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TIME: Almanac 1990
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1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso
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021389
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02138900.059
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1990-09-17
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BOOKS, Page 82An Explosive ReceptionBy Paul Gray
THE SATANIC VERSES
by Salman Rushdie; Viking; 547 pages; $19.95
Occasionally, heartening evidence surfaces that some people
still care about serious fiction after all. Here is a long,
challenging novel by a highly praised writer, and it has spurred
a frenzy of international attention. Headlines have bristled.
Voices have been raised, although not exactly in unanimous praise.
The book has been banned in a number of countries with substantial
Muslim populations; its appearance in the West has been greeted
with isolated public protests and telephoned bomb threats.
It must be added that few of those outraged by The Satanic
Verses have ever seen it, much less opened it. Their fury, and the
timorousness of government officials fearing violent uproars, has
been prompted by one accusation: that the novel contains a
blasphemous portrait of the Prophet Muhammad and thus amounts to
a terrible insult to Islam. The plain, simple truth is that the
novel does nothing of the sort, but only those who consent to read
the thing will discover this for themselves.
If all the hubbub, with its attendant free publicity, increases
the audience for The Satanic Verses, so much the better. The book
is both an Arabian Nights narrative enchantment and a vast
rumination on history, on the clash of cultures and individuals,
and on the beliefs that people cherish for comfort and salvation.
Author Salman Rushdie, 41, who was born in Bombay and educated at
Cambridge, shows every sign of disproving Kipling's bromide about
East, West and the twain never meeting. They have met, all right,
in his experience and imagination, with results that are
alternately comic, poignant and explosive.
The novel, in fact, begins with a big bang: the blowing up, by
Sikh terrorists, of a jumbo jet, Flight AI-420 from Bombay to
London, at 29,002 feet over the English Channel. Two passengers,
cartwheeling and conversing, plummet earthward. One is Gibreel
Farishta, India's most popular movie star, who is in disguise and
fleeing his fame after suffering a life-threatening illness and
discovering in the process that there is no God. The other is
Saladin Chamcha, a prosperous performer of voice-overs for
commercials on British television, returning to his adopted land
after a melancholy visit to Bombay and the haunts of his childhood.
Miraculously -- preposterously -- they both survive their descent.
And then truly strange things begin to happen.
Saladin sprouts a pair of horns on his forehead and cloven
hoofs; these mutations earn him, a British subject, rough handling
by police and immigration officials. Gibreel develops a visible arc
of light, a halo, around his head, and must cope with the awestruck
reverence of perfect strangers. His new radiance aggravates an
older problem, particularly puzzling in light of his newfound
atheism: his vivid cinematic dreams, in which he is cast as the
Archangel Gibreel, but without a script, and then asked by a series
of petitioners to deliver Allah's word.
It is one of these -- a businessman named Mahound -- who has
settled Rushdie's mulligatawny as far as Islamic fundamentalists
are concerned. For the Gibreel-Mahound exchanges are based, in an
obviously distorted and hallucinatory manner, on an episode in the
life of Muhammad: the Prophet's early willingness to include in the
Qur'an an acknowledgment of three female deities and his later
repudiation of these verses as satanically inspired. If Muhammad
himself was willing to admit that he had been deceived, it is
difficult to see why a tangential, fictional version of this
long-ago event should cause such contemporary furor.
For someone outside the faith to lecture Muslims on what they
should or should not read would be impudent. But it must also be
stated that there is no ridicule or harm in this novel, only an
overwhelming sense of amazement and joy at the multifariousness of
all Allah's children. As Gibreel and Saladin try to make their
afflicted ways through contemporary London, a fascinating tapestry
unfurls behind them. This backdrop contains vivid scenes -- among
them, the subjugation of an immense subcontinent and ancient
cultures by an upstart island, and the upheavals that result when
this thralldom is abruptly ended. But the history is parceled out
in telling, individual details, people and places caught up in a
grand design of which they are innocent and that, in the long run,
may turn out to be simply chaos.
That possibility of meaninglessness tantalizes and bedevils
throughout the novel. But Rushdie's furious, organizing energy
seems to mark him as an angel of coherence. He has obviously read
his Garcia Marquez, his Joyce, his Thomas Pynchon. He shares with
those authors the desire to assemble everything he has known and
seen and make it all fit together, beautifully. In his fourth
novel, Rushdie has done just that.