The Satanic Verses – Salman Rushdie

So, two blokes, Indian actors, not friends but acquaintances, rivals maybe, are in a hi-jacked aeroplane over the English Channel. The terrorist bomb is exploded, the plane breaks up, and the passengers are scattered to the winds to perish.

But not these two. Gibreel Farishta and Saladin Chamcha fall to earth on the shores of the Channel, landing gently enough to survive, though changed. Gibreel seems to have become an angel with a halo, while Saladin soon begins to show satanic signs, growing horns, hooves, and a tail.

Some inevitably odd adventures ensue in the English countryside and then in London. The initial physical changes disappear but psychological scars remain. More things happen in London, involving Gibreel, Saladin, various women of their acquaintance, and names and faces from the Indian film industry.

Periodically, the narrative switches to another place, another time. Is it Gibreel’s vision, memory, or imagination? Who knows! But it seems to be a parody (disrespectful for some, as events subsequent to publication testify) of the early history of the Islamic religion.

Another interlude in the narrative and location introduces a young woman, dressed in butterflies, leading a pilgrimage from India to Mecca that will involve passage, on foot, across the Arabian Sea. It was unclear to me how this episode fits in with things.

And so it goes on to a reckoning of some sort involving Saladin Chamcha and his estranged father.

Okay, it is magic realism, but I have three problems. One, in general, telling what is real and what is magic. Two, in this book, my relative ignorance of Islam and Indian culture and politics, probably meant there were satirical references that failed register. Three, the prose is dense, and the sentence construction is often unconventional or experimental, making it difficult to follow at times. Reading should not be such hard work.

This was read as part of my Book-et List reading journey – as a book I felt I ought to read. If you haven’t read it yet, my advice is don’t bother. After 550 pages I’m none the wiser as to its status as either literary genius or blasphemous tripe.