Contents Title Page Dedication I. ESSAYS Out of Kansas The Best of Young British Novelists Angela Carter Beirut Blues Arthur Miller at Eighty In Defense of the Novel, Yet Again Notes on Writing and the Nation Influence Adapting Midnight’s Children Reservoir Frogs Heavy Threads In the Voodoo Lounge Rock Music—A Sleeve Note U2 An Alternative Career On Leavened Bread On Being Photographed Crash The People’s Game Farming Ostriches A Commencement Address "Imagine There’s No Heaven" "Damme, This Is the Oriental Scene for You!” India’s Fiftieth Anniversary Gandhi, Now The Taj Mahal The Baburnama A Dream of Glorious Return II. MESSAGES FROM THE PLAGUE YEARS III. COLUMNS December 1998: Three Leaders January 1999: The Millennium February 1999: Ten Years of the Fatwa March 1999: Globalization April 1999: Rock Music May 1999: Moron of the Year June 1999: Kashmir July 1999: Northern Ireland August 1999: Kosovo September 1999: Darwin in Kansas October 1999: Edward Said November 1999: Pakistan December 1999: Islam and the West January 2000: Terror Versus Security February 2000: Jörg Haider March 2000: Amadou Diallo April 2000: Elián González May 2000: J. M. Coetzee June 2000: Fiji July 2000: Sport August 2000: Two Crashes September 2000: Senator Lieberman October 2000: The Human Rights Act November 2000: Going to Electoral College December 2000: A Grand Coalition? January 2001: How the Grinch Stole America February 2001: Sleaze Is Back March 2001: Crouching Striker, Hidden Danger April 2001: It Wasn’t Me May 2001: Abortion in India June 2001: Reality TV July 2001: The Release of the Bulger Killers August 2001: Arundhati Roy September 2001: Telluride October 2001: The Attacks on America November 2001: Not About Islam? February 2002: Anti-Americanism March 2002: God in Gujarat IV. STEP ACROSS THIS LINE Endnotes Bibliography Acknowledgments About the Author Also by Salman Rushdie Copyright Page TO CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS PART I Essays Out of Kansas I wrote my first short story in Bombay at the age of ten. Its title was “Over the Rainbow.” It amounted to a dozen or so pages, was dutifully typed up by my father’s secretary on flimsy paper, and was eventually lost somewhere along my family’s mazy journeyings between India, England, and Pakistan. Shortly before my father’s death in 1987, he claimed to have found a copy moldering in an old file, but despite my pleadings he never produced it. I’ve often wondered about this incident. Maybe he never really found the story, in which case he had succumbed to the lure of fantasy, and this was the last of the many fairy tales he told me. Or else he did find it, and hugged it to himself as a talisman and a reminder of simpler times, thinking of it as his treasure, not mine—his pot of nostalgic, parental gold. I don’t remember much about the story. It was about a ten-year-old Bombay boy who one day happens upon the beginning of a rainbow, a place as elusive as any pot-of-gold end zone, and as rich in promise. The rainbow is broad, as wide as the sidewalk, and constructed like a grand staircase. Naturally, the boy begins to climb. I have forgotten almost everything about his adventures, except for an encounter with a talking pianola whose personality is an improbable hybrid of Judy Garland, Elvis Presley, and the “playback singers” of the Hindi movies, many of which made The Wizard of Oz look like kitchen-sink realism. My bad memory—what my mother would call a “forgettery”—is probably a blessing. Anyway, I remember what matters. I remember that The Wizard of Oz (the film, not the book, which I didn’t read as a child) was my very first literary influence. More than that: I remember that when the possibility of my going to school in England was mentioned, it felt as exciting as any voyage over rainbows. England felt as wonderful a prospect as Oz. The wizard, however, was right there in Bombay. My father, Anis Ahmed Rushdie, was a magical parent of young children, but he was also prone to explosions, thunderous rages, bolts of emotional lightning, puffs of dragon smoke, and other menaces of the type also practiced by Oz, the great and