Fury

One of Rushdie's best

I'm a huge fan of Salman Rushdie's. And while this book wasn't very well received critically I think it was one of his best.
Previous books have explored India, Pakistan, and the middle eastern influence on the world. This book is focused on the American mythos and how we affect the world. As scathing about the us in it's own way as Satanic Verses is of Islam, yet Rushdie still seems to respect the u.s.
A touching relationship between father and son.
As always filled with Rushdies fantastic and mytholigcal view of the world. One of the best comtemporary writers out there.

Worst Rushdie, still better than anyone else

Rushdie always creates beautiful prose however, to me this book seemed a little off, compared to his other works. This book is too much a reflection on his own life and his impressions of his new home of NYC. The plot is not separate enough from his own life's course, and this keeps the novel from matching the quality of his other works.

Short and Long-Winded

While Rushdie devotees and certain Ph.D. literates might find FURY engrossing, the average reader will likely find themselves overwhelemed by the exposition and underwhelmed by the plot. Rushdie's strength lies not in his intellectual postering, nor in his rapid-fire narrations, but in his choice to show one man's inner struggle among the maelstrom of culture that is New York City, a city (circa 2000) on the doorstep of tragedy. Unfortunately, the setting bears almost no true relevance as FURY is constantly bound and gagged by Malik Solanka's dull mid-life crisis, Malik being a man who is (in Rushdie's own description) 'a priviledged individual with too much self-interest', indeed a self-possessed man who nonetheless only has to snap his fingers to get two of New York's most beautiful women vying for his attention. There is no questioning the strength of Rushdie's prose, but his mind is a bit like a speeding motorcycle, and he doesn't care if his readers spill out of the sidecar. Another example of why the modern literary novel has alienated a larger audience. A fairly weak story cloaked in intellect, a short novel that's a labor to get through.

A kinder, gentler Rushdie on the ambiguities of human nature

Salman Rushdie's writing has mellowed since his "Satanic Verses" so upset the mullahs. "Fury" is slyly witty and the language is absolutely gorgeous, every sentence as smooth as a polished pebble. But the book only touches peripherally on the subject of fury: the fury of the Indian diaspora at being treated as interlopers in countries they have lived in for generations; the fury of intellectuals at crass commercialism. "¿Why did he permit the Puppet Kings such psychological and moral liberty? Perhaps because the scientist and scholar in him could not resist seeing how these new life-forms resolved the battle that rages within all sentient creatures, between light and dark, heart and mind, spirit and machine¿." Compared to these furies, Rushdie's protagonist, an Indian professional facing a late mid-life crisis, seems more irrascible than furious. He flees home, business and family to sulk in a New York rental, where he is improbably fought over by two drop-dead gorgeous women. But as a hero, Professor Solinka is too amiable, too ordinary to wear the fabulous verbal clothes that Rushdie weaves for him.

Great Story That Went A Little Long

An engaging story....but after Solanka revealed the genesis of his fury I abadoned the book. I do, however, recommend Fury. Rushdie's writing style is superb which makes for interesting and thoughtful reading.

More Dreamlike Fiction From a Master of Surrealist Fantasy

Salman Rushdie is easily one of the world's greatest living writers. His novels are masterpieces of surrealist tragi-comedy, and read like grand tapestries of the human condition. In spite of its brevity, Fury is no different. You might even say that the author's ability to pack so much depth into 260 pages is itself a remarkable feat. Fury recounts the doings of Malik Solanka, a former Cambridge fellow turned dollmaker, who abandons his wife and child for the anonymity of New York City. Caught in the throes of a mid-life crisis, Solanka believes he can no longer fill the roles of father and husband because they fail to to address his own unique set of emotional needs. But New York proves to be no better, and we are left wondering whether Solanka's bitter take on the American Paradise is actually Rushdie's own. There are pointed barbs directed at the media, politicians, celebrity culture, body-mage, anti-depressants, new age religion, and just about everything else. In between the scathing editorials, something resembling a novel emerges. In a plot worthy of Borges, Rushdie takes us on an imaginary journey wherein man-made dolls rebel against their human creators and fact and fantasy become indistinguishable. Faced with the loss of the self, Solanka sets out on a bizarrre adventure which ultimately leads him back to his own humanity. Rushdie, meanwhile, leads us to a conclusion that is both touching and fulfilling.

No text was provided for this review.

No text was provided for this review.

No text was provided for this review.