Something even more noticeable here than in his other novels is Rushdie’s insecurity with dialogue. When his Kashmiri characters speak it is convincing enough; but the idiom of his American and English ones often sounds like a humorous impression given by a foreigner. The character who fares worst is Ratette, with whom Ophuls worked in the French Resistance and whom — amazingly, since it is difficult to see what attracted him to her — he subsequently married. Here is a typical passage, when she tells him that she is barren:

Does that make a difference? Is it all off? … No possibility of sprogs, whole bally thing goes to the bally dogs. Ha! Aha! Hahaha!
There will always be argument about whether Rushdie is a ‘sublime’ stylist or a coarse and crude one. Both sides in the argument can find support by quoting from this novel. There are some breath-takingly eloquent passages; but there are, for me at least, far too many when the stylistic bling induces an immediate need to shield one’s eyes from its gaudiness and glare. This is a literary symphony of undeniable power but one that suffers from containing a superfluity of fortissimo notes and from being too laboured in its elaborate counterpoint.

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