Sep 17, 15
This was written for one person only: himself. Avoid.
Read from December 14 to 17, 2011 — I own a copy, read count: 1
Navel-gazing, self-indulgent crap, vain to the core.
A middle aged academic (i.e. Rushdie) finds fame and fortune by creating intellectual dolls (i.e. books) that capture the zeitgeist, has pretty women become infatuated with him, then sacrifice themselves on his behalf.
On top of that, Rushdie wrote this love letter to himself in the third person, which multiplies the vanity, allowing him to inflict a few paper cuts with one hand whilst shoveling rich spoonfuls of narcissism into his fat lips with the other.
Yes, this is awful stuff.
The first paragraph of chapter 3 almost made me pack it in there and then. I won't write it out, my computer might disown me. This is a guy utterly in thrall of celebrity, talented but bloated with self-importance.
I think this may well be the worst novel by a talented writer that I have ever read.