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Midnight's Children: A Novel (Modern Library 100 Best Novels) Paperback – April 4, 2006
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WINNER OF THE BEST OF THE BOOKERS • SOON TO BE A NETFLIX ORIGINAL SERIES
Selected by the Modern Library as one of the 100 best novels of all time • The fortieth anniversary edition, featuring a new introduction by the author
Saleem Sinai is born at the stroke of midnight on August 15, 1947, the very moment of India’s independence. Greeted by fireworks displays, cheering crowds, and Prime Minister Nehru himself, Saleem grows up to learn the ominous consequences of this coincidence. His every act is mirrored and magnified in events that sway the course of national affairs; his health and well-being are inextricably bound to those of his nation; his life is inseparable, at times indistinguishable, from the history of his country. Perhaps most remarkable are the telepathic powers linking him with India’s 1,000 other “midnight’s children,” all born in that initial hour and endowed with magical gifts.
This novel is at once a fascinating family saga and an astonishing evocation of a vast land and its people–a brilliant incarnation of the universal human comedy. Forty years after its publication, Midnight’s Children stands apart as both an epochal work of fiction and a brilliant performance by one of the great literary voices of our time.
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Print length536 pages
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LanguageEnglish
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PublisherRandom House Publishing Group
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Publication dateApril 4, 2006
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Dimensions5.16 x 1.23 x 8.01 inches
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ISBN-109780812976533
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ISBN-13978-0812976533
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Lexile measure1120L
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From the Publisher
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Salman Rushdie is the author of twelve novels—Grimus, Midnight’s Children (for which he won the Booker Prize and the Best of the Booker), Shame, The Satanic Verses, Haroun and The Sea of Stories, The Moor’s Last Sigh, The Ground Beneath Her Feet, Fury, Shalimar the Clown, The Enchantress of Florence, Luka and the Fire of Life, and Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights—and one collection of short stories: East, West. He has also published four works of nonfiction—Joseph Anton, The Jaguar Smile, Imaginary Homelands, and Step Across This Line—and co-edited two anthologies, Mirrorwork and Best American Short Stories 2008. He is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and a Distinguished Writer in Residence at New York University. A former president of PEN American Center, Rushdie was knighted in 2007 for services to literature.
Languages of Truth | The Satanic Verses | The Jaguar Smile | Quichotte | The Golden House | Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights | |
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Newly collected, revised, and expanded nonfiction from the first two decades of the twenty-first century—including many texts never previously in print—by the Booker Prize–winning, internationally bestselling author | Salman Rushdie’s best-known and most galvanizing book is set in a modern world filled with both mayhem and miracles, the story begins with a bang: the bombing of a London-bound jet in midflight. | In his first book of nonfiction, Salman Rushdie paints a sharp and haunting portrait of the people, the politics, the terrain, and the poetry of “a country in which the ancient, opposing forces of creation and destruction were in violent collision.” | An epic Don Quixote for the modern age, “a brilliant, funny, world-encompassing wonder” (Time) from internationally bestselling author Salman Rushdie | A modern American epic set against the panorama of contemporary politics and culture—a hurtling, page-turning mystery that is equal parts The Great Gatsby and The Bonfire of the Vanities | Salman Rushdie writes a spellbinding work of fiction that blends history, mythology, and a timeless love story. |
Editorial Reviews
Review
“A marvelous epic . . . Rushdie’s prose snaps into playback and flash-forward . . . stopping on images, vistas, and characters of unforgettable presence. Their range is as rich as India herself.”—Newsweek
“Burgeons with life, with exuberance and fantasy . . . Rushdie is a writer of courage, impressive strength, and sheer stylistic brilliance.”—The Washington Post Book World
“Pure story—an ebullient, wildly clowning, satirical, descriptively witty charge of energy.”—Chicago Sun-Times
“This brash, knowing, massive, aggressive novel is to modern India what Günter Grass’s The Tin Drum is to modern Germany.”—The New York Times Book Review
“Dazzling . . . In combining past with present, nostalgic realism with mythic overtones, specific detail with complex and binding narrative devices, Rushdie has achieved a magnificent and unique work of fiction.”—The Philadelphia Inquirer
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I WAS BORN in the city of Bombay … once upon a time. No, that won’t do, there’s no getting away from the date: I was born in Doctor Narlikar’s Nursing Home on August 15th, 1947. And the time? The time matters, too. Well then: at night. No, it’s important to be more … On the stroke of midnight, as a matter of fact. Clock-hands joined palms in respectful greeting as I came. Oh, spell it out, spell it out: at the precise instant of India’s arrival at independence, I tumbled forth into the world. There were gasps. And, outside the window, fireworks and crowds. A few seconds later, my father broke his big toe; but his accident was a mere trifle when set beside what had befallen me in that benighted moment, because thanks to the occult tyrannies of those blandly saluting clocks I had been mysteriously handcuffed to history, my destinies indissolubly chained to those of my country. For the next three decades, there was to be no escape. Soothsayers had prophesied me, newspapers celebrated my arrival, politicos ratified my authenticity. I was left entirely without a say in the matter. I, Saleem Sinai, later variously called Snotnose, Stainface, Baldy, Sniffer, Buddha and even Piece-of-the-Moon, had become heavily embroiled in Fate—at the best of times a dangerous sort of involvement. And I couldn’t even wipe my own nose at the time.
Now, however, time (having no further use for me) is running out. I will soon be thirty-one years old. Perhaps. If my crumbling, overused body permits. But I have no hope of saving my life, nor can I count on having even a thousand nights and a night. I must work fast, faster than Scheherazade, if I am to end up meaning—yes, meaning— something. I admit it: above all things, I fear absurdity.
And there are so many stories to tell, too many, such an excess of intertwined lives events miracles places rumors, so dense a commingling of the improbable and the mundane! I have been a swallower of lives; and to know me, just the one of me, you’ll have to swallow the lot as well. Consumed multitudes are jostling and shoving inside me; and guided only by the memory of a large white bedsheet with a roughly circular hole some seven inches in diameter cut into the center, clutching at the dream of that holey, mutilated square of linen, which is my talisman, my open-sesame, I must commence the business of remaking my life from the point at which it really began, some thirty-two years before anything as obvious, as present, as my clock-ridden, crime-stained birth.
(The sheet, incidentally, is stained too, with three drops of old, faded redness. As the Quran tells us: Recite, in the name of the Lord thy Creator, who created Man from clots of blood.)
One Kashmiri morning in the early spring of 1915, my grandfather Aadam Aziz hit his nose against a frost-hardened tussock of earth while attempting to pray. Three drops of blood plopped out of his left nostril, hardened instantly in the brittle air and lay before his eyes on the prayer-mat, transformed into rubies. Lurching back until he knelt with his head once more upright, he found that the tears which had sprung to his eyes had solidified, too; and at that moment, as he brushed diamonds contemptuously from his lashes, he resolved never again to kiss earth for any god or man. This decision, however, made a hole in him, a vacancy in a vital inner chamber, leaving him vulnerable to women and history. Unaware of this at first, despite his recently completed medical training, he stood up, rolled the prayer-mat into a thick cheroot, and holding it under his right arm surveyed the valley through clear, diamond-free eyes.
The world was new again. After a winter’s gestation in its eggshell of ice, the valley had beaked its way out into the open, moist and yellow. The new grass bided its time underground; the mountains were retreating to their hill-stations for the warm season. (In the winter, when the valley shrank under the ice, the mountains closed in and snarled like angry jaws around the city on the lake.)
In those days the radio mast had not been built and the temple of Sankara Acharya, a little black blister on a khaki hill, still dominated the streets and lake of Srinagar. In those days there was no army camp at the lakeside, no endless snakes of camouflaged trucks and jeeps clogged the narrow mountain roads, no soldiers hid behind the crests of the mountains past Baramulla and Gulmarg. In those days travellers were not shot as spies if they took photographs of bridges, and apart from the Englishmen’s houseboats on the lake, the valley had hardly changed since the Mughal Empire, for all its springtime renewals; but my grandfather’s eyes—which were, like the rest of him, twenty-five years old—saw things differently … and his nose had started to itch.
To reveal the secret of my grandfather’s altered vision: he had spent five years, five springs, away from home. (The tussock of earth, crucial though its presence was as it crouched under a chance wrinkle of the prayer-mat, was at bottom no more than a catalyst.) Now, returning, he saw through travelled eyes. Instead of the beauty of the tiny valley circled by giant teeth, he noticed the narrowness, the proximity of the horizon; and felt sad, to be at home and feel so utterly enclosed. He also felt—inexplicably—as though the old place resented his educated, stethoscoped return. Beneath the winter ice, it had been coldly neutral, but now there was no doubt; the years in Germany had returned him to a hostile environment. Many years later, when the hole inside him had been clogged up with hate, and he came to sacrifice himself at the shrine of the black stone god in the temple on the hill, he would try and recall his childhood springs in Paradise, the way it was before travel and tussocks and army tanks messed everything up.
On the morning when the valley, gloved in a prayer-mat, punched him on the nose, he had been trying, absurdly, to pretend that nothing had changed. So he had risen in the bitter cold of four-fifteen, washed himself in the prescribed fashion, dressed and put on his father’s astrakhan cap; after which he had carried the rolled cheroot of the prayer-mat into the small lakeside garden in front of their old dark house and unrolled it over the waiting tussock. The ground felt deceptively soft under his feet and made him simultaneously uncertain and unwary. “In the Name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful …”—the exordium, spoken with hands joined before him like a book, comforted a part of him, made another, larger part feel uneasy—“… Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Creation …”—but now Heidelberg invaded his head; here was Ingrid, briefly his Ingrid, her face scorning him for this Mecca-turned parroting; here, their friends Oskar and Ilse Lubin the anarchists, mocking his prayer with their anti-ideologies—“… The Compassionate, the Merciful, King of the Last Judgment! …”—Heidelberg, in which, along with medicine and politics, he learned that India—like radium—had been “discovered” by the Europeans; even Oskar was filled with admiration for Vasco da Gama, and this was what finally separated Aadam Aziz from his friends, this belief of theirs that he was somehow the invention of their ancestors—“… You alone we worship, and to You alone we pray for help …”—so here he was, despite their presence in his “head, attempting to reunite himself with an earlier self which ignored their influence but knew everything it ought to have known, about submission for example, about what he was doing now, as his hands, guided by old memories, fluttered upwards, thumbs pressed to ears, fingers spread, as he sank to his knees—“… Guide us to the straight path, The path of those whom You have favored …” But it was no good, he was caught in a strange middle ground, trapped between belief and disbelief, and this was only a charade after all—“… Not of those who have incurred Your wrath, Nor of those who have gone astray.” My grandfather bent his forehead towards the earth. Forward he bent, and the earth, prayer-mat-covered, curved up towards him. And now it was the tussock’s time. At one and the same time a rebuke from Ilse-Oskar-Ingrid-Heidelberg as well as valley-and-God, it smote him upon the point of the nose. Three drops fell. There were rubies and diamonds. And my grandfather, lurching upright, made a resolve. Stood. Rolled cheroot. Stared across the lake. And was knocked forever into that middle place, unable to worship a God in whose existence he could not wholly disbelieve. Permanent alteration: a hole.
The young, newly-qualified Doctor Aadam Aziz stood facing the springtime lake, sniffing the whiffs of change; while his back (which was extremely straight) was turned upon yet more changes. His father had had a stroke in his absence abroad, and his mother had kept it a secret. His mother’s voice, whispering stoically: “… Because your studies were too important, son.” This mother, who had spent her life housebound, in purdah, had suddenly found enormous strength and gone out to run the small gemstone business (turquoises, rubies, diamonds) which had put Aadam through medical college, with the help of a scholarship; so he returned to find the seemingly immutable order of his family turned upside down, his mother going out to work while his father sat hidden behind the veil which the stroke had dropped over his brain … in a wooden chair, in a darkened room, he sat and made bird-noises. Thirty different species of birds visited him and sat on the sill outside his shuttered window conversing about this and that. He seemed happy enough.
Product details
- ASIN : 0812976533
- Publisher : Random House Publishing Group; 25th Anniversary edition (April 4, 2006)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 536 pages
- ISBN-10 : 9780812976533
- ISBN-13 : 978-0812976533
- Lexile measure : 1120L
- Item Weight : 14 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.16 x 1.23 x 8.01 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #5,169 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #56 in Contemporary Literature & Fiction
- #159 in Family Saga Fiction
- #606 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
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About the author
Sir Salman Rushdie is the author of many novels including Grimus, Midnight's Children, Shame, The Satanic Verses, The Moor's Last Sigh, The Ground Beneath Her Feet, Fury and Shalimar the Clown. He has also published works of non-fiction including The Jaguar Smile, Imaginary Homelands, The Wizard of Oz and, as co-editor, The Vintage Book of Short Stories.
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Midnight’s Children is regarded as so essential to Indian literature that South Asian critics regularly describe eras as pre and post Rushdie.
If you haven’t read it, it tells the story of India, from just before Independence into the Indira Gandhi era, through the allegorical fictional events that occur to its protagonist. As a conceit, it’s brilliant —both in terms of originality and execution.
Those who remember or know about this era in Indian history will not be surprised by its cynical tone. Everything from Indian religions to politics to the economy is subject to subtle, and not so subtle, ridicule. Perhaps if Rushdie were to write about India in the twenty first century this would have been a completely different work.
But as Rushdie says, the temptation to write history as we wish and not how it was is simply that—a temptation. The difficult beginnings of the modern Indian state cannot be swept under the proverbial rug.
However, it’s a book worth reading beyond those interested in South Asian studies. The play between the disasters of the hero and the disasters of India actually reach beyond the subcontinent to achieve universal resonance. I personally didn’t like the digs at religion and the dark humor employed in describing mass suffering, but these are matters on which mature readers will differ. Paradoxically, I believe, that as India becomes a richer and more powerful nation, this work describing the trauma of its youth will become only more and more important. It doesn’t need any props from me, but still highly recommended.
Rushdie employs some literary devices that detracted from my enjoyment of the novel. At times it almost seemed as if he was indulging in technique for technique’s sake. One device is repetition. For instance, there’s constant thematic repetition of “knees and nose, nose and knees”, Saleem being the nose and his arch-enemy and rival, Shiva, being the knees. After a while my response was I get it, their fates are intertwined, but I don’t get why I need to read this formula yet again (maybe I don’t get it? I’m not even quite sure why the formula couldn’t be reversed. Are knees aggressive and the nose sensuous? A lot of hammering on one nail.) Another is Rushdie’s use of obscure vocabulary without any clear purpose that I can understand (even when I understand the words without looking them up). For example the words apocrine and eccrine keep popping up in the narrative without any clear reference (at least to me).
Another problem I had, particularly with Volume 3 (spoiler alert – don’t read further if you want to remain in suspense), is where we learn of the identity of “the Widow”, who is the villain of the piece. It’s Indira Gandhi. The anti-Gandhi theme introduced here seems a bit overheated. Although Indira Gandhi did do some bad things, particularly the suspension of democracy during the “Emergency” of 1975-77, which is the background for a significant part of Volume 3, they seem pretty small beer when compared with the great historical crimes of the twentieth century. In fact she seems not obviously better or worse than many of the Prime Ministers India has experienced before and afterwards. So the tone of outrage and focus on her as the villainous “Widow”, while it may have been understandable from Rushdie’s perspective at the time Midnight’s Children was completed (1979), seems rather dated.
All that said it would be unfair not to note that there are many passages in Midnight’s Children of great beauty and wisdom. Rushdie is unparalleled in capturing the sweep of life in India and Pakistan (and Bangladesh) and his genius for this is at its most expressive in this novel. He is also a writer of great learning and knowledge of what he writes -- knowledge which is fully on display here (in a good sense). The Bombay of which he writes is the Bombay of his own childhood; he himself was born in 1947, the year of India’s independence, the same as Saleem, the “hero” of the piece. Along the way, he gives us all sectors of Indian society, from the wealthy and privileged to the underclasses, and he does it with a true novelist’s eye (and nose!) for the telling detail and without editorializing. He succeeds in interweaving the private incidents in the lives of the characters he has created with historical events of the period: from the early part of the twentieth century to the late 70s, when the book was completed. It’s just a shame that because of their sheer number we don’t get to know some of them better. But maybe that’s inherent in Rushdie’s method; he himself has acknowledged his debt to Charles Dickens, and I guess one should no more expect to probe the depths of Nussie the Duck’s or Parvati-the-Witch’s psyches any more than those of Mr. Micawber or “Barkis is willing”.
Top reviews from other countries
Although Saleem’s reflections are set in the context of historical events, the details contain factual errors and suspect claims. He asserts the veracity of all that he says, not because it is accurate, but because he remembers it that way.
‘I told you the truth,’ I say yet again, ‘Memory’s truth, because memory has its own special kind. It selects, eliminates, alters, exaggerates, minimizes, glorifies, and vilifies also; but in the end it creates its own reality, its heterogeneous but usually coherent versions of events; and no sane human being ever trusts someone else’s version more than his own.’
Saleem is born at midnight on 15th August 1947, India’s first Independence Day. He discovers that all children born between midnight and 1 a.m. on that date in India have special powers too. One of these children, Shiva, born with the abilities of a matchless warrior, is switched at birth with Saleem. As a consequence, Saleem is raised by prosperous parents in Bombay, while his future enemy, Shiva, is raised in poverty.
Using his telepathic powers, Saleem assembles a ‘Midnight’s Children Conference’ bringing the gifted children together, to see and hear them, to connect with each other. He joins them ‘every midnight, and only at midnight, at an hour dedicated to miracles.’
Pakistan and Bangladesh feature in the novel, but it is predominantly set in India. Rushdie, like Saleem, was raised in Bombay. He presents a Bombay teeming with people, hidden treasures, diversity and a furious energy. His writing mirrors Bombay; even Saleem’s story has to fight its way through an overcrowded manuscript of secondary events.
‘Midnight’s Children’ received prodigious critical and popular acclaim upon its publication in 1981 and continues to be lauded and studied more than forty years later. This capacious and grand novel, deeply-rooted in history, is a joy to read. Its florid descriptions, humour and darkness, peppered with untranslated Indian words, will keep you turning each of its many, many pages.
It took me two weeks to finish it, and this is all due to the enormity, the greatness, the ever expanding world of this book. There are longer books in literature, yes, but this book, in its almost 650 pages, manages to give several points of discussions about a different variety of topics.
The story, which starts from the end like most magic realist books, is meant to be the autobiography of Saleem Sinai. Saleem tells us who he is, as every respectable biography does, and he says that his birthday is important because he was born on August 15th, 1947, on the stroke of midnight, right when India gained its Independence from the British rule. Now he's about to turn 31, but the clock is ticking, and he needs to tell his story before he forgets and it is lost forever.
In a meta-narration where Saleem, our narrator, tells us about the past but also comments in the present about what happened in a precise moment, we are thrown back into pre-Independence India as Saleem starts the story by recounting his grandfather's Aadam Aziz story of how he met his grandma, in 1915, Kashmir. The place is not casual at all, because Kashmir will be one of the most reclaimed territories by both India and Pakistan after the Partition, and it's not casual everything started there, in that paradise. It's not a coincidence the grandfather is called "Aadam".
It all starts from a perforated sheet where Aadam sees bits of his future wife Naseem. The perforated sheet, as well as the theme of holes in general, is recurring in this book, and greatly connects the beginning and the end that you can't fail to see the parallels, the mirrors.
In this story, nothing is casual, especially the fact that Saleem was born on midnight. He, and the other children born at midnight of the same day, possessed great powers. But there are secrets behind Saleem's birth, secrets that will make or break relationships, obsessions, love and hatred. You know what they say, the more powerful you are, the more feared you will be.
I wish I could say more than this, but I don't want to spoil anything to you, because this book really manages to shock you until the very end. The writing is flowing, fresh, you never get annoyed because you want to know how did that happen, what will be of this or that character. The story may seem all over the place because Saleem starts retracing his origins back to his grandfather, but it isn't at all. It is a story full of history, hybridity, identity, religion, politics... it is a world in its own right, with tragic moments made less sad by the grotesque, by the irony and the sarcasm Rushdie is able to deliver majestically.
It isn't just Saleem's story, it is a story of a country divided, partitioned. A country that is looking for a mother, for a father, someone to guide them, to mend the cracks. But Saleem knows that it's impossible, because there are cracks - like the one in the perforated sheet - that you can't mend, that you won't be able to mend, especially if your fate is doomed.
Rushdie is a British author but he is also Indian, which mean this novel also deals with the problem of hybridity, because Saleem also moves to different places in his life.
I could say more but I think you should read for yourself the waste number of topics that this book discusses, because they can't be narrowed down. I think lovers of magic realism but also fantasy will like this book.