...Salman Rushdie Midnight's Children First published in 1981 Excerpts from the Koran come from the Penguin Classics edition, translated by N. J. Dawood, copyright (c) 1956, 1959,1966,1968,1974. for Zafar Rushdie who, contrary to all expectations, was born in the afternoon Contents Book One The perforated sheet Mercurochrome Hit-the-spittoon Under the carpet A public announcement Many-headed monsters Methwold Tick, tock Book Two The fisherman's pointing finger Snakes and ladders Accident in a washing-chest All-India radio Love in Bombay My tenth birthday At the Pioneer Cafe Alpha and Omega The Kolynos Kid Commander Sabarmati's baton Revelations Movements performed by pepperpots Drainage and the desert Jamila Singer How Saleem achieved purity Book Three The buddha In the Sundarbans Sam and the Tiger The shadow of the Mosque A wedding Midnight Abracadabra Book One The perforated sheet I was born in the city of Bombay ... once upon a time. No, that won't do, there's no getting away from the date: I was born in Doctor Narlikar's Nursing Home on August 15th, 1947. And the time? The time matters, too. Well then: at night. No, it's important to be more ... On the stroke of midnight, as a matter of fact. Clock-hands joined palms in respectful greeting as I came. Oh, spell it out, spell it out: at the precise instant of India's arrival at independence, I tumbled forth into the world. There were gasps. And, outside the...
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...Prologue Florence, 1283 The poet stood next to the bridge and watched as the young woman approached. The world ground to a near standstill as he remarked her wide, dark eyes and elegantly curled brown hair. At first he didn’t recognize her. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her movements sure and graceful. Yet there was something about her face and figure that reminded him of the girl he’d fallen in love with long ago. They’d gone their separate ways, and he had always mourned her, his angel, his muse, his beloved Beatrice. Without her, his life had been lonely and small. Now his blessedness appeared. As she approached him with her companions, he bowed his head and body in a chivalrous salute. He had no expectation that his presence would be acknowledged. She was both perfect and untouchable, a browneyed angel dressed in resplendent white, while he was older, world-weary and wanting. She had almost passed him when his downcast eyes caught sight of one of her slippers — a slipper that hesitated just in front of him. His heart beat a furious tattoo as he waited, breathless. A soft and gentle voice broke into his remembrances as she spoke to him kindly. His startled eyes flew to hers. For years and years he’d longed for this moment, dreamed of it even, but never had he imagined encountering her in such a serendipitous fashion. And never had he dared hope he would be greeted so sweetly. Caught off balance, he mumbled his pleasantries and allowed himself the indulgence of a smile...
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...errrCHAPTER 1 MOON. GLORIOUS MOON. FULL, FAT, REDDISH moon, the night as light as day, the moonlight flooding down across the land and bringing joy, joy, joy. Bringing too the full-throated call of the tropical night, the soft and wild voice of the wind roaring through the hairs on your arm, the hollow wail of starlight, the teeth-grinding bellow of the moonlight off the water. All calling to the Need. Oh, the symphonic shriek of the thousand hiding voices, the cry of the Need inside, the entity, the silent watcher, the cold quiet thing, the one that laughs, the Moondancer. The me that was not-me, the thing that mocked and laughed and came calling with its hunger. With the Need. And the Need was very strong now, very careful cold coiled creeping crackly cocked and ready, very strong, very much ready now—and still it waited and watched, and it made me wait and watch. I had been waiting and watching the priest for five weeks now. The Need had been prickling and teasing and prodding at me to find one, find the next, find this priest. For three weeks I had known he was it, he was next, we belonged to the Dark Passenger, he and I together. And that three weeks I had spent fighting the pressure, the growing Need, rising in me like a great wave that roars up and over the beach and does not recede, only swells more with every tick of the bright night's clock. But it was careful time, too, time spent making sure. Not making sure of the priest, no, I was long sure of him. Time spent to...
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