“Every pickle-jar (you will forgive me if I become florid for a moment) contains, therefore, the most exalted of possibilities: the feasibility of the chutnification of history; the grand hope of the pickling of time! I, however, have pickled chapters… I reach the end of my long-winded autobiography; in words and pickles, I have immortalized my memories, although distortions are inevitable in both methods.” (Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie)
For whatever reason, I have found that Midnight’s Children has grown on me in retrospect. So many images, like the pickling jars, the widow who is green but whose hair is black as black, and Saleem’s nose, have only become stronger in my mind as more time has elapsed. Yet, when I was actually reading it, it was almost a laborious process. Now don’t misunderstand, I’m not saying that the book is anything but masterful, but it was as if the Children of Midnight’s failed potential was just too much to bear all at once. I had to digest it in small pieces in order to take up the emotional weight of Rushdie’s work.
Beverage: You could enjoy a symbol-filled drink by mixing green matte and black as black english breakfast, topping it off with a little cream of your choice (I prefer a bit of soy milk and rice milk mixed)
Reminds me of: Perhaps because I read them around the same time, Midnight’s Children almost reminds me of A Confederacy of Dunces in that they both luxuriate in rather graphic and sometimes lurid details.
Question: I have heard that many of Rushdie’s works are marvelous, but I have not read them. If anyone could recommend others I would be very grateful.