This is probably one of the most challenging books I’ve ever read. It’s challenging, because it isn’t an inherently bad book. Weird, but not bad.

The writing is stream of consciousness meets some kind of odd acid trip.

The characters, basically all of them, aren’t good people. This makes the book more difficult to read. You read to get to the one paragraph in the chapter that’s actually brilliant. Which makes me think if Rushdie did something non-fiction I’d probably enjoy it more. He is a good writer, but he needs to reign in some of his side talk that he gets caught in.

Also, this book could have been much shorter.