I really liked Rental Family, which tracks with my enjoyment of this film subgenre: films set in Eastern Asia that involve circumstances in which families are constructed from nontraditional groupings – that includes Shoplifters and Broker
David Sedaris returns into my life again, originally having won me over with Dress Your Family in Courdoury in Denim back when I read that in high school, I think because of my friend Cecilia’s recommendation.
In The Land and Its People, Sedaris has taken on something of an Andy Rooney quality as he ages. The writing is less about sardonic reflection and doesn’t delve into his own personal history as often. He’s often making himself out to be stodgy and ornery and even has a couple of diatribes about how he doesn’t understand the sensitivities of young queer people. Still, his voice reliably gets me through stressful drives and I’m grateful to him for accompanying me on a late-night drive back home from the stressful evils of Northern Virginia
To prepare for Fortune’s Weave, I played an inordinate amount of Three Houses, revisiting the game properly after several years to address the Silver Snow route. My first two playthroughs included my first and favorite, following the gallant Claude in the Verdant Wind route. After that, I got to know Dimitri a little too well in the Azure Moon route. But this time I opted to follow the Church route to the end.
Anyway, it’s hard to go from one game to the other. Fortune’s Weave is a sequel, sure, and I have yet to see all the lore ties, but mechanically it’s practically three our four generations different. And the primary thing that gave me friction here was the two-hour set-up of cutscene followed by tutorial gameplay followed by cutscene. This is perhaps standard for gaming today, but given that I know how to get to the meat-and-potatoes of Three Houses within 15 minutes, it’s a bit much to swallow here.
I think I’m in a fun part, though, and have hopes that I will at least see Leda’s story to the end.
Our book club theme for September was “banned books” and our nominations list included this one, Looking for Alaska by John Green, Sold by Patricia McCormick, All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M. Johnson, Fun Home by Alison Bechdel, and The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier.
Interestingly, the one we settled on by a substantial margin was the book that wasn’t banned by a typical Western and Christian-influenced censorship apparatus. Whereas books like “Boys Aren’t Blue” and “Fun Home” are banned for exploring queer identities, “Verses” was censored in over 20 countries due to controversy over its portrayal of Islamic mythology. The book’s place in history is anchored by the fatwa declared by Iranian religious leaders more than thirty years ago. The bounty placed on Rushdie’s head did eventually lead to an assassination attempt by a random New Jersey man just a few years ago. (Rushdie survived and published a memoir revolving around the violence).
The uncomfortable thing about online discourse of this book is that there seems to be a micro cottage industry of people who use this book as a way to grind an axe against Islam as a faith. Looking for videos on the book will often surface a dark muttering of commenters who say that the fatwa controversy surrounding “Verses” justifies everything they think about Islam and Muslims.
A befitting irony for the novel’s themes of narratives that are imposed on people and events is that this is hardly a book dedicated as a polemic or committed to poking a finger in the eye of Muslims. It can be irreverent – cheekily so. There’s cynicism about organized religion and since Rushdie was born into a Muslim family, he uses the backdrop of Islamic history to make some points. But if you’ve ever read a satirical retelling of Christian Biblical events, like Lamb by Christopher Moore or seen The Life of Brian movie, you’re already familiar with this approach from writers emerging from Christian worldviews.
Ultimately, my favorite chapter of Satanic Verses is one of the several allegorical visions that alternate with the main plot. It involves a village that has become extremely devout due to the power of a prophetess and is now embarking on an arduous pilgrimage on foot to Mecca. The chapter’s title, “The Parting of the Arabian Sea,” indicates what the final obstacle will be for these pilgrims. I suppose one could walk away from this chapter and say “wow, Rushdie really portrayed some truths about the darkness of religious extremism,” but I came away feeling like this was Rushdie’s acknowledgment about the power of faith and some of the downsides of steadfast skepticism.
Faith is a well. One can draw strength from it, but that well can be poisoned. In a desert with no other reservoirs, one can become so dependent that it leaves you vulnerable to corruption. But in the harsh conditions of reality, an oasis can still be the only reason we preserve and find respite.
I guess I just felt like Rushdie’s views on the faith background he came from are a little more nuanced and complex than the discourse would have you think.
