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Download high-resolution image Look inside

Shame

A Novel

Author Salman Rushdie
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Paperback
$17.00 US
Random House Group | Random House Trade Paperbacks
On sale Mar 11, 2008 | 320 Pages | 978-0-8129-7670-0
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  • English > Comparative Literature > Modern Comparative Literature
  • English > Literature > British Literature – 20th Century
  • English > Literature > British Literature – Fiction
  • English > Literature > World Literature Survey – 17th Century to Present
  • About
  • Excerpt
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In this brilliant novel, Salman Rushdie masterfully combines history, art, language, politics, and religion. Set in a country "not
quite Pakistan," the story centers around the families of two men--one a celebrated warrior, the other, a debauched playboy
engaged in a protracted duel that is played out in the political landscape of their country. Shame is a tour de force and a fitting
predecessor to the author's legendary novel, The Satanic Verses.

More praise for Salman Rushdie and Shame:
"Shame is every bit as good as Midnight's Children. It is a pitch-black comedy of public life and historical imperatives."
--The Times (London)

"There can seldom have been so robust and baroque an incarnation of the political novel as Shame. It can be read as a fable,
polemic or excoriation; as history or as fiction . . . This is the novel as myth and as satire."
--Sunday Telegraph

"Shame is and is not about Pakistan, that invented, imaginary country, 'a failure of the dreaming mind' . . . The theme is shame
and shamelessness, both from the violence which is modern history. Revelation and obscurity, affairs of honor, blushings of all parts, the recession of erotic life, the open violence of public life, create the extraordinary Rushdie mood . . . Rushdie shows us with what fantasy our sort of history must now be written--if, that is, we are to penetrate it, and perhaps even save it." --Malcolm Bradbury, The Guardian

"Shame should consolidate [Rushdie's] position as one of the finest young writers around. This novel of crossed family destinies in contemporary Pakistan teems with interesting characters, dramatic events, and marvellous verbal inventions. Like its predecessor, it recreates an exotic but thoroughly believable world that is a delight to experience . . . A wonderful book." --Quill and Quire
1
 
 
THE DUMB-WAITER
 
In the remote border town of Q., which when seen from the air resembles nothing so much as an ill-proportioned dumb-bell, there once lived three lovely, and loving, sisters. Their names … but their real names were never used, like the best household china, which was locked away after the night of their joint tragedy in a cupboard whose location was eventually forgotten, so that the great thousand-piece service from the Gardner potteries in Tsarist Russia became a family myth in whose factuality they almost ceased to believe … the three sisters, I should state without further delay, bore the family name of Shakil, and were universally known (in descending order of age) as Chhunni, Munnee and Bunny.
 
And one day their father died.
 
Old Mr Shakil, at the time of his death a widower for eighteen years, had developed the habit of referring to the town in which he lived as ‘a hell hole’. During his last delirium he embarked on a ceaseless and largely incomprehensible monologue amidst whose turbid peregrinations the household servants could make out long passages of obscenity, oaths and curses of a ferocity that made the air boil violently around his bed. In this peroration the embittered old recluse rehearsed his lifelong hatred for his home town, now calling down demons to destroy the clutter of low, dun-coloured, ‘higgling and piggling’ edifices around the bazaar, now annihilating with his death-encrusted words the cool whitewashed smugness of the Cantonment district. These were the two orbs of the town’s dumb-bell shape: old town and Cantt, the former inhabited by the indigenous, colonized population and the latter by the alien colonizers, the Angrez, or British, sahibs. Old Shakil loathed both worlds and had for many years remained immured in his high, fortress-like, gigantic residence which faced inwards to a well-like and lightless compound yard. The house was positioned beside an open maidan, and it was equidistant from the bazaar and the Cantt. Through one of the building’s few outward-facing windows Mr Shakil on his death-bed was able to stare out at the dome of a large Palladian hotel, which rose out of the intolerable Cantonment streets like a mirage, and inside which were to be found golden cuspidors and tame spider-monkeys in brass-buttoned uniforms and bellhop hats and a full-sized orchestra playing every evening in a stuccoed ballroom amidst an energetic riot of fantastic plants, yellow roses and white magnolias and roof-high emerald-green palms – the Hotel Flashman, in short, whose great golden dome was cracked even then but shone nevertheless with the tedious pride of its brief doomed glory; that dome under which the suited-and-booted Angrez officers and white-tied civilians and ringleted ladies with hungry eyes would congregate nightly, assembling here from their bungalows to dance and to share the illusion of being colourful – whereas in fact they were merely white, or actually grey, owing to the deleterious effect of that stony heat upon their frail cloud-nurtured skins, and also to their habit of drinking dark Burgundies in the noonday insanity of the sun, with a fine disregard for their livers. The old man heard the music of the imperialists issuing from the golden hotel, heavy with the gaiety of despair, and he cursed the hotel of dreams in a loud, clear voice.
 
‘Shut that window,’ he shouted, ‘so that I don’t have to die listening to that racket,’ and when the old womanservant Hashmat Bibi had fastened the shutters he relaxed slightly and, summoning up the last reserves of his energy, altered the course of his fatal, delirious flow.
 
‘Come quickly,’ Hashmat Bibi ran from the room yelling for the old man’s daughters, ‘your fatherji is sending himself to the devil.’ Mr Shakil, having dismissed the outside world, had turned the rage of his dying monologue against himself, calling eternal damnation down upon his soul. ‘God knows what got his goat,’ Hashmat despaired, ‘but he is going in an incorrect way.”
 
The widower had raised his children with the help of Parsee wet-nurses, Christian ayahs and an iron morality that was mostly Muslim, although Chhunni used to say that he had been made harder by the sun. The three girls had been kept inside that labyrinthine mansion until his dying day; virtually uneducated, they were imprisoned in the zenana wing where they amused each other by inventing private languages and fantasizing about what a man might look like when undressed, imagining, during their pre-pubertal years, bizarre genitalia such as holes in the chest into which their own nipples might snugly fit, ‘because for all we knew in those days,’ they would remind each other amazedly in later life, ‘fertilization might have been supposed to happen through the breast.’ This interminable captivity forged between the three sisters a bond of intimacy that would never completely be broken. They spent their evenings seated at a window behind a lattice-work screen, looking towards the golden dome of the great hotel and swaying to the strains of the enigmatic dance music … and there are rumours that they would indolently explore each other’s bodies during the languorous drowsiness of the afternoons, and, at night, would weave occult spells to hasten the moment of their father’s demise. But evil tongues will say anything, especially about beautiful women who live far away from the denuding eyes of men. What is almost certainly true is that it was during these years, long before the baby scandal, that the three of them, all of whom longed for children with the abstract passion of their virginity, made their secret compact to remain triune, forever bound by the intimacies of their youth, even after the children came: that is to say, they resolved to share the babies. I cannot prove or disprove the foul story that this treaty was written down and signed in the commingled menstrual blood of the isolated trinity, and then burned to ashes, being preserved only in the cloisters of their memories.
 
But for twenty years, they would have only one child. His name would be Omar Khayyam.
 
All this happened in the fourteenth century. I’m using the Hegiran calendar, naturally: don’t imagine that stories of this type always take place longlong ago. Time cannot be homogenized as easily as milk, and in those parts, until quite recently, the thirteen-hundreds were still in full swing.
 
When Hashmat Bibi told them that their father had arrived at his final moments, the sisters went to visit him, dressed in their brightest clothes. They found him in the grip of an asphyxiating fist of shame, demanding of God, in gasps of imperious gloominess, that he be consigned for all eternity to some desert outpost of Jahannum, some borderland of hell. Then he fell silent, and Chhunni, the eldest daughter, quickly asked him the only question of any interest to the three young women: ‘Father, we are going to be very rich now, is that not so?’
 
‘Whores,’ the dying man cursed them, ‘don’t count on it.”
 
The bottomless sea of wealth on which everyone had supposed the Shakil family fortunes to be sailing proved, on the morning after his foulmouthed death, to be an arid crater. The fierce sun of his financial incompetence (which he had successfully concealed for decades behind his imposing patriarchal façade, his filthy temper and the overweening hauteur which was his most poisonous legacy to his daughters) had dried out all the oceans of cash, so that Chhunni, Munnee and Bunny spent the entire period of mourning settling the debts for which his creditors had never dared to press the old man while he lived, but for payment of which (plus compound interest) they now absolutely refused to wait one moment longer. The girls emerged from their lifelong sequestration wearing expressions of well-bred disgust for these vultures swooping down to feast upon the carcass of their parent’s great improvidence; and because they had been raised to think of money as one of the two subjects that it is forbidden to discuss with strangers, they signed away their fortune without even troubling to read the documents which the money-lenders presented. At the end of it all the vast estates around Q., which comprised approximately eighty-five per cent of the only good orchards and rich agricultural lands in that largely infertile region, had been lost in their entirety; the three sisters were left with nothing but the unmanageably infinite mansion stuffed from floor to ceiling with possessions and haunted by the few servants who refused to leave, less out of loyalty than from that terror of the life-prisoner for the outside world. And – as is perhaps the universal custom of aristocratically bred persons – they reacted to the news of their ruin by resolving to throw a party.
 
In later years, they told each other the story of that notorious gala night with a simple glee that restored to them the illusion of being young. ‘I had invitations printed in the Cantt,’ Chhunni Shakil would begin, seated beside her sisters on an old wooden swing-seat. Giggling happily about the old adventure, she continued, ‘And what invitations! Embossed, with gold lettering, on cards stiff as wood. They were like spits in the eye of fate.’
Copyright © 2011 by Salman Rushdie. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
© Rachel Eliza Griffiths
Salman Rushdie is the author of fourteen novels—including Luka and the Fire of Life; Grimus; Midnight's Children (for which he won the Booker Prize and the Best of the Booker); Shame; The Satanic Verses; Haroun and the Sea of Stories; The Moor's Last Sigh; The Ground Beneath Her Feet; Fury; Shalimar the Clown; The Enchantress of Florence; Two Years, Eight Months, and Twenty-Eight Nights; The Golden House; and Quichotte—and one collection of short stories: East, West. He has also published four works of non-fiction—Joseph Anton, The Jaguar Smile, Imaginary Homelands, and Step Across This Line—and coedited two anthologies, Mirrorwork and Best American Short Stories 2008. He is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and a Distinguished Writer in Residence at New York University. A former president of PEN American Center, Rushdie was knighted in 2007 for services to literature. View titles by Salman Rushdie

About

In this brilliant novel, Salman Rushdie masterfully combines history, art, language, politics, and religion. Set in a country "not
quite Pakistan," the story centers around the families of two men--one a celebrated warrior, the other, a debauched playboy
engaged in a protracted duel that is played out in the political landscape of their country. Shame is a tour de force and a fitting
predecessor to the author's legendary novel, The Satanic Verses.

More praise for Salman Rushdie and Shame:
"Shame is every bit as good as Midnight's Children. It is a pitch-black comedy of public life and historical imperatives."
--The Times (London)

"There can seldom have been so robust and baroque an incarnation of the political novel as Shame. It can be read as a fable,
polemic or excoriation; as history or as fiction . . . This is the novel as myth and as satire."
--Sunday Telegraph

"Shame is and is not about Pakistan, that invented, imaginary country, 'a failure of the dreaming mind' . . . The theme is shame
and shamelessness, both from the violence which is modern history. Revelation and obscurity, affairs of honor, blushings of all parts, the recession of erotic life, the open violence of public life, create the extraordinary Rushdie mood . . . Rushdie shows us with what fantasy our sort of history must now be written--if, that is, we are to penetrate it, and perhaps even save it." --Malcolm Bradbury, The Guardian

"Shame should consolidate [Rushdie's] position as one of the finest young writers around. This novel of crossed family destinies in contemporary Pakistan teems with interesting characters, dramatic events, and marvellous verbal inventions. Like its predecessor, it recreates an exotic but thoroughly believable world that is a delight to experience . . . A wonderful book." --Quill and Quire

Excerpt

1
 
 
THE DUMB-WAITER
 
In the remote border town of Q., which when seen from the air resembles nothing so much as an ill-proportioned dumb-bell, there once lived three lovely, and loving, sisters. Their names … but their real names were never used, like the best household china, which was locked away after the night of their joint tragedy in a cupboard whose location was eventually forgotten, so that the great thousand-piece service from the Gardner potteries in Tsarist Russia became a family myth in whose factuality they almost ceased to believe … the three sisters, I should state without further delay, bore the family name of Shakil, and were universally known (in descending order of age) as Chhunni, Munnee and Bunny.
 
And one day their father died.
 
Old Mr Shakil, at the time of his death a widower for eighteen years, had developed the habit of referring to the town in which he lived as ‘a hell hole’. During his last delirium he embarked on a ceaseless and largely incomprehensible monologue amidst whose turbid peregrinations the household servants could make out long passages of obscenity, oaths and curses of a ferocity that made the air boil violently around his bed. In this peroration the embittered old recluse rehearsed his lifelong hatred for his home town, now calling down demons to destroy the clutter of low, dun-coloured, ‘higgling and piggling’ edifices around the bazaar, now annihilating with his death-encrusted words the cool whitewashed smugness of the Cantonment district. These were the two orbs of the town’s dumb-bell shape: old town and Cantt, the former inhabited by the indigenous, colonized population and the latter by the alien colonizers, the Angrez, or British, sahibs. Old Shakil loathed both worlds and had for many years remained immured in his high, fortress-like, gigantic residence which faced inwards to a well-like and lightless compound yard. The house was positioned beside an open maidan, and it was equidistant from the bazaar and the Cantt. Through one of the building’s few outward-facing windows Mr Shakil on his death-bed was able to stare out at the dome of a large Palladian hotel, which rose out of the intolerable Cantonment streets like a mirage, and inside which were to be found golden cuspidors and tame spider-monkeys in brass-buttoned uniforms and bellhop hats and a full-sized orchestra playing every evening in a stuccoed ballroom amidst an energetic riot of fantastic plants, yellow roses and white magnolias and roof-high emerald-green palms – the Hotel Flashman, in short, whose great golden dome was cracked even then but shone nevertheless with the tedious pride of its brief doomed glory; that dome under which the suited-and-booted Angrez officers and white-tied civilians and ringleted ladies with hungry eyes would congregate nightly, assembling here from their bungalows to dance and to share the illusion of being colourful – whereas in fact they were merely white, or actually grey, owing to the deleterious effect of that stony heat upon their frail cloud-nurtured skins, and also to their habit of drinking dark Burgundies in the noonday insanity of the sun, with a fine disregard for their livers. The old man heard the music of the imperialists issuing from the golden hotel, heavy with the gaiety of despair, and he cursed the hotel of dreams in a loud, clear voice.
 
‘Shut that window,’ he shouted, ‘so that I don’t have to die listening to that racket,’ and when the old womanservant Hashmat Bibi had fastened the shutters he relaxed slightly and, summoning up the last reserves of his energy, altered the course of his fatal, delirious flow.
 
‘Come quickly,’ Hashmat Bibi ran from the room yelling for the old man’s daughters, ‘your fatherji is sending himself to the devil.’ Mr Shakil, having dismissed the outside world, had turned the rage of his dying monologue against himself, calling eternal damnation down upon his soul. ‘God knows what got his goat,’ Hashmat despaired, ‘but he is going in an incorrect way.”
 
The widower had raised his children with the help of Parsee wet-nurses, Christian ayahs and an iron morality that was mostly Muslim, although Chhunni used to say that he had been made harder by the sun. The three girls had been kept inside that labyrinthine mansion until his dying day; virtually uneducated, they were imprisoned in the zenana wing where they amused each other by inventing private languages and fantasizing about what a man might look like when undressed, imagining, during their pre-pubertal years, bizarre genitalia such as holes in the chest into which their own nipples might snugly fit, ‘because for all we knew in those days,’ they would remind each other amazedly in later life, ‘fertilization might have been supposed to happen through the breast.’ This interminable captivity forged between the three sisters a bond of intimacy that would never completely be broken. They spent their evenings seated at a window behind a lattice-work screen, looking towards the golden dome of the great hotel and swaying to the strains of the enigmatic dance music … and there are rumours that they would indolently explore each other’s bodies during the languorous drowsiness of the afternoons, and, at night, would weave occult spells to hasten the moment of their father’s demise. But evil tongues will say anything, especially about beautiful women who live far away from the denuding eyes of men. What is almost certainly true is that it was during these years, long before the baby scandal, that the three of them, all of whom longed for children with the abstract passion of their virginity, made their secret compact to remain triune, forever bound by the intimacies of their youth, even after the children came: that is to say, they resolved to share the babies. I cannot prove or disprove the foul story that this treaty was written down and signed in the commingled menstrual blood of the isolated trinity, and then burned to ashes, being preserved only in the cloisters of their memories.
 
But for twenty years, they would have only one child. His name would be Omar Khayyam.
 
All this happened in the fourteenth century. I’m using the Hegiran calendar, naturally: don’t imagine that stories of this type always take place longlong ago. Time cannot be homogenized as easily as milk, and in those parts, until quite recently, the thirteen-hundreds were still in full swing.
 
When Hashmat Bibi told them that their father had arrived at his final moments, the sisters went to visit him, dressed in their brightest clothes. They found him in the grip of an asphyxiating fist of shame, demanding of God, in gasps of imperious gloominess, that he be consigned for all eternity to some desert outpost of Jahannum, some borderland of hell. Then he fell silent, and Chhunni, the eldest daughter, quickly asked him the only question of any interest to the three young women: ‘Father, we are going to be very rich now, is that not so?’
 
‘Whores,’ the dying man cursed them, ‘don’t count on it.”
 
The bottomless sea of wealth on which everyone had supposed the Shakil family fortunes to be sailing proved, on the morning after his foulmouthed death, to be an arid crater. The fierce sun of his financial incompetence (which he had successfully concealed for decades behind his imposing patriarchal façade, his filthy temper and the overweening hauteur which was his most poisonous legacy to his daughters) had dried out all the oceans of cash, so that Chhunni, Munnee and Bunny spent the entire period of mourning settling the debts for which his creditors had never dared to press the old man while he lived, but for payment of which (plus compound interest) they now absolutely refused to wait one moment longer. The girls emerged from their lifelong sequestration wearing expressions of well-bred disgust for these vultures swooping down to feast upon the carcass of their parent’s great improvidence; and because they had been raised to think of money as one of the two subjects that it is forbidden to discuss with strangers, they signed away their fortune without even troubling to read the documents which the money-lenders presented. At the end of it all the vast estates around Q., which comprised approximately eighty-five per cent of the only good orchards and rich agricultural lands in that largely infertile region, had been lost in their entirety; the three sisters were left with nothing but the unmanageably infinite mansion stuffed from floor to ceiling with possessions and haunted by the few servants who refused to leave, less out of loyalty than from that terror of the life-prisoner for the outside world. And – as is perhaps the universal custom of aristocratically bred persons – they reacted to the news of their ruin by resolving to throw a party.
 
In later years, they told each other the story of that notorious gala night with a simple glee that restored to them the illusion of being young. ‘I had invitations printed in the Cantt,’ Chhunni Shakil would begin, seated beside her sisters on an old wooden swing-seat. Giggling happily about the old adventure, she continued, ‘And what invitations! Embossed, with gold lettering, on cards stiff as wood. They were like spits in the eye of fate.’
Copyright © 2011 by Salman Rushdie. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Author

© Rachel Eliza Griffiths
Salman Rushdie is the author of fourteen novels—including Luka and the Fire of Life; Grimus; Midnight's Children (for which he won the Booker Prize and the Best of the Booker); Shame; The Satanic Verses; Haroun and the Sea of Stories; The Moor's Last Sigh; The Ground Beneath Her Feet; Fury; Shalimar the Clown; The Enchantress of Florence; Two Years, Eight Months, and Twenty-Eight Nights; The Golden House; and Quichotte—and one collection of short stories: East, West. He has also published four works of non-fiction—Joseph Anton, The Jaguar Smile, Imaginary Homelands, and Step Across This Line—and coedited two anthologies, Mirrorwork and Best American Short Stories 2008. He is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and a Distinguished Writer in Residence at New York University. A former president of PEN American Center, Rushdie was knighted in 2007 for services to literature. View titles by Salman Rushdie

Additional formats

  • Shame
    Shame
    A Novel
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-307-78664-7
    $6.99 US
    Ebook
    Random House
    Feb 16, 2011
  • Shame
    Shame
    A Novel
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-307-78664-7
    $6.99 US
    Ebook
    Random House
    Feb 16, 2011

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    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    Jul 12, 2022
  • Quichotte
    Quichotte
    A Novel
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-593-13300-2
    $18.99 US
    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    May 26, 2020
  • The Golden House
    The Golden House
    A Novel
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-399-59282-9
    $17.00 US
    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    Jun 05, 2018
  • Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights
    Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights
    A Novel
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-8129-8820-8
    $17.00 US
    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    Jul 12, 2016
  • The Prophet's Hair
    The Prophet's Hair
    Salman Rushdie
    978-1-101-97369-1
    $0.99 US
    Ebook
    Vintage
    May 02, 2016
  • Joseph Anton
    Joseph Anton
    A Memoir
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-8129-8260-2
    $18.00 US
    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    Sep 10, 2013
  • Luka and the Fire of Life
    Luka and the Fire of Life
    A Novel
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-679-78347-3
    $17.00 US
    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    Sep 20, 2011
  • The Enchantress of Florence
    The Enchantress of Florence
    A Novel
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-679-64051-6
    $17.00 US
    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    Jan 06, 2009
  • The Satanic Verses
    The Satanic Verses
    A Novel
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-8129-7671-7
    $19.00 US
    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    Mar 11, 2008
  • The Jaguar Smile
    The Jaguar Smile
    A Nicaraguan Journey
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-8129-7672-4
    $16.00 US
    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    Mar 11, 2008
  • Shalimar the Clown
    Shalimar the Clown
    A Novel
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-679-78348-0
    $18.00 US
    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    Oct 10, 2006
  • Midnight's Children
    Midnight's Children
    A Novel
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-8129-7653-3
    $18.00 US
    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    Apr 04, 2006
  • Step Across This Line
    Step Across This Line
    Collected Nonfiction 1992-2002
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-679-78349-7
    $18.00 US
    Paperback
    Modern Library
    Sep 30, 2003
  • Grimus
    Grimus
    A Novel
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-8129-6999-3
    $17.00 US
    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    Sep 30, 2003
  • Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children
    Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children
    Adapted for the Theatre by Salman Rushdie, Simon Reade and Tim Supple
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-8129-6903-0
    $13.95 US
    Paperback
    Modern Library
    Feb 18, 2003
  • Fury
    Fury
    A Novel
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-679-78350-3
    $17.00 US
    Paperback
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
    Aug 06, 2002
  • The Moor's Last Sigh
    The Moor's Last Sigh
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-679-74466-5
    $16.00 US
    Paperback
    Vintage
    Jan 14, 1997
  • East, West
    East, West
    Stories
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-679-75789-4
    $16.95 US
    Paperback
    Vintage
    Dec 23, 1995
  • Imaginary Homelands
    Imaginary Homelands
    Essays and Criticism 1981-1991
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-14-014036-1
    $18.00 US
    Paperback
    Penguin Books
    May 01, 1992
  • Haroun and the Sea of Stories
    Haroun and the Sea of Stories
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-14-015737-6
    $17.00 US
    Paperback
    Penguin Books
    Nov 01, 1991
  • The Satanic Verses
    The Satanic Verses
    Salman Rushdie
    978-0-670-82537-0
    $32.00 US
    Hardcover
    Viking
    Feb 22, 1989
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