With Gillian Flynn, the Gone Girl goddess, coming back to her hometown soon, why not flash back to the feature profile I put together in 2012. At the time, Flynn’s writing career and personal life had begun to soar. She graciously allowed me to visit with her in her Chicago home and to follow along as she appeared at a bookstore reading. That’s when it got really interesting—though I left this little detail out of my magazine piece. (Why oh why? It shoulda been the lede, maybe?) I was a passenger in Flynn’s car as we returned to her place from the suburban bookstore. At one busy intersection, she made a left turn…INTO THE WRONG, ONCOMING LANE, if I recall correctly. It didn’t take long to correct the driving error, but still. We joked about how maybe she was having the impulse to bump off this nosy writer. Whatever. Maybe she tells the story differently. Maybe she doesn’t even remember it. Although we shared a stage once in an event for the Mid-Continent Library, we’ve had little to no contact ever since. It certainly has been fun to follow her projects over the years, and nice to hear that she’s struggling to work on another novel. In any case, I’m sharing here the magazine pages of that story, published just about a dozen years ago, Nov. 12, 2012, in The Kansas City Star Magazine (remember when?). Some of the photographs are mine; I was happy to line us up with my friend Emily Railsback, who had recently resettled in Chicago, to shoot the cover portrait.
literature
From the Archives: The Salman Rushdie Uproar, 1989
The recent violent assault on Salman Rushdie at a literary event in upstate New York reminded us of the unpredictable perils we live with in today’s world. And that doesn’t even begin to speak to disturbing current trends in book-banning, censorship, and battles around free expression. I joined those who were much relieved to learn of the encouraging news about Rushdie’s slightly improved condition following serious stab wounds, and I’ll add all best wishes for a full physical recovery. The incident sent me back more than 30 years to a piece I wrote, as book review editor, about the furor unleashed by the publication of Rushdie’s novel The Satanic Verses and the death sentence issued by Iran’s Islamic leader. Except for a couple of tiny edits I’d like to make, I was rather surprised to see how timely the essay still seems to be. Sixteen years later, Rushdie spoke to a capacity crowd at the University of Kansas’ Lied Center in Lawrence, an event I attended. His message about speaking up in the face of challenges to freedom hadn’t changed, though he was able to take local note of the rise of fundamentalism in Kansas and, according to a press account of the time, to dish another timely comment: “It’s a pretty bad time for us who don’t believe that superstition should rule the world.”
The following commentary first appeared in the Sunday Arts section of the Kansas City Star, Feb. 19, 1989.
By Steve Paul
Anyone who underestimates the power of the book—the power of fiction, no less—should consider the recent events in Islam.
A novel by a lapsed Muslim, a native of Bombay now settled in England, has caused an upset so great among fundamentalist believers that Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini has called for the writer’s assassination. Seven persons died in riots in Pakistan and India prompted by the American publication of the book. The novel has been burned by zealots in England and banned in a large part of the Islamic world.
Except for the violence, the furor over Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses is akin to the emotional uprising that occurred last year upon the release of Martin Scorsese’s film “The Last Temptation of Christ,” which was based on Nikos Kazantzakis’ novel. The movie prompted protests, boycotts and threats from fundamentalist Catholics and Protestants in America and abroad.
It is easy to dismiss the impulse to censor as a symptom of the narrow-minded ignorance of the self-righteous: Just as “The Last Temptation” was unseen by the vast majority of its detractors, The Satanic Verses has been largely unread by the opposition.
It is not so easy to fathom the consequences.
No one outside Islam can presume to know the depth of belief that can make one willing to “die one thousand deaths to assure that Mohammed and his family are not hurt,” as an Islamic leader in London has been quoted. One can only compare those feelings to one’s own belief system: Would I kill to defend what I believe? Two centuries of American patriotism and warfare—a sliver on the blood-spattered time line of world history—can confirm it for those in this country. But would we kill because of a book?
It is impossible to compute the number of lives lost in the name of the Bible or the Koran over the centuries. The history of earthly literature, by contrast, has produced its share of controversy, but rarely amid bloodshed. The thunderous reverberations of Darwin’s little book of natural history, for instance, continue to be heard in the nation’s more backward school systems.
But a novel? Serious fiction is a product of the imagination, and only the most naïve can mistake it for history, James Michener notwithstanding. (And what is history, if not reasoned conjecture, the work of a scholar’s imagination?)
A novel is a testing ground for an individual’s ideas about the self and life in general, John Gardner suggested in his book On Moral Fiction. Salman Rushdie is discovering the exception to one of Gardner’s assertions: “True moral fiction is a laboratory experiment too difficult and dangerous to try in the world but safe and important in the mirror image of reality in the writer’s mind.”
The Satanic Verses is a sprawling, manically written novel, a hallucination that can be difficult to enter but exciting nonetheless. It is Rushdie’s attempt to come to terms with the centrifugal force of multicultural identity that is the burden of immigrants in London—Muslims and others who may have fled repression or upheaval in their homelands only to find the paradoxes of freedom in the West.
At the same time Rushdie examines the shifting nature of good and evil. It is a challenging book whose magical language can propel a reader past its occasional obscurity and break-neck gyrations in plot and structure. It can dazzle you with its style before you realize you may be missing something. It may be self-indulgent and self-reflective—but so was James Joyce.
The Satanic Verses was widely acclaimed in England, where it was published in September and immediately became a short-list candidate for two prestigious prizes. (It won a Whitbread prize in fiction.) Bill Buford, writing in the Sunday Times (of London), called it “a masterpiece of a novel that is more ambitious than any other fiction being written today.”
American reviewers have been far from unanimous in their praise, often noting that Rushdie’s accomplishment has fall short of that ambition. Jonathan Yardley of the Washington Post called it “an odd, uninvolving book that shows only intermittent flashes of its author’s considerable gifts.”
It is curious to note that the offending segments of The Satanic Verses and “The Last Temptation of Christ” are contained in dream sequences. In Rushdie’s case, the dreams involved the birth of a religion not unlike Islam and a prophet who can be seen as a parody of Muhammed. It is, of course, futile to point out to the irrational that dreams are the province of irrational consciousness, and so even further removed from representational reality (which should not always be equated with truth).
Rushdie is not alone among Muslims who have tested the patience and faith of their leaders. Curious American readers have been discovering the wry pleasures of Naguib Mahfouz, an Egyptian writer who a few months ago was awarded the Nobel Prize in literature. In 1959 Egypt banned a novel by Mahfouz, The Children of Gebelawi, a proscription that continues to this day. The book, which challenges Islamic orthodoxy, contains “grave insults to religious creeds,” according to Al-Azhar, the 1,000-year-old Islamic institute in Cairo. The institute last fall renewed its ban with the statement: “A novel cannot just be permitted into circulation because its author won the Nobel Prize for literature, since that award does not justify the propagation of misguided ideas.”
Mahfouz is often considered to be the leading writer in the Arab world, which produced its first modern novel only in 1913, two years after Mahfouz’s birth. (That book was Zainab, by Muhammad Hussein Haikal, an Egyptian writing in Paris.) Mahfouz, however, apparently is a political moderate, and that has cost him readers in the Mideast. According to Anton Shammas, an Israeli-Palestinian writing in a recent issue of The New York Review of Books, when Mahfouz suggested in a newspaper column in 1975 that Arabs should find ways to live in peace with Israel, several Arab nations banned his works.
Free expression—even the ability to propagate “misguided ideas”—is a hallmark of the West, a privilege that too often may be taken for granted. “Whenever books are burned,” the German poet Heinrich Heine once wrote, “men also, in the end are burned.” We in the West in recent years have come to learn only too well the implications of Islamic zealotry. We may not understand it, but we can shake our heads at its unsavory extremism. Western institutions are daily targets of satire, jest and critical opposition—and the debate only makes them stronger. Will Islam ever learn that?
“Mr. Rushdie’s case is intellectual,” the British education minister, Kenneth Baker, wrote recently in The Times of London. “The response should be intellectual, too. His critics should reach for the Koran, not for a box of matches.”