Whenever I get back from a trip, I head to the library, dusting and pushing old books so as to make place for the latest guests. Here I am thoroughly dusting Rushdie’s book – one I remember starting years ago (never finished it for some reason) when this note slipped from page 91: a happy birthday card written in French. I cannot recall whether I bought it in French or Swiss flea market.
Either way, there’s something reproachful about old books being pushed aside making place for newcomers. I might as well read it.
“Perhaps, he thought, because strangeness, the idea of difference, is a thing to which we react with unease.”
Salman Rushdie, The Moor’s Last Sigh