Amalia Sanchez’s Reviews > Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights > Status Update

Can Rushdie ever write a novel that's not an ode to his creepy love for teenage girls? Or without indulging the narcissistic fantasy in which those teenage girls insatiably ache for characters who [shock!] are thinly veiled versions of the author himself? I mean... an old dude surnamed Rushd who catches the undying affection of a tender young thing because his mind is just too brilliant not to adore? Gross, dude.