![]() ![]() Like Midnight's Children, The Satanic Verses and The Moor's Last Sigh, this is partly a story of emigration, of the loss of a country and, especially, of a city - Bombay - which is to Rushdie what Dublin was to Joyce, or Granada to the Sultan Boabdil. The lyrics that speak of 'a world of grief made real by song, by art' catch at your heart, and what a great time he's had writing them. It's dramatic, playful and occasionally extremely moving. But there's a lovely freedom and panache in the way it swings between popular culture and high artfulness, modern life and ancient myths. This book about the flaws and rifts in the ground beneath our feet isn't without its flaws, and the journey sometimes feels long. The Ground Beneath Her Feet is a very exciting novel, hugely ambitious and original. Here comes everybody, right?'Īnd here does come everybody, with true Rushdiean boldness, bravado, glitter and gargantuanism. In Ormus's words: 'What I want the music to say is that I don't have to choose I don't have to be this guy or that guy I'll be all of them, I can do that. Both have their role to play in our lives, since this is a book about refusing to choose. In this novel about crossings, disappearances, earthquakes and metamorphoses, we are bounced between stoic, realistic acceptance and anguished Promethean aspiration. ![]()
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