by Salman Rushdie
Somehow, sometime, I became allergic to the term "family saga" and avoided books labeled as such. I don't know why. The term brings to mind farmhouses and domesticity, kids and family secrets, struggles that are often first world problems I couldn't care less about. But, like stories about Manhattan...
Utterly, eye-crossingly, boring. I got 100 pages in, and still all we've done is talked about the boring lives of his privileged mother, grand-parents and great-grand-parents.
This is another hard book to rate and review. Rushdie is a smart, ingenious and purposeful writer. Everything is cleverly thought out and his use of language is magical. He bends the words with ease and brings out richer meanings. The plot is an original story that unfolds as a series of riddles...
There is something about the way Rushdie tells story that just captures me. His diction, wordplay, the whole feeling of exuberance and playfulness. A written Bollywood. Something I feel now is lacking in his newer books.
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