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Quote by Salman Rushdie

“He needed her so badly, to reassure himself of his own existence, that he never comprehended the desperation in her dazzling, permanent smile, the terror in the brightness with which she faced the world, or the reasons why she hid when she couldn't manage to beam... every moment she spent in the world was full of panic, so she smiled and smiled and maybe once a week she locked the door and shook and felt like a husk, like an empty peanut-shell, a monkey without a nut.”

Quote by Salman Rushdie

Work

The Satanic Verses

The Satanic Verses is a complex and controversial novel that delves into the lives of various characters, including a man accused of assassinating the Prophet Muhammad. The story intertwines their personal narratives with broader discussions about religious beliefs, cultural misunderstandings, and the nature of truth. The novel is known for its exploration of the line between reality and imagination, and its portrayal of the complexities of human relationships and the impact of religious fervor on individual lives. more

Author

Salman Rushdie
Salman Rushdie

Salman Rushdie (born June 19, 1947) is a British-Indian novelist and essayist. Known for his magical realism style, his novel Midnight's Children won the Booker Prize in 1981. His works often explore themes of cultural conflict, religion, and politics. In 1988, his novel The Satanic Verses sparked global controversy, leading to a fatwa issued by Iran's Ayatollah Khomeini calling for his assassination. Rushdie spent years in hiding under police protection. He remains a prominent voice in contemporary English literature, celebrated for his literary innovation and defense of free expression. more

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“There is much pain that is quite noiseless; and vibrations that make human agonies are often a mere whisper in the roar of hurrying existence. There are glances of hatred that stab and raise no cry of murder; robberies that leave man or woman forever beggared of peace and joy, yet kept secret by the sufferer—committed to no sound except that of low moans in the night, seen in no writing except that made on the face by the slow months of suppressed anguish and early morning tears. Many an inherited sorrow that has marred a life has been breathed into no human ear.”

“I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others—the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.”