I think it’s the third time in a
week that I’ve woken up to this feeling of being beaten up. Otherwise I’ve had
fairly healthy anxiety levels throughout the week. Yes I thought I’d dissect
myself on a week by week basis.
So a week of living on coffee and
cheese puffs got the better out of me. And just as I began wondering where the
hell my nutrition was at, I began wondering where in the world my head was at
in the first place.
11.22pm
I curl up in my bed with
Midnight’s Children. My third attempt at reading the same for over two years
now. At this rate and at the rate of dramatization of recent events I thought
it fair and something that had to be done. Rushdie is difficult in writing and
in person, but that doesn’t really undermine his genius. Recent sensationalist
attacks on the writer apart from elevating his popularity have fueled a much
needed debate regarding freedom of speech and an artist’s unbecoming in a
selective democracy.
The Satanic Verses is now a
politico literary disaster with questionable traces of blasphemy (residue post
the reaction) and hey 20 years is a long time to be blown out of proportion,
isn’t it?
For once I don’t see him to be
the literary snob that he was always cut out to be. For once amidst all that
mess, I see a man violated of the one thing he thought he’d do best – write.
Having said that, I’d rather band
aid myself with thought than have your ideology stapled to my head.
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