By TESSA YANG

COLUMNIST

Just what is Professor Malik Solanka so furious about? Is it the corruption of his beloved character “Little Brain” from a fearless intellectual into a brainless pop star? Is it himself, for abandoning his wife and son? Is it the odd cast of New York neighbors who can not differentiate between a conversation that should be private and one they should broadcast through the city streets? Or is it, in fact, something altogether darker and more abstract—the return of ancient, destructive forces to a fast-paced, modern society that has tried and failed to throw them out?

Salmon Rushdie’s Fury explores all these possibilities and more as it follows the trials of Malik Solanka, who has fled his London home to “lose himself” in the great gleaming haven of New York. In part, a biting criticism of globalization, at once a ludicrous romp through the city’s colorful characters, the novel’s true brilliance is its ability to have you questioning at all times the trustworthiness of its narrator. Solanka is not a particularly reliable source of information. He suppresses the details of his painful past, makes fantastically undeserved judgments about the women in his life and regularly blacks out during insomniac treks through the city streets. When it emerges that the city’s wealthiest young women are being murdered by someone dubbed the “Concrete Killer,” Solanka’s first terrified thought is it that he must be the culprit, and the reader cannot provide any evidence to the contrary.

Despite his flaws (and the list goes on for miles: egoism, immaturity, misogyny, impulsiveness, a hasty temper…), I saw the novel as painting a largely sympathetic portrait of its main character. You could certainly use this as a critique of Rushdie, especially where the misogyny is concerned. Solanka ruthlessly objectifies women, and the author seems to validate this tendency by presenting him with a love interest who very conveniently enjoys putting on a pretty display for the drooling male public. Furthermore, the final revelation of Solanka’s traumatic childhood may function as cop-out for his behavior, as in, “I know he’s a bit of a jackass, but he suffered, so it’s OK.” My class argued for a while as to the merit of these narrative ploys. What it boils down to is whether you see this as a sexist book or a book about a sexist character. For me, it was the latter. I very much enjoyed Fury and remained interested in Solanka’s journey, though I would stop short of wanting him as my next-door neighbor.