Salman Rushdie’s literary output was always characterised by an intense sense of existential nausea, and a Dostoyevsky-like fixation on recondite sexual implosion. This was the point I put to him during a light-hearted, freewheeling discussion on 17th-century Mongolian expressionism at a meeting in Bono’s house around 1993. Although I have forgotten the exact wording, his… Read more »
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