![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() In the north of the sad city stood mighty factories in which (so I’m told) sadness was actually manufactured, packaged and sent all over the world, which never seemed to get enough of it. It stood by a mournful sea full of glumfish, which were so miserable to eat that they made people belch with melancholy even though the skies were blue. There was once, in the country of Alifbay, a sad city, the saddest of cities, a city so ruinously sad that it had forgotten its name. I’m so stoked over this first page (page 15 in my edition) that here it is, in full: Rushdie is brilliant!īy the time I turned to the second page of Haroun and the Sea of Stories, I was grinning ear-to-ear, feeling like a ten-year-old in anticipation of a bedtime story. Only now do I realize how much I’ve missed out. It wasn’t until a decade later when I perused a list of his books that I realized he didn’t write The Terrible Book. This sour experience struck Rushdie from my list of intriguing authors. It wasn’t and I tanked multiple papers in succession. In college, I skimmed a terrible book* by Salman Rushdie and crossed my fingers that it would be relevant for two days of discussion then forgotten. ![]()
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