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433 pages, Hardcover
First published June 19, 2012
coddled American and British counterparts - activists, all talk, irritated by some new piece of digital monitoring legislation or another... Ignorant monoglots... They had no idea what it was like to live in a place that boasted one of the most sophisticated digital policing systems in the world, but no proper mail service. Emirates with princes in silver-plated cars and districts with no running water. An Internet where every blog, every chat room, every forum is monitored for illegal expressions of distress and discontent.The real-world context for this novel is the Arab Spring, and Wilson responds to that critically here: "Perhaps this was all freedom was - a moment in which all things were possible, overtaken too soon by man's fearsome instinct to punish and divide". The ending certainly floats my political boat.
“I am a mighty fortress, sheathed in stone.”
King Vikram thought for a moment.
“I am a catapult,” he said. “Stone-breaking, fortress-sundering.”
“I am a saboteur,” countered the vetala. “Oath-breaker, weapon-disabler.”
“I am ill luck,” said King Vikram. “Upending plots, dismaying plans.”
The vetala was favorably impressed.
“I am fortune,” it said. “I crown luck with destiny.”
“I am free will,” said King Vikram. “I challenge destiny with choice.”
“I am divine will,” said the vetala, “to which choice and destiny are one and the same.”
“I am myself,” said King Vikram. “The only thing that is mine to give, by choice or by destiny
“Superstition is thriving. Pedantry is thriving. Sectarianism is thriving. Belief is dying out. To most of your people the jinn are paranoid fantasies who run around causing epilepsy and mental illness. Find me someone to whom the hidden folk are simply real, as described in the Books. You’ll be searching a long time. Wonder and awe have gone out of your religions. You are prepared to accept the irrational, but not the transcendent. And that, cousin, is why I can’t help you.”
There was always something yet unseen. The ground itself was daily renewed, kicked up and muddled by passing travelers, such that it was impossible to repeat the same journey twice. Alif thought of all the times he had left the duplex in Baqara District bent on some mundane errand: the courtyard gate closing behind him with a rattle, rattling again when he returned the same way; to him, ordinary and frustrating, to the world, a process full of tiny variations, all existing, as Sheikh Bilal had said, simultaneously and without contradiction. He had been given eternity in modest increments, and had thought nothing of it."