100 Pages of Solitude

Current Read: The Satanic Verses

Chosen by my sadistic sister-in-law, this book is essentially a mass-casualty event for our family book club. One that will claim at least 10 souls, all condemned to drink the dreaded Four Horsemen shot. As of September 28th, by my latest count, 8–9 of our valiant readers haven’t even cracked the spine. My wife whines constantly, dreading the trek I’ve already begun. Several members have already surrendered, openly embracing the devil’s drink rather than Salman Rushdie’s prose.

Meanwhile my sister-in-law vacillates between gleeful joy at her diabolical choice (watching us all fail), sympathy for the fallen heroes, and finally doubt as to whether this literary smorgasbord of nonsense was ever appropriate for our humble group. The answer is clear: probably not.

I’m on page 100 of what feels like 10,000. One word, line, paragraph, page at a time, I scratch my head in bewilderment. I’m standing beside Rushdie, rehearsing the breakup speech of a lifetime. Inevitably I will use the phrase “it’s not you, it’s me.” But let’s be honest. It’s not me. It’s Rushdie.

He can only string together one or two pages in a row that make sense before careening off into a world known only to the small, haunted tribe of people with a touch of insanity, a splash of ADHD, and perhaps too much world history for their own good. A stream of consciousness leading nowhere good.

And yet, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe, like Kazimir Malevich’s Black Circle, the problem isn’t the artist but me. Maybe, in fact, the problem is society at large, too dull to recognize the raw genius. Who knows.

Either way, I have 400 pages left. Pray for me, dear reader.