 description of the Internet and its life-changing promise:
"Everything existed at once. This was, Solanka realized, and exact mirror of the divine experience of time. Until the advent of hyperlinks, only God had been able to see simultaneously into past, present, and future alike; human beings were imprisoned in the calendar of their days. Now, however, such omniscience was available to all, at the merest click of the mouse."
With thought-provoking ruminations like these interspersed into an engaging plot, Fury was a very solid read.
Fury tells the story of Malik Solanka, a successful dollmaker who stepped out on his family one night and left them behind in London as he went to escape his inner demons in New York City. As Rushdie writes:
"He had come to America as so many before him to receive the benison of being Ellis Islanded, of starting over. Give me a name, America, make of me a Buzz or Chip or Spike. Bathe me in amnesia and clothe me in your powerful unknowing. Enlist me in your J. Crew and hand me my mouse ears!"
Solanka is an angry, mostly unlikable man with a tortured past. As he makes his new way in America, his backstory slowly unfolds to reveal that he had tremendous success followed by bitter disappointment, with his invention of the doll Little Brain, that he's had two unhappy marriages and that he suffered abuse at the hands of his stepfather while a child in India. He's described as a rather unattractive man in his 50s, but yet he has a somewhat unbelievable ability to attract beautiful women. It's hard not to imagine that Rushdie wrote Solanka in his own image. As Solanka story unfolds, along the way there are murders of socialites and a coup in the fictional Lilliput-Blefuscu that ultimately comes to engulf Solanka and his lover Neela.
The story in and of itself was quite interesting, but what I liked best about Fury was its description of pre-9/11 America as seemingly wealthy and carefree, but with a weakness and fragility just beneath the surface. Rushdie effectively captured the late 90s/early 00s boom that was due to burst in so many ways just a few short years later.
"Might this new Rome actually be more provincial than its provinces; might these new Romans have forgotten what and how to value, or had they never known? Were all empires so undeserving, or was this one particularly crass? ... O Dream-America, was civilization's quest to end in obesity and trivia, at Roy Rogers and Planet Hollywood, in USA Today and on E!; or in million-dollar-game-show greed or fly-on-the-wall voyeurism; or in the eternal confessional booth of Ricki and Oprah and Jerry, whose guests murdered each other after the show ... Who paved Paradise and put up a parking lot? ... Yes, it had seduced him, America; yes, its brilliance aroused him, and its vast potency too, and he was compromised by this seduction ... America was the world's playing field, its rule book, umpire, and ball."
Also prescient was Rushdie's circa-2000 description of the Internet and its life-changing promise:
"Everything existed at once. This was, Solanka realized, and exact mirror of the divine experience of time. Until the advent of hyperlinks, only God had been able to see simultaneously into past, present, and future alike; human beings were imprisoned in the calendar of their days. Now, however, such omniscience was available to all, at the merest click of the mouse."
With thought-provoking ruminations like these interspersed into an engaging plot, Fury was a very solid read.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
May 13, 2018
For me, Rushdie is an author that requires my full attention. His writing is complex but beautiful. This book is no different. I would recommend it to anyone who has not previously read a Rushdie as it introduces you to the author without being as intimidating as one of his other, larger, novels. Definately a good read.
July 4, 2023
3.5 stars. An imaginative, humorous, sometimes absurdist, thought provoking, eventful novel about Dr Solanka, a 55 year old Indian man, married with wife and a three year old son, living in England. One evening he has a rage that causes him to stand with a knife over the sleeping bodies of his wife and son, to scream out in public, and anger blackouts, which cause him to question his sanity. He is angry with the human condition and the world in general. Suddenly he takes a flight to New York, leaving his wife and son, with no thought of returning to them.
In New York Dr. Solanka becomes a successful creator of his mythical little Brain doll, and then hi tech chronicles of the Puppet Kings. Both creations are successfully marketed.
There are three murders of young women that Dr. Solanka worries about. Could he, in his fury, have been involved in their murders? Dr. Solanka meets and falls in love with Neela, a beautiful, stunning young independent woman.
A novel rich in linguistic skill and wordplay that Rushdie fans should find an entertaining reading experience.
This book was first published in 2001.
In New York Dr. Solanka becomes a successful creator of his mythical little Brain doll, and then hi tech chronicles of the Puppet Kings. Both creations are successfully marketed.
There are three murders of young women that Dr. Solanka worries about. Could he, in his fury, have been involved in their murders? Dr. Solanka meets and falls in love with Neela, a beautiful, stunning young independent woman.
A novel rich in linguistic skill and wordplay that Rushdie fans should find an entertaining reading experience.
This book was first published in 2001.
September 18, 2023
I really hated this book. I've read Midnight's Children in the past and remember liking it (though it was in middle school so perhaps I should re-read) but I could not get behind this book. I understand that the appeal of Rushdie is his controversial topics, with him saying "What is freedom of expression? Without the freedom to offend, it ceases to exist." And I get that. But personally, I cannot understand what a person is supposed to gain from a book about an aging man-child who throws tantrums and is a sexual predator. His weird relationship with Mila is described as a father/daughter dynamic, and not two sentences later they're almost having sex. The descriptions of women in general feel like Murakami in the worst possible way. The main character is supposed to be this tortured anti-hero but he’s just a creep with anger issues.
May 16, 2008
I read this a while back, and I did not love it the way I have loved Rushdie's other work. Perhaps it's brilliant, but I just don't get it.
First, there was the autobiography of a dirty middle-aged man aspect. It turns out much of the book was semi-factual, and Rushdie really did leave his loyal wife who stuck by him through his exile and hiding for a hot young thing (with a scar on her arm - sheesh, we're pushing "semi-autobiographical" here). Well, good for you, but don't act like you're somehow different than ALL OTHER MIDDLE-AGED MEN. Or like this book is somehow different than ALL THE OTHER SAGAS OF MIDDLE-AGED MALE BETRAYAL. Ahem.
All of the talk of "fury" is supposed to symbolize some kind of postmodern anomie, but it reads like the usual middle-aged-male-discontent to me. Eventually, the main character's overwhelming fury is sated by what ... divorce and a hot young thing? Puleeeez. That's not postmodern anomie.
And then there was the rapsodizing about the internet boom/bubble, which was just tedious, and so, like, 2000.
The NYC references were cool, and it wasn't a boring book - I wanted to know what happened. But I'm not a big fan.
I am, generally, a Rushdie fan, however. Midnight's Children is still blowing my mind, ten years later. Is that era over now? The critics don't seem to think so, but I wonder.
First, there was the autobiography of a dirty middle-aged man aspect. It turns out much of the book was semi-factual, and Rushdie really did leave his loyal wife who stuck by him through his exile and hiding for a hot young thing (with a scar on her arm - sheesh, we're pushing "semi-autobiographical" here). Well, good for you, but don't act like you're somehow different than ALL OTHER MIDDLE-AGED MEN. Or like this book is somehow different than ALL THE OTHER SAGAS OF MIDDLE-AGED MALE BETRAYAL. Ahem.
All of the talk of "fury" is supposed to symbolize some kind of postmodern anomie, but it reads like the usual middle-aged-male-discontent to me. Eventually, the main character's overwhelming fury is sated by what ... divorce and a hot young thing? Puleeeez. That's not postmodern anomie.
And then there was the rapsodizing about the internet boom/bubble, which was just tedious, and so, like, 2000.
The NYC references were cool, and it wasn't a boring book - I wanted to know what happened. But I'm not a big fan.
I am, generally, a Rushdie fan, however. Midnight's Children is still blowing my mind, ten years later. Is that era over now? The critics don't seem to think so, but I wonder.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 674 reviews