The mere thought of a sharp knife slicing into your body makes your eyes squint shut as you desperately shift your mind to something – anything – less gruesome. It’s unpleasant, it’s gory and it’s repulsive. Now imagine someone whose body has not been slashed once, but 27 horrific times.
Imagine losing an eye and the permanent use of one hand, bearing scars across your body that remind you of the attack each morning as you step into the shower. Salman Rushdie endured exactly this nightmare in August 2023, and in his book, Knife, he pens down the meditations that arose from the aftermath.
This was my first brush with Rushdie’s writing. When The Satanic Verses exploded onto bookshelves in the late ’80s, Rushdie became a household name, though not entirely due to literary merit alone.
In February 1989, Iran’s then-Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Khomeini, notoriously issued a fatwa sentencing Rushdie to death. Controversy has shadowed him ever since. Fame and notoriety had become his new reality.
I distinctly remember my dad talking about an author named Rushdie (whose first name he never knew), sentenced to death by an Iranian cleric. My dad hadn’t read the book, he couldn’t – because the book was banned shortly after in India and several other countries with significant Muslim populations.
“If you are afraid of the consequences of what you say, then you are not free.” – Salman Rushdie
Coming back to Knife, Rushdie chronicles the days leading up to August 12, 2022, as well as his arduous journey toward recovery. Over 209 compelling pages, Rushdie weaves through events with a non-linear narrative, frequently revisiting the turbulent era surrounding the release of The Satanic Verses.
The memoir delves into his family history, offering flashes from his childhood in India, alongside deeply personal revelations about Rachel Eliza Griffiths – the American poet and the love of his life. Though Rushdie had endured four failed marriages, his heartfelt portrayal of his relationship with Griffiths suggests he has finally found lasting companionship.
Relationships aside, Rushdie skillfully sprinkles dark humor amidst visceral descriptions of the attack and the painful aftermath of recuperation. I found myself chuckling at his wry recounting of awkward post-operative procedures and his amusingly nicknamed caregivers – doctors and nurses humorously anonymized with funny pseudonyms.
What particularly distinguishes Knife is Rushdie’s thoughtful engagement with his attacker. While most victims would wish only the worst upon their assailants, Rushdie dedicates an entire chapter attempting to decipher the mindset of his attacker.
Without ever naming him (he calls him simply “A”), Rushdie reconstructs the journey and psychological shift of Hadi Matar following a transformative visit to Lebanon. A fictional dialogue between Rushdie and “A” imagining a potential confrontation pending sentencing stands out as a powerful highlight – this imaginary depiction also underscores Rushdie’s remarkable craft as a writer.
In a profound penultimate chapter aptly titled Second Chance, Rushdie reveals a poignant realization: following the near-fatal attack, he and Griffiths consciously abandoned their long-term outlook in favor of adopting a philosophy rooted in short-term living.
Here’s my conclusion: whether or not you agree with Rushdie’s religious or political views – and trust me, I often don’t – his literary prowess is undeniable. His vivid and immediate account of trauma echoed, for me, Joan Didion’s profound meditations in The Year of Magical Thinking.
Although Rushdie thankfully survived his ordeal, his depiction of shock and grief mirrored Didion’s resonant exploration of loss. Both these great authors, in the periods of their trials, share a unique strength: the extraordinary ability to evoke the deepest human emotions with honest, clarity and haunting precision.
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