Exotic Love

I have not seen Slumdog Millionaire but I am rereading The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushie.

It's been a long time since I read Verses. I went out and bought it the night I heard the fatwah had been declared on Rushdie. I was perfectly prepared not to like the book but, in point of fact, I loved it. I've read the book several times since, twice out loud.

Yet, this time as I'm reading it I find myself irritated. Perhaps it's because there are so many Indian writers in American bookstores right now-- many, if not most, of inferior caliber. But, curiously enough, I don't think so.

It's the magnetic pull of the exotic.

We like strangeness. We adore it. We clasp it to our bosom even when we don't really understand it, can't quite grasp the message or figure out what's going on. It's they mystery that attracts us, not the medium or the message.

So: I've been reading Verses without the same patience as when I first read it. I'm not interested in the exotic for the sake of the mystery. It's now something I'm putting up with to get to the meat of the matter.

It makes me wonder how much of the hype over new/edgy/foreign writers is just another case of exotic love.
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