Even Rushdie's lauded language can't get him out of the stink-pit h...more
There are threads of plot amidst all the verbal diarrhea posing as FURY. But, they don't come together, and to be honest, I have no idea what they needed to be there for. Let's see. The main character is a philosopher called Malik Solanka, who doesn't do we...more
This book is about a cambridge-educated professor who has a messed up childhood and becomes a creator of alternate worlds in his bid to live a better life. His creation becomes wildly popular and lucrative. But in its popularity, he loses control of his creation which combined with his earlier childhood experiences creates a seething fury within him. This latent fury betrays his external successes and echoes t...more
First, there was the autobiography of a dirty middle-aged man aspect. It turns out much of the book was semi-factual, and Rushdie really did leave his loyal wife who stuck by him through his exile and hiding for a hot young thing (with a scar on her arm - sheesh, we're pushing "semi-autobiographical" here). Well, good for you, but don't act like you're someho...more
It is unforgivably wallowing and self-indulgent. Apparently semi-autobiographical, Rushdie immerses himself and his readers in a dark, chaotic, vomitous simulacrum of a life – a depiction of his furies.
It is so overblown with allusions to Greek and Roman mythology, direct borrowings from Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, convoluted and meandering plot lines, boring and lengthy developments of unnecessary secondary characters–...more
This was my first Rushdie novel and my hopes where pretty high for the first 50 pages, before I realized the novel was in an un-salvageable tailspin.
Malik Solonka is a professor and notable dollmaker who one day finds himself standing over his wife and son with a knife while they slept peacefully. Realizing that the fits of Fury that come over him are a threat to others. He flees to America, without so much as a note or a goodbye.
There he spends a good 100 pages not doing much of anything e...more
I didn't have any atta...more
The story is about a man in the grip of fury (the reason for which we aren't given until almost the end, and that reas...more
Sure the outward storyline flows smoothly and unpredicatably, bouncing the reader through neat unexpected events and witty commentary, but for all its quick cadence an...more
I find, that you must come to each individual work with a new heart, and keep your mind open, irrelevant of the author's past works. "Midnight's Children," and "The Satanic Verses," are easily comparable to this since they are all Rushdie's works. But an authors abilities are always changing, here, in Fury, he has written something new, and with a new voice (To me, the voice feels different anyways), so come to it as something new. Not like you're ex...more
Rushdie's prose is very intelligent; actually, it's academically pretentious throughout, which is challenging to read and disengaging but in all honesty, fun to encounter. It's just that the academic tone really pulls the reader well out of caring for the characters and situations. The first chapter is extremely clever and overtly academic. After this, the...more
If time does not allow you to read Salman Rushdie's 2001 novel, Fury, just watch Edward Norton's five-minute bathroom mirror rant from Spike Lee's 25th Hour.
Rushdie pads his own diatribe of everything he hates about New York and America with reflections on creativity and destruction, repression and Cambridge, pop culture, classics, race, sex and Disney's Robin Hood, web design, Units, and plenty of dolls and puppet kings.
Potted plot: well-to-do middle-aged guy, tired of his wife, legs it over to...more
The next 260 pages serve to explain many of these words. Malik the irascible, easily driven to fury by the materialist soullessness that he sees in the golden age, encapsulated by New York City at the turn of...more
I liked the protagonist, Malik Solanka, but every other character, especially the two female leads, came off as a sloppy caricature without any real depth or inner life. Anything involving Mila Milo and her oh-so-amazi...more
Salman Rushdie's latest novel is like a mine in which there are a few wonderful gems, but you have to dig through a lot of other stuff to get to them. This is, for example, yet another novel about an alienated middle-aged male intellectual and his sexual obsessions. That's a vein that surely has been played out by now -- wasn't that Philip Roth we met on the way into this mine?
Rushdie's 55-year-old protagonist, Malik Solanka, is summering in a funk in New York City. His wife and 3-year-old son...more
I have to say my hopes weren't high for this book - the Rushdie I've read has generally left me a little baffled and more than a little bored. Fury at least kept me interested, though his overstatement of points in highl...more
It's said to be semi-autobiographical, set in New York in recent years. The main character is a man named Malik who is tortured b...more
I arrived in the us at about the same time as Solanka does in this story and while my reasons and circumstances were very different I found that the book captured much of the confusion and alienation I felt...more
My first brush with Rushdie proved to be, frankly, uneventful (perhaps like my experience with Coetzee’s “Disgrace”, sorta). He writes of this “fury, born of long injustice, beside which his own unpredictable temper was a thing of pathetic insignificance, the indulgence, perhaps, of a privileged individual with too much self-interest.” This is what happens when a man accumulates too much wealth having ideas which blow up to become global phenomenons—hopefully not an...more
His fourth novel, The Satanic Verses, led to protests from Muslims in several coun...more
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which no Superman dared set foot, where wealth was mistaken for riches and the joy of possession for happiness, where people lived such polished lives that the great rough truths of raw existence had been rubbed and buffed away, and in which human souls had wandered so separately for so long that they barely remembered how to touch; this city whose fabled electricity powered the electric fences that were being erected between men and men, and men and women, too? Rome did not fall because her armies weakened but because Romans forgot what
being Roman meant. Might this new Rome actually be more provincial than its provinces; might these new Romans have forgotten what and how to value, or had they never known? Were all empires so undeserving, or was this one particularly crass? Was nobody in all this bustling endeavor and material plenitude engaged, any longer, on the deep quarry-work of the mind and heart? O Dream-America, was civilization's
quest to end in obesity and trivia, at Roy Rogers and Planet Hollywood, in USA Today and on E!; or in million-dollar-game-show greed or fly-on-the-wall voyeurism; or in the eternal confessional booth of Ricki and Oprah and Jerry, whose guests murdered each other after the show; or in a spurt of gross-out dumb-and-dumber comedies
designed for young people who sat in darkness howling their ignorance at the silver screen; or even at the unattainable tables of Jean-Georges Vongerichten and Alain Ducasse? What of the search for the hidden keys that unlock the doors of exaltation? Who demolished the City on the Hill and put in its place a row of electric chairs,
those dealers in death's democracy, where everyone, the innocent, the mentally deficient, the guilty, could come to die side by side? Who paved Paradise and put up a parking lot? Who settled for George W. Gush's boredom and Al Bore's gush? Who let Charlton Heston out of his cage and then asked why children were getting shot? What, America, of the Grail? O ye Yankee Galahads, ye Hoosier Lancelots, O Parsifals of the stockyards, what of the Table Round? He felt a flood bursting in him and did not hold back. Yes, it had seduced him, America; yes, its brilliance aroused him, and its vast potency too, and he was compromised by this seduction. What he opposed in it he must also attack in himself. It made him want what it promised and eternally withheld. Everyone was an American now, or at least Americanized: Indians, Uzbeks, Japanese, Lilliputians, all. America was the world's playing field, its rule book, umpire, and ball. Even anti-Americanism was Americanism in disguise, conceding, as it did, that America was the only game in town and the matter of America the only business at hand; and so, like everyone, Malik Solanka now walked its high corridors cap in hand, a supplicant at its feast; but that did not mean he could not look it in the eye. Arthur had fallen, Excalibur was lost and dark Mordred was king. Beside him on the throne of Camelot sat the queen, his sister, the witch Morgan le Fay.”