Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights by Salman Rushdie

I used to be a huge fan of Mr. Rushdie’s books. Midnight’s Children – check, The Moor’s Last Sigh – my favorite, but his recent works have been, well, rather less well received by me. And yet, I see a new Rushdie novel and my only instinct is to read it.

Here’s the thing about Rushdie: he’s verbose. He goes on and on, and digresses and digresses until I’m not exactly sure what is going on anymore and then BAM! he stuns me. I’m floored by the the crazy connections he makes, his wry observations and his pure love of language. For if one thing can be said about Rushdie, it’s that he loves language.

So what did I think of Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights? After having read it in its entirety, I think it is rather brilliant. But while I was reading it I vacillated between complete boredom and utter confusion. But interspersed throughout were these moments, when like a flash, I went OH, I GET IT. It would hit me like a ton of bricks.

Who would like this book? Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights is for the most intellectually acrobatic of readers. Not much happens. As for as I can discern there is no plot to speak of. Thankfully, it is one of Rushdie’s shorter books, otherwise I never would have made it through. And yet, there was something deeply satisfying about reading – and finishing – it. Rushdie gets the transmigrations of humans, not just in the global age, but in all ages, and to me his take on this is endlessly fascinating.

 I received a copy of this book from the publisher for review consideration.