I read the Enchantress of Florence, and it was good. Surprisingly, because the last Rushdie I read was sad to behold. Shalimar The Clown was a pale shadow of his erstwhile genius, a sad imitation of an inimitable style. The Enchantress seemed to be heading in that direction. The prose was convoluted, the descriptions perfectly oriental and the ease with which it flows even hint at lazy writing by this master. But the book is anything but lazy. I am certain it was heavily researched and then a bulk of the research was summarily discarded.
What is brilliant, so brilliant about the Enchantress? Two things, one of course is magic. The old world seen as magical, not trivial tricks or wizardly wonders. The magic of witches or women, whores or mothers. Within his characters he personifies perfectly the desires which bind us to them. The pull of adventure, power, playful experimental invigorating sexuality. And the other, not unrelated kind of magic that holds the world together. The sorcery of kings, the cursed that set history into motion and the omens that usher in great events. And of course stories and tales and histories, untempered by reason, or that oh so boring obsession with chronology that passes of as time. Bringing to being, opening up a world. A Heideggerian exercise in creation. "To carve out from the earth and set forth a world."
Rushdie has done what he does best, told stories about storytelling. Seen history, not as history but within the vocabulary of its time. Anachronistic? How could it not be. But that is hardly the point.
And lastly, he has examined once again how a world disappears and is replaced. How enchantments fade and gods die. How backward causation ends dynasties. It doesnt end well, but then none of his stories do.
Every story teller re-invents his masterpiece and regurgitates it for the rest of us. This is an excellent re-invention.
