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It's hard to listen
to a man who spends his nights hobnobbing with the literati at Elaine's
complain about anything. What kind of fury do you have when you travel
everywhere in a limo? Really, how detached can you be? Just to prove
this point, Rushdie talks about the common occurence of gentlemen
walking the streets of New York in Panama hats. Seriously, when's
the last time you saw anyone but the bad guy from Romancing the
Stone wear one of those? His main character, Malik Solanka, continues
to rage against society and the world for no other reason than his
inability to control his own emotions. Then, of course, the world's
most beautiful woman falls in love with him, and, of course, meets
with tragedy. There's some confusing civil war in a fake country somewhere
near India, an Internet venture that makes absolutely no sense, yet
nets his main character tons of dough (it has to do with puppets...
don't ask) and some other unrealistic situations that involve beautiful
young women throwing themselves at Rushdie's main character--a character
that is embarrassingly supposed to represent Rushdie himself. The
whole book is incredibly self-indulgent and not well thought out.
It's as though Rushdie had a bunch of half-finished stories in the
hopper that he decided to sew together to make something that sounds
more like a disjointed manifesto than an actual novel.
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