Reason read: special event, February 2024
I generally like Rushdie's writing but I struggled with this one. It is an ambitious work which you do expect from Rushdie. This is a retelling of the Orpheus/Eurydice myth. Rock'n Roll is used in place of the lyre. It's a story of two men in love with the same women and it is set during the 50s to the 90s as an alternate history. There is a lot of music in the story as well as name dropping. I found it hard to engage with this book and I did not appreciate the sexual descriptions and language. I think people who love music, alternate histories, and retellings may find the book interesting. ( )

Ezeknek az epikus nagyregényeknek az íróit hajlamos vagyok úgy elképzelni, mint virtuóz kutyasétáltatót, akit épp több tucat eb rángat pórázon, miközben megkísérli velük megkerülni a háztömböt. Ezek az ebek az alaptémák (szerelem, történelem, mitologikus áthallások, stb.) illetve a szereplők metaforái, és mondanom sem kell: mindegyik másfelé akarna menni. Az egyik meglátott egy macskát, a másik megjelölne egy út menti fát, a harmadik meg a negyedik pedig épp egymás popóját szagolgatja, ami azért baj, mert az a harmadik valószínűleg tüzel. Szóval ez a baromi sok kutya baromi sok széttartó ötletnek és szándéknak felel meg, amelyek igyekeznek százfelé szakítani az írót, ám az nem hagyja magát: szorosan tartja, épp csak annyira engedi szabadjára őket, amennyire muszáj, és ha törik, ha szakad, megkerüli velük azt a rohadt háztömböt. Ezt nevezzük regényírásnak.

Ami a kötetet illeti, a dolog többnyire jól működik. Rushdie ebei láthatóan nyugtalanok, de a gazda keze erősen tartja őket, így rakoncátlankodásuk izgalmas káoszt teremt, nem összeomlást. A szöveg Ormus és Vína, a két mesterzenész meséje (no és a szomorú harmadiké, Rái-é, aki ezt az egészet elmeséli), akik Bombay keleti forgatagából New York nyugati forgatagába kerülnek, miközben megmásszák a világhírnév szédítő ormait. Kelet-nyugat regény tehát - Rushdie-tól egyáltalán nem szokatlan módon –, amiből sok egyéb mellett az is kiderül, hogy amit kelet vonzónak talán nyugatban, és amit nyugat bölcsességnek lát keletben, az néha közelről nézve nem más, mint repedező fal és rothadó szemétszag.

De valahol a regény felét elhagyva az író marka lazul a pórázon, egyes ebek pedig elszabadulnak. Beszűkül a történet, gazdag meséből monológgá, időnként egyenesen lamentálássá válik. Mintha Rushdie-nak nem nagyon lett volna ötlete arra nézvést, mi legyen a történetből, amikor végre Vína és Ormus egymásra talál, a lendület megtörik, száguldásból toporgásba vált. Ennek tetejébe az a kifejezetten izgalmas alternatív történelemkezelés, ami addig ígéretesen, a háttérben settenkedve hozta zavarba az olvasót, most kibomlik, részben magyarázatot nyer, ám valahogy kacskán: egyértelműen többet vártam ettől a száltól, lehetett volna ezzel foglalkozni a túlzásba vitt Orpheusz-Eurüdiké párhuzam helyett.

Nem rossz ez, messze nem. Erős szöveg, amit majd szétvet a feszültség – de ezt a feszültséget az író nem mindig tudja kellőképpen irányítani. De végtére is (mindent összevetve) a kutyák megkerülték a háztömböt, kimozogták magukat, pisiltek, kakiltak... szóval ha úgy vesszük, minden jó, ha a vége jó. ( )

I think this is my favorite Rushdie book yet.

No less of a deep dive into Bombay, India, Europe, current political events, religion and history than the other books of his I've read, this one adds Rock and the modern world as a central theme, and the mythical-magical, so to speak analysis of power and alternate worlds teeming with real and unreal examples of iconic ways that the world just is.

The Orpheus and Eurdike storyline this is woven around is brilliantly exhumed and turned into living rock, it's the most amazing story, the most beautiful language. I loved this book. ( )

The Ground Beneath Her Feet is a particularly extended fable, including elements of fame culture, divine and awesome natural talent (see also Jesus) bound and hobbled by vested commercial interests, an interface between the modern myths (Klingons, the language of Mordor) and the mystical heritage of the characters, the metaphor of the cataract rending the ground asunder and dragging the unworthy (or too good to be allowed to walk the Earth any longer) down to the chaos and underworld that exists just beneath the surface of human experience, returning a character to the ownership of the gods. Then there’s an unsettling connection to the contemporary Indian calamity that would have been fresh at the time this was written, the massacre at the Golden Temple of Amritsar, i.e. ethnic squabbling that still pervades humanity like the common cold. The trappings of fame eventually force one of the protagonists to become like Howard Hughes or Michael Jackson, living a cloistered existence behind their gilded gates, afraid to breathe the same air as us, endlessly repeating videos on too many screens. The challenge of this book is to reconcile what the ever changing India is and means, as derived from the India of this generation’s parents and grandparents. It’s the aspirational fantasy held by global youth contrasted with their origins in a more spiritual and non-commercial (equally fantasy) place. All the while though, Rushdie populates their surroundings with oddities, mangled successes of commerce, family tragedies and murderous relatives that they somehow have to absorb into their identities. The scope of this novel is amazing, an expanse, a plethora of material populated by so many allusions and metaphors that half of them will be lost on the readers; classical influence with myth-laden story-telling, strongly hinting at the intangible barriers between our illusion of stable reality and what chaos is lurking around us, like a tiger shadowing us from the other side and waiting for us to step off the beaten path. Chaos is interested though in the lead characters as their demi-god level of talent calls to it like Sauron’s ring. It’s hard to be sure which images are being claimed as fantasy and which are in the portrayal as real world and solid but the divine taker is tangible, a kraken of chaos under the lake with one eye open. When it all goes quantum, or earthquake, the ground level between reality and myth becomes liquid and unmeasurable, but then again all good myths draw elements from both the human psyche and real experiences. This is a very good book but was unbelievable at the same time, so I didn’t feel immersed and transformed by it in the way that I should have. ( )

HOLY HELL. This was more an endurance marathon than a labour of love - two weeks, two whole weeks when I could have been reading other books, but realised too late and refused to quit. I read Midnight's Children years ago and enjoyed that story, but gave up second time round - which should have been a sign. This pretentious heap of mythologising twaddle, was ten times worse. India and music, I thought after reading the blurb; oh good, this should be interesting! NOPE.

You know those chapters in classic novels like Les Mis, where the author goes off on a tangent and most readers learn to cheat by skipping? The bulk of this book is like that. The narrator, Rai, is a photographer, but also apparently a pseudo philosopher who likes the sound of his own voice (Salman, is that you?) The actual plot is about his obsession with a singer, Vina, and her world-conquering fame, which she achieves as part of a duo with her star-cross'd lover Ormus. Only I didn't believe in VIna's charismatic personality - she's basically a diva, and a bitch - and I certainly didn't swallow her amazing love affair with Ormus. But Rushdie being Rushdie, we also get backstories for miles, about his parents and her parents and the partition of India (again), and also - bonus! - some mad parallel universe which Ormus can see after a car crash. I'm just so tired. I started skimming through when I got to the 400s, but even that took too long. But at least I'm free now! ( )