Recommended Reading: Haroun and the Sea of Stories

Issued with a fatwa (or death sentence) by Ruhollah Khomeini in 1988, after the publication of The Satanic Verses (a book far less controversial than all the protestors, most of whom have never read it, would have us believe!), Salman Rushdie went into hiding, during which time he wrote Haroun and the Sea of Stories. An extraordinary book, ostensibly for children, it was written as an allegory to explain his own predicament to his son. However, it also operates on a far simpler level, simply as a magical and mesmerising narrative which sweeps the reader up into its world from the outset. Rushdie's most famous novel, Midnight's Children, remains my favourite book EVER; but Haroun and the Sea of Stories remains a pretty special introduction to the work of someone who has to be one of the most important and talented writers ever to put pen to paper. Here is an extract from Haroun and the Sea of Stories, a book which, unsurprisingly, I HIGHLY recommend:

'So pick a bird,' the Water Genie commanded. 'Any bird.' This was puzzling. 'The only bird around here is a wooden peacock,' Haroun pointed out, reasonably enough. Iff gave a snort of disgust. 'A person may choose what he cannot see,' he said, as if explaining something very obvious to a very foolish individual. 'A person may mention a bird's name even if the creature is not present and correct: crow, quail, hummingbird, bulbul, mynah, parrot, kite. A person may even select a flying creature of his own invention, for example winged horse, flying turtle, airborne whale, space serpent or aeromouse. To give a thing a name, a label, a handle; to rescue it from anonymity, to pluck it out of the Place of Namelessness, in short to identify it -- well, that's a way of bringing the said thing into being. Or, in this case, the said bird or Imaginary Flying Organism.'

'That may be true where you come from,' Haroun argued. 'But in these parts, stricter rules apply.'

'In these parts,' rejoined blue-bearded Iff, 'I am having time time wasted by a Disconnector Thief who will not trust in what he can't see. How much have seen, eh, theiflet? Africa, have you seen it? No? Then is it truly there? And submarines? Huh? Also, hailstones, baseballs, pagodas? goldmines? kangaroos, Mount Fujiyama, the North Pole? And the past, did it happen? And the future, will it come? Believe in your own eyes and you'll get into a lot of trouble, hot water, a mess.'

With that, he plunged his hand into a pocket of his auberginey pajamas, and when he brought it forth again it was bunched into a fist. 'so take a look, or i should say a gander, at the enclosed.' He opened his hand, and Haroun's eyes almost fell out of his head.

Tiny birds were walking about on the Water Genie's palm; and pecking at it, and flapping their miniature wings to hover just above it. And as well as birds there were fabulous winged creatures out of legends: an assyrian lion with the head of a bearded man and a pair of large hairy wings growing out of its flanks; and winged monkeys, flying saucers, tiny angels, levitating (and apparently air-breathing) fish. 'What's your pleasure, select, choose,' Iff urged. And although it seemed obvious to Haroun that these magical creatures were so small that they couldn't possibly have carried so much as a bitten-off fingernail, he decided not to argue and pointed at a tiny created bird that was giving him a sidelong look through one highly intelligent eye.

'So it's the Hoopoe for us,' the Water Genie said, sounding almost impressed. 'Perhaps you know, Disconnector Thief, that in the old stories the Hoopoe is the bird that leads all other birds through many dangerous places to their ultimate goal. Well, well. Who knows, young theiflet, who you may turn out to be. But no time for speculation now,' he concluded, and with that rushed to the window and hurled the tiny hoopoe out into the night.

'What did you do that for?' hissed Haroun, not wishing to wake his father; at which Iff gave his wicked grin. 'A foolish notion,' he said innocently. 'A fancy, a passing whim. Certainly not because I know more about such matters than you, dear me, no.'

Haroun ran to the window, and saw the Hoopoe floating on the Dull Lake, grown large, as large as a double bed, easily large enough for a Water Genie and a boy to ride upon its back. 'And off we go,' carolled Iff, much too loud for Haroun's liking; and then the Water Genie skipped up on to the window sill and thence to the Hoopoe's back--and Haroun, with scarcely a moment to reflect on the wisdom of what he was doing, and still wearing his long red nightshirt with the purple patches, and clutching the Disconnecting Tool firmly in his left hand, followed. as he settled down behind the Water Genie, the Hoopoe turned its head to inspect him with a critical but (Haroun hoped) friendly eye.