How do stories shape our identity? That's the big question in this tale of a shady tycoon, his sons and a young film-maker during Obama's presidency. But this is a Rushdie book and you can't expect a linear novel with a few twists and turns and a big 'reveal'. Instead, you'll get a meditation on good and evil, the ills of the contemporary world and a plethora of cultural references and word play. For me, a chocolate box to savour. For you?
I could feel it, the anger of the unjustly dead, the young men shot for walking in a stairwell while black, the young child shot for playing with a plastic gun in a playground while black, all the daily black death of America, screaming out that they deserve to live, and I could feel, too, the fury of white America at having to put up with a black man in a white house, and the frothing hatred of the homophobes, and the injured wrath of their targets, the blue-collar anger of everyone who had been Fannie Mae'd and Freddie Mac'd by the housing calamity, all the discontent of a furiously divided country, everyone believing they were right, their cause was just, their pain was unique, attention must be paid, attention must finally be paid to them and only them, and I began to wonder if we were moral beings at all or simply savages who defined their private bigotries as necessary ethics, as the only ways to be.