I’m reading an exhilarating -and very magical-
new novel by the controversial Salman Rushdie.

I KNOW both his thesis and the fable are going to inform and inspire
my creativity with my Magic for a long time to come,
so I thought I’d share my “find”.

His prose evoke vivid images of enchantment,
this is tale-telling at its best as the story swings from
reality –to- dreams –to- fantasy seamlessly.

The plot shifts between Machiavellian Florence of the Renaissance
and the Moghul Empire of Akbar the Great,
East meeting West in wondrous and lush character studies.

“The Enchantress of Florence” by Salman Rushdie

ISBN: 978-0375-50433-4, Random House, May, 2008, Hardcover: 368 pages

"For Rushdie, the pen is a magician's wand... “ -Financial Times

" Enchanting....Rapturously poetic in places, very funny in others…" -Kirkus Review

"A prodigious fever dream of a book... A beguiling, incandescent tale of travel, treachery, and transformation." -Elle Magazine

Enjoy!
Magically, Walt

Sweet, I've been looking for a good read.

Thanks for the nod.

I'll tackle this one. thanks.

A few evenings ago over dinner, my friend and I talked about the difference between “wanting” to do something and being “called” to do something.

That by contrast a “calling” is pressing, and needful, and omnipresent and unrelenting-- as opposed to a mere occupational or career choice.

It is about something you “have” to move forward with --something bred into your DNA, your eternal soul, your innermost being-- as opposed to something you simply wanted to do or did from necessity.

Today, as I turned the pages of the novel I’m reading (and recommending to all the lovers of fantasy and all the artists I know) the new chapter seemed to sum up our dinner conversation for me.

Below I’ve quoted this brief excerpt --to see if others share these instinctual pulls to their Art-- and the Story that refuses not to be told.

The Story --that begins or ends your life-- as you know it.

Magically,
Walt

From: “The Enchantress of Florence” by Salman Rushdie

In the dark or the dungeon his chains weighted on him like a unfinished story.

There were so many chains winding around him that he could imagine, in the darkness, that he had somehow been encased in a larger body, the body of a man of iron. Movement was impossible. Light was a fantasy.

The dungeon had been carved out of the living rock of a hill beneath the imperial palaces and the air in his cell was a thousand years old, and so perhaps were the creatures crawling over his feet and through his hair and into his groin, the albino roaches, the blind snakes, the transparent rats, the phantom scorpions, the lice. He would die without telling his story.

He found this thought intolerable and so it refused to leave him, it crawled in and out of his ears, slid into the corners of his eyes and stuck to the roof of his mouth and to the soft tissue under his tongue.

All men needed to hear their stories told. He was a man, but if he died without telling the story he would be something less than that, an albino cockroach, a louse.

The dungeon did not understand the idea of a story. The dungeon was static, eternal, black, and a story needed motion and time and light. He felt his story slipping away from him, becoming inconsequential, ceasing to be.

He had no story.
There was no story.
He was not a man.
There was no man here.
There was only the dungeon, and the slithering dark.

When they came to get him he did not know if a day had passed, or a century. He could not see the rough hands that loosened his chains. For a time his hearing too was affected, and his powers of speech.

They blindfolded him and took him naked to another place where he was scoured and scrubbed. As if he were a corpse being readied for burial, he thought, a dumb corpse who could not tell his tale. There were no coffins in this unchristian land. He would be sewn into a shroud and flung without a name into a hole in the ground.

“There was once.” It was his own voice.
“There was once a prince.” He felt his heart begin to beat again, his blood to flow.
His tongue was thick but it could move.
His heart boomed like a cannon in his chest.
“Who possessed enchanted weapons.” He had a body again, and words.
They removed his blindfold, “Four terrifying giants and a woman.”

He was in another cell but in this place there was a candle burning and a guard in the corner.
“The most beautiful woman.”
The story was saving his life.

Pages 89-90 –

Walt thanks so much for sharing!
That was wonderful. I think I m gonna see if I can track this book down after work tonight. Seems to be more then just an enjoyable read. When a book can make you not only read its words but open up another realm of thinking. It is indeed worth everyones full attention.
Thanks again for sharing!

See you around the Café
Mina

I got this book day before yesterday - I love that people get me B&N gift cards -

After reading the first 2 chapters I already know this is going to be an influential book.

BIGTIME!!!

It is SO beautifully written.

You guys will love it for sure.

Several of the “official” reviews have said the writing style is over-the-top.

And it is,
but the overblown-poetic style was so intentional,
this is high-fantasy, and dreams-within-dreams.

It’s sort of like having two hot-fudge banana-splits back to back
with a chocolate-malt chaser… and I’ve relished every paragraph.

What astoundingly inspirational and rich material for any storyteller doing bizarre magic!

Thanks,
Walt

I'd better loosen my belt then.

I can tell I am in the misty midst of a fantastical fairy tale.

Thank you Walt. Off to Amazon. Excellent exerpt by the way. Magnetic.

Also I can offer through buying the book a small amount to reward his past courage.

I'm at that happy/sad point where I only have a few chapters to go,
want to see how it all turns-out and want the journey to go on forever...
anyone else?

Walt

I'm upto the part where they are trying to grow Mandrake from the semen of a hanged man, about 1/2 way through.

Its Brilliant...

Well, with the year 2008 just weeks from merging into 2009...

I suppose it’s OK to go out on a limb,
and say that after a year of reading,
and reading, and reading,
this book still gets my vote for:
“Best Fiction Read of 2008”

True, “Inkheart” is pretty dang good,
but only came onto this year’s radar,
because the movie version is due out soon... so
I still vote for Rushdie.

Ask Santa -or- be Santa and give the gift of Magical Fantasy!

My thoughts,
Walt

“Witchcraft requires no potions, familiar spirits or magic wands.
Language upon a silvered tongue affords enchantment enough.”

from: “THE ENCHANTRESS OF FLORENCE”
By Salman Rushdie.

Wow. I am going to seek this book out. It sounds astounding.