I love this book. Rushdie puts a terrible amount of stuff into every line, but once you get into it you stay into it. He has an amazing way of flitting from macro view to micro view to macro view to micro. The prose is very abstract and flowery and poetic and I can tell Padma is his “device” to keep the reader anchored. I don’t mind it. Padma is the reader, the logic hungry tell me next. Rushdie is certainly the storyteller here, and the story he promises to make an epic fairytale. It seems to me to be a bit like an Indian One Hundred Years of Solitude.
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