Salman Rushdie knows language. His sentences twist and drip with images and meanings so thick you can almost smell them. His plots ravel into balls and come apart like trick knots in a string.
I am very glad I read, The Moor’s Last Sigh.
But I can’t imagine wanting to read another book by him because, like many other unfortunate and brilliant writers, Mr. Rushdie is a genius, but somewhat of a smart-aleck. He reminded me of Bernard Shaw, and Sinclair Lewis—writers who amaze you with their wordplay but leave you with a sneer.
He’s funny, but always at someone’s expense. He’s witty, but only in a cutting way.
Maybe that’s it: he makes jokes and cuts down things of beauty, (Just because you don’t believe something doesn’t mean it has no beauty.) and I left feeling he didn’t even like his own characters very much. He takes on huge issues, but ends up simply laughing at the people who think the issues are huge.
Maybe his other books are different, but I don’t feel a strong desire to find out.
