“These kids don’t know how lucky they are, he suggests. They should consult their kith and kin. Africa, Asia, the Caribbean: now those are places where people might have grievances worth requesting”- The Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie.
I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard that argument growing up from Americans and specifically my dad. Because things are worse elsewhere where our families are from, we have to accept the way things are? Why can’t we improve here! And other people will take it a step further “oh if America is so bad go back to Mexico.”
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Marty Rosenbluth: Dia de las muertos. In honor of those who tried to come seeking safety and/or a better life and didn't make it. R.I.P.
[Scott Horton]
* * * *
“mingling with the remains of the plane, equally fragmented, equally absurd, there floated the debris of the soul, broken memories, sloughed-off selves, severed mother tongues, violated privacies, untranslatable jokes, extinguished futures, lost loves, the forgotten meaning of hollow, booming words, land, belonging, home.”
― Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses
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The best response to Salman Rushdie’s stabbing
"The illiterate cannot be allowed to dictate the rules of literature. The enemies of free expression cannot be allowed to quash it. The attacker should get exactly the opposite of the response he will have hoped for. Not just hopefully a failure to silence Rushdie, but a failure to limit what the rest of us are allowed to think, read, hear and say."
— Douglas Murray, https://www.spectator.co.uk/article/the-best-response-to-salman-rushdie-s-stabbing
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“An attack upon our ability to tell stories is not just censorship - it is a crime against our nature as human beings.”
“Go for broke. Always try and do too much. Dispense with safety nets. Take a deep breath before you begin talking. Aim for the stars. Keep grinning. Be bloody-minded. Argue with the world.
And never forget that writing is as close as we get to keeping a hold on the thousand and one things--childhood, certainties, cities, doubts, dreams, instants, phrases, parents, loves--that go on slipping, like sand, through our fingers.”
- Salman Rushdie
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He turned on the car radio and the Bradford burning was at the top of the news. Then they were home, and the present engulfed him. He saw on television what he had spent the day trying to avoid. There were perhaps a thousand people in the demonstration, and all of them were male. Their faces were angry, or, to be precise, their faces were performing anger for the cameras. He could see in their eyes the excitement they felt at the presence of the world's press. It was the excitement of celebrity, of what Saul Bellow had called “event glamour.” To be bathed in flashlight was glorious, almost erotic. This was their moment on the red carpet of history. They were carrying placards reading RUSHDIE STINKS and RUSHDIE EAT YOUR WORDS. They were ready for their close-up.
A copy of the novel had been nailed to a piece of wood and then set on fire: crucified and then immolated. It was an image he couldn't forget: the happily angry faces, rejoicing in their anger, believing their identity was born of their rage. And in the foreground a smug man in a trilby with a little Poirot mustache. This was a Bradford councilor, Mohammad Ajeeb—the word “ajeeb,” oddly, was Urdu for “odd”—who had told the crowd, “Islam is peace.”
He had been sent a T-shirt as a gift from an unknown admirer. BLASPHEMY IS A VICTIMLESS CRIME. But now the victory of the Enlightenment was looking temporary, reversible. Old language had been renewed, defeated ideas were on the march. In Yorkshire they had burned his book.
Now he was angry, too.
-- Salman Rushdie, “Joseph Anton: A Memoir”
“Joseph Anton: A Memoir” is Salman Rushdie’s memoir from his time in hiding, during which he used the pseudonym Joseph Anton. Interestingly, it’s written in the third person.
Partly, it covers the firestorm that erupted upon release of The Satanic Verses that lead to this reclusion. This passage in particular refers to the book burning that 1000 Muslims conducted in Bradford. None of whom had actually read it. Among the fallout of this event was that a number of public people - politicians, authors, journalists, commentators and the like - who should have known better, and who hadn’t read the book, discarded all of their principles in order to side with a radical Islamist mob who hadn’t read it either. In the name of sensitivity.
“When the Ayatollah Khomeini offered money - money in his own name, without shame, for the suborning of murder of a novelist, the Cardinal Archbishop of New York, the chief Rabbi of Israel the Archbishop of Canterbury, all condemned what?
The novel! The author, for blasphemy!
Now, get used to this, because you may be living in the last few years where you can complain about it.
In other words, ladies and gentlemen, the barbarians are not at the gate. They’re not at the gate. They’re well inside, and who held open the door for them? The other religious did.”
– Christopher Hitchens
This mistake and betrayal - and it was both - set the precedent, and in doing so, authorized the protection of religious sentiments over everything else. Opening the door for the Charlie Hebdo and Jyllands Postens attacks, through to the Hamline University Associative Vice President of Inclusive Excellence grovelling that “respect for the observant Muslim students in that classroom should have superseded academic freedom.” This was a moment of truth, a test of integrity. And the west blinked.
The message was clear: like the Dark Ages prior, fragile religious sentiments were guaranteed primacy, and religious blasphemies were once again unutterable and punishable.
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Man I love literature like the feeling of reading something that’s maybe a bit older and not what you’re used to but there’s still someone being a morally gray asshole and some tormented fellow having dreams of indulgent homoerotic fight scenes and if you want you can read essays and talk with academics about it but if you can convince your peers to like it you can treat it just like your funny little shows
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One more word on Rushdie, from the pen of Oscar Wilde:
“There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.”
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