Here's something I'll always repeat about Salman Rushdie's books: you can never write a summary about them! It's simply impossible! And you also can't remember all the details, or answer the question "what is the book about?". His books are undefinable, trying to tell what they are about requires an over simplification of the story and it's unfair to the book. This is my fourth Salman Rushdie book, and as always, reading it was an extreme experience. And as always I almost gave up after the first 100 pages, it was too much, too many details, too many stories in one story and just trying to keep track can borderline make you go nuts. But the reason why I didn't give up is because of the gratification I get from reading these stories, reaching that point where I get swallowed by them, where I daydream about them, that moment when every time I read, reality gets blurry, and then tiny explosions of joy take place in my brain and I just realize how much I f•••••• love reading his writing. So no real summary but snippets: a magically overwhelming India where kids born at midnight have magical powers, a story about big noses, food infused with guilt, people getting foggy, ghosts running around houses, wives picked from behind a hole in a sheet, destinies, betrayals, the wake of a Nation, love stories, women learning to love men one part at a time (except one particular part), and most of all about a childhood plagued with words and thoughts and a world too small to bear it. A pure delight, a crazy ride for constantly solicited imagination. And I can't get enough, and I can't wait to hate the first 100 pages of another Salman Rushdie book.