What kills me is that the answer to every one of those questions is yes. Should one (read: me) consider Rushdie's other works? The shelves of awards? The other worlds he has created and played in? Or should this one - rooted, as it is, so firmly and obviously in this ridiculous timeline we're currently experiencing, at the moment we're experiencing it - be held separate? A product exclusively of the doomed and damned moment of its creation? Is it a book that needs to be examined in the light of its author's existence? Of his own life as a British Indian novelist, his past, his family, his love life, his various (quite real) adventures? Or is it one that demands all that be ignored - to be taken simply for the sum of words inside it, evincing no exterior life at all? There are, depending on how you look at such things, either too many ways in or no way in at all. There's no good way to start a critique of Quichotte, Salman Rushdie's new novel. Author Interviews Leaving The Past Behind - Or Trying To - In Rushdie's Latest
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