The Satanic Verses

Rushdie is dense; and, I discovered, if you don't know enough about South Indian culture (traditional and pop), he can be impossibly obtuse.

Thankfully, I read Satanic Verses after binging on Amitabh Bachchan movies; so Gibreel Farishta, apparently modeled on early 80s Bachchan, was immediately familiar. The Hindi puns; the digs at Indira Gandhi; etc. - all became clear(er, at least).

Anyway: this is one of those Big Famous magic(al) realist novels, and rightly so. Vast, richly imagined and, best of all, funny. My favorite Rushdie.

Dense language throughout doesn't stop this from being very entertaining. I am a sucker for dreams and multiple plot lines across time so this stuck all the right compositional chords. I can see how it offended folks. I pity Rushdie as he doesn't come across as a friend of God, but I respect him for writing in terror at even a peaceful, foreseen death (feels almost confessional).

Tappade lusten att läsa färdigt när jag kommit 270 sidor in och fortfarande inte var intresserad

It's not about religion, it's about immigration...

I didn't plan on reading this book before reading Rushdie's Midnight's children, but oh well, here I am for a reason that majority of people already know. This book started with a silly, comical tone but it was laced with satire and criticism at the core. sometimes the story is incomprehensible in terms of what's actually happening in the book and what's happening in the dream but If I look past some of these unnecessary whining and confusing storylines, the book itself has many qualities of being a revolutionary book.

For example the reimaginations of the origin of Islam and blending it with relevant situations of today was done extremely well. In the other dreamscapes rebirth of Ayesha in a different situation and how she ends up being a symbol of metamorphosis and change(I am not sure how accurate my analysis is though, so don't come at me) Now If I talk about our two protagonists here then I want to say that The contradictory ending of them !!! Gibreel turned to an angle at first and his luck was pretty good but his life became so much pain after his repeated negative actions toward people who are close to him. On the other hand, Saladin had a tough time after becoming a supposed devil but his life turned out to be much better than before even though I can't say that he was any better than Gibreel tbh but IMO it so nothing can be (at least something which has independent consciousness) on the edge of any extreme pole, we all have angle and demon qualities in us.All these aside I love how He incorporated immigration identity in some of the really catalytic events like the cafe fire

all that being said I do think people who would want to read this for enjoyment purposes only would be disappointed cause the book is often draggy and if you are not into a religious allegory that much you would find most of the book meddlesome and unreadable but if you do like allegory and you want to broaden your horizon, you sould give it a try.

3.5 stars out of 5

I could not finish it. Maybe I will try again one day but I feel no pull to continue reading. I might just not “get it,” but it just feels like there's so much background information with not much plot and I'm already on part 3. I was drawn to it because of the controversy, but I'm pulling out because I'm bored and want to enjoy reading/listening to an audio book.

I only rated it low because of personal preference. I can certainly see why it's a book within the canon. I don't love magical realism, and I did not know many of the references, so I spent a good deal of time researching people and terms. I recommend this book, but it's time consuming if you want to really be engaged with the style, and the references and their importance.

I found this book enchanting, deep, and insightful in socio-political issues. The vast ground he covers in subject matter, culture and geography are really admirable.
Given the track record of religious fanatics, it is only natural that they will want him to be killed. Although I think, the matter escalated quickly not because he dared to depict a prophet as a human being but because he created a character very much like Ayatollah.

Pretty sure this is part of the rarefied pantheon of books joining the likes of Infinite Jest and A Brief History of Time as one of the most bought, least finished books of all time. It starts out strong with an almost singsong, Indian lilt and cadence as Gibreel and Saladin hurtle to earth - interestingly nonplussed by the whole affair. But then its dream sequences and odd digressions left me scratching my head - I just couldn't get my footing.

Rushdie clearly is an accomplished writer. Open the book to any page and the writing often dazzles and he's working here, juggling ideas and poking at concepts. Maybe it's my own expectations coming into the book - wondering what could be so damning as to warrant a fatwa against his life. But it never really gelled and for all the furor it engendered all it managed to elicit from me was mild indifference. If it wasn't part of a book club read I doubt if I would have finished it.

Labai stipri knyga, kuri tapo žinoma dėl savo islamiško teksto kvescionavimo ir, kaip žmonės teigia, iškreipimo, tačiau iš tiesų yra knyga apie tapatybę, savęs ieškojimą tarpasmeninius santykius.

Stipriausia knygos dalis yra labai gerai išvystyti personažai. Čia nėra gerų ir blogų žmonių, čia yra žmonės, kurie priima gerus arba blogus sprendimus ir jų sprendimai yra gerai motyvuoti.

Knyga, nors ir turi pagrindinį siužetą, yra kupina intarpų iš įvairių žmonių gyvenimų, patalpintų įvairiose vietose ir epochose, kurių pagrindinės yra mūsų laikų Indija ir Jungtinė Karalystė.

Man aišku labai patiko islamo kvescionavimas. Tačiau knyga nėra anti islamiška. Islamas parodomas iš skirtingų perspektyvų, kiek kultūriškai tiek istoriškai. Pagrindinė jo paskirtis knygoje yra padėti apibrėžti kai kurių personažų tapatybės klausimą kartu siejant islamą su platesniu kultūriniu kontekstu.

Man liūdna, kad autorius gavo šities grasinimų susidoroti, šitiek neapykantos. 1989 vasario 14 tuometinis Irano ajatola Ruhollah Khomeini paskelbė Rushdie fatwą, kviesdamas žmones nužudyti autorių už šią knygą. Kai autorius buvo paklaustas, ką manantis paie visą šią situaciją, jis atsakė “I wish I had written a more critical book.”

Duodu 4 žvaigždes, o ne 5, nes visgi buvo vietų bei naratyvinių pasirinkimų, kurie man patiko mažiau ar išvis nepatiko. Tačiau mėgautis knyga jie vis vien nesutrukdė.

Ik houd van de taal van Salman Rushdie, van tussen Engeland en Indië.

Zeker, 't is een uitslover, en zeker, hij doet soms té veel zijn best, en zeker, 't is in het echt ongetwijfeld geen gemakkelijke mens, maar dat maakt mij niet uit.

Saladin Chamcha is een Indische acteur die vooral zijn roots achter zich wil laten. Hij idoliseert Engeland en Engels zijn, en een van zijn grote frustraties is dat hij wegens zijn uiterlijk nooit echt Engels kan zijn op toneel of film. Alleen met zijn stem kan hij om het even wie zijn: hij is een gevierd stemacteur — de stem van ontelbare reclamespots, van diepvrieserwtjes en van pizza. En ja, het ligt er nogal dik op: zijn sterrol is als een alien in een tekenfilm. Buitenstaander, hellow.

Gibreel Farishta is een Indische acteur die gevierd en geïdoliseerd wordt in Indië. Hij speelt er godheid na godheid in blockbuster na Bollywood-blockbuster.

In eht begin van het boek bevinden ze zich samen in een vliegtuig dat gekaapt wordt, en dat uiteindelijk ontploft boven het Kanaal. Ze vallen samen naar beneden maar worden op de één of andere manier miraculeus gered; Chamcha wordt een duivel (compleet met hoornen en staart), Farishta wordt een engel (compleet met halo).

Hoezee! 't Is magisch realisme! Een mens weet niet wat echt is en wat niet!

Gibreel had, nog voor de ontploffing, voortdurend dromen waar hij zichzelf als de engel Gabriël ziet, en dat wordt nu alleen maar erger. (Magisch realisme allemaal goed en wel, maar het is redelijk duidelijk dat Gibreel Farishta mentaal niet in orde is.) Zijn dromen komen in een reeks sub-plots terug, die op verschillende manieren parallel lopen met de raamvertelling: het verhaal van Mohammed (‘Mahound' in het boek) en hoe de Islam ontstond en de Koran geschreven werd, een vignet over een nauwelijks verholen Ayatollah Khomeini, een verhaal over een fanatisch Indisch moslimmeisje dat haar hele dorp op sleeptouw neemt in een pelgrimstocht naar Mekka.

Alledrie personages die zeggen geïnspireerd te zijn door Gabriël, maar Gibreel-als-Gabriël beseft dat hij het niet echt is die inpireert, en dat hij gevangen zit in het (droom)verhaal.

Ah well. Duizend dingen te zeggen over het boek, natuurlijk: wat het zegt over geloof, over wat thuis is, over liefde, familie, obsessie. Over de chutneyficatie van cultuur, het unieke perspectief van migrant. En postmodernisme en intertextualiteit en bla die bla.

Een mens kan het boek lezen met een notablok ernaast en notities nemen en lezen en herlezen. Een mens kan het ook gewoon lezen als een spannend boek vol humor en ontroering.

Zeer aangeraden.

Well I can see why Muslims were pissed as shit about this book, especially since, to paraphrase a line in the book, followers of Mohammad cannot stand wit, or insults.

I'm so glad this is over.

One of the most difficult books I have ever read. I had to look up a study guide upon finishing it, and I wished I had taken notes while reading. That is not to say that it's not enjoyable - Salman Rushdie is an exceptional author, and very funny to boot.

I'd been meaning to read the Satanic Bible for a long time now, and now that I've finally gotten around to it... I kid. This book isn't the Satanic anything, but it is strange. At times while reading it I'd try to imagine how Rushdie came up with it. I can't. His life, his thought process are so foreign to me as to be almost other-worldly. I've never read anything like it. It's magical realism, but it really has little in common with the Latin American variety of the genre. The plot is fairly straightforward, but it is intertwined with so many strange dreams, transformations, sub-plots, backgrounds and most oddly, detailed religious and pseudo-religious events, rites, superstitions and metaphors that it is hard to imagine it all coming from the mind of one man. Every time I looked, i could see, or imagine I saw, symbolism, metaphor, literary allusions and philosophy. It felt like a book that I could read over and over without ever finishing it. In a way, it's strange. I can't tell if it is a work of genius that isn't as acclaimed as it deserves, or if it's the ramblings of a man who is at least a little deranged. It eludes easy categorization.

Woven into a very real and contemporary story of two men's experiences with emigration to England is their parallel experience of possible conversion in to an arch-angel, complete with halo, and a devil, complete with horns and cloven hooves. Sometimes their supernatural transformations are almost absent from the story. There are the expected clash of cultures, family drama, relationships begun and ended and at times, the story feels normal. Then there are long dream chapters of villagers led by a teenaged girl clothed in butterflies on a pilgrimage to Mecca. The arch-angel blazing down pedestrians with fiery breath of righteous indignation. The giant goat-devil who becomes physically and culturally larger than life, both outgrowing his attic home and sparking a popular movement. The juxtaposition is both jarring and enchanting. It makes it easy to get pulled into the story, despite being unfamiliar with almost everything in it and its non-negligable length.

A couple examples of the writing:

...now whenever a trunk was opened, a batch of wings would fly out of it like Pandora's imps, changing colour as they rose; there were butterflies under the closed lids of the thunderboxes in the toilets of Peristan, and inside every wardrobe, and between the pages of books. When you awoke you found the butterflies sleeping on your cheeks.

He stands motionless while small groups of residents rush past in different directions. Some (not all) are carrying weapons. Clubs, bottles, knives. All of the groups contain white youngsters as well as black. He raises his trumpet to his lips and begins to play.

Little buds of flame spring up on the concrete, fuelled by the discarded heaps of possessions and dreams. There is a little, rotting pile of envy: it burns greenly in the night. The fires are every colour of the rainbow, and not all of them need fuel. He blows the little fire-flowers out of his horn and they dance upon the concrete, needing neither combustible materials nor roots. Here, a pink one! There, what would be nice?, I know: a silver rose. And now the buds are blossoming into bushes, they are climbing like creepers up the sides of the towers, they reach out towards their neighbours, forming hedges of multicoloured flame. It is like watching a luminous garden, its growth accelerated many thousands of times, a garden blossoming, flourishing, becoming overgrown, tangled, becoming impenetrable, a garden of dense intertwined chimeras, rivalling in its own incandescent fashion the thornwood that sprang up around the palace of the sleeping beauty in another fairy-tale, long ago.

Madcap and full of inexplicable happenings and spiritual quasi-revelation in a style reminiscent of Tom Robbins, but on the whole underwhelming.

I really wish I had read this book in school, or at least that I had an annotated edition. I feel like I was definitely missing out on some shit. But I'm glad I read it; Rushdie's prose is wonderful and I'm still thinking about the book after finishing it. Plus any book that earns the author a death sentence deserves to be read by me. I'd definitely like to revisit it again armed with some supplemental material.