Rating: 
Summary: Rushdie's Glorious Ego Once Again On Display
Review: Rushdie once again demonstrates his gloriously pompous, non-sensical literary stylings in his latest novel, "..Ground beneath her feet." As in his previous published works, Rushdie bombards the reader with his narcissisticly overwrought vocabulary and phrasings, e.g. Instead of just saying that his parents were not religious, Rushdie gives us - "My parents gave me the gift of irreligion, of growing up without bothering to ask people what gods they held dear.... You may argue that the gift was a poisoned chalice, but even if so, that's a cup from which I'd happily drink again." - whew! This sort of mental masturbation is almost as draining for the reader as it is for the writer. Almost as irritating as the tedious verbosity here is the interminable allusions to rock and roll and western pop-culture. As in all of his writings and in his public interviews, Rushdie seems intent on proving to the world that he is not a typical product of Pakistan or of Islam, but a free thinking spirit of supreme intellect and posessed of a depth of knowledge about western cultural trivia unmatched by even the likes of an American pop icon such as Dennis Miller himself. Rushdie's pathetic attempt at satirizing the rock-and-roll world with his fictionalizing of real-life trivia (e.g. Carly Simon and Guinevere Garfunkle sang "Bridge Over Troubled Water" (ha ha ha), or Madison Cruiseship sang "White Rabbit", etc.) will please other similarly deluded, middle-aged self-ordained intellectuals who have convinced themselves that they were an integral part of the 60's generation or movement or experience or whatever. With Rushdie's continued display of his collosal ego and utterly humorless satire, one begins to understand the loathing which a large part of the world harbors for this behemoth of vanity.
Rating: 
Summary: He's lost his muse
Review: Rushdie is a master of prose, but along with that craft mustalso come a story. Alas, in the final analysis, THE GROUND BENEATH HERFEET is simply boring. Some nice language play and nifty phraseology, but no real story. In reading through all the reviews here, I see where some readers have recommended an alternative author, Glenn Kleier as the "Salman Rushdie of Christianity." I've read Kleier's THE LAST DAY, and concur. THE LAST DAY is brilliant, bitingly funny, and hugely provocative--which is what Rushdie used to be (and hopefully will be again). Until then, I direct you to Kleier for an exciting and challenging ride on a razor's edge. But I admit, I will sample again Mr. Rushdie's next effort.
Rating: 
Summary: Could not put it down!
Review: The master does it again. Only Rushdie and Pynchon make me savoir each word in a novel. This book is a joy. I am sending copies to all my friends.
Rating:
Summary: love Vina - miss profoundness
Review: I got through and loved Vina. However, The Ground Beneath.. wasn't deep enough to compare to the incredulous Moor. Mr. Rushdie, I believe, does not have an as profound or grown knowledge of the Western culture as no doubt he has of the Indian (like no other). Thus I find the story less convincing and catching (at times I was about to give up). I miss the deep underlying understanding which to me has characterised Mr. Rushdie's phantastic past works.
Rating:
Summary: good, but not brilliant.
Review: I am a (relatively) recent convert to the charms of Rushdie's pen. Midnight's childen did nothing for me, as was the case with Jaguars tale, and shame. But ever since that classic that got him in a spot of hot water, I have been an admirer. three books since, each a work of artSo i suppose one dud every decade is quite reasonable. This, i'm afraid, is one of those rare occasions that i found myself reaching for an economics paper rather than turn another page. Not that it does not entertain. His power, nay, his magical mastery, his cunning with the written word is beyond doubt. But this is a book where there is too much information being imparted. It takes on a sort of whine. It seems to be an introspection into the life of the cultural nomad, the self-exiled, the 'you can never go gome again' realisation. Torn between several cultures is the theme that cries out, and while this has been the theme of several of his books, it has lost its freshness simply because he has said it so many way (and so many times) before. But more than that, his longing for bombay, the pain and weight of his nostalgia seem to take over this book. I empathise, Mr Rushdie, but, please, not on my dime. The one thing that struck me about the works of Rushdie in general is the parallel between his work and that of umberto eco. With Eco one leaves the book wondering, how much fiction is there in between the facts. In Rushdie's case one wonders how much fact there is behind the fantasy.
Rating:
Summary: v... t... ohhhhh...
Review: what can i say besides that this book was amazing?!? it's one of the best i've ever read, and i've read quite a bit. it's *extremely* well-written, every single sentence is interesting. you just get completely drawn into it. i'd set down the book and go outside thinking that vto is the greatest band in the world (when we all know that U2 is ;) ) and that, you know -- there's always danger of an earthquake, because the world *is* coming apart at the seams. i know it sounds crazy, but only a really good book can do that. this is the first novel of salman rushdie's i've read, and though i can't imagine another book being any better, i'm definitely going to check out his other stuff. (oooh tar baby)
Rating: 
Summary: Brilliantly innovative, though lacks depth and dimensions
Review: If you're looking for the socio-political irony of Midnight's Children or the structural complexity, analysis of religion and parallel allegories about human suffering a la The Satanic Verses, this book is going to disappoint you.Though the characters from Satanic Verses and Moor's Last Sigh appear in this new novel,the poignancy of his earlier efforts are missing.The lion's share of this book is devoted to a larger than life couple who also happen to be rock stars per excellence and much has been made about their almost divine and mythological affair,none of which remains too convincing till the end. Frequent and erudite references to the characters of Greek Mythology doesn't also necessarily help. Though most of his rock lyrics are top-notch(the rest fails miserably) and his knowledge about rock and blues and jazz music is quite convincing, you'll get a feeling he ain't really comfortable with this particular genre of music. He doesn't seem to be sure how he feels about rock and so when he tries to portray the dark and hedonistic side of the rockn'roll world, he sounds like a bored journalist. The spontaneity is missing, believe me. He seems to have been way too much impressed by America and it's vibrant, colorful but naive ways, impressed like a child in whose mind cynicism hasn't yet crept in. Vina, the rock diva, and her troubled american childhood seem absurd at the best, never bleak enough to be poignant. Or is Rushdie trying to create an world of absolute lightness ? If you look at the protagonist, Umeed 'Rai' Merchant, secret lover of Vina and friend of Vina's 'great' lover Ormus, and Rai's 'human heroism' against childhood loses, alienation, unrequitted love and his constant strive for artistic excellence(photography is the form),you'll find a voice which resembles Rushdie the most, at least the Rushdie whom we used to know and you'll be surprised to realize that this infatuation of his with the joy of superficiality is a,well, infatuation. First 400 odd pages are brilliant, comparable to Rushdie at his best but then onwards it's a steady decline. There are moments of liguistic innovativeness and brilliantly thought-provoking observations , but then the whole thing doesn't stand together like it should've been.The modern sci-fi cliche of parallel but occassionally inter-woven universes and big crunches in individual universe almost sound like a B-Grade Hollywood Sci-Fi thriller. And the earthquakes, I guess I might've missed a few allegorical refernces to the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice and all that, but then this symbolism has been overused in this novel of excesses. Just a curiosity, the book is dedicated to 'Milan'; is it Milan Kundera the czech/french novelist who in his 'Testaments Betrayed'has rightly glorified 'The Satanic Verses' to be one of the greatest modern novel ? I guess he'll be shocked to discover his buddy Rushdie's singular affinity to rock music and lightness, both of which he proudly hates. And Rushdie would do better not to hobnob with his U2 pals too much, Bone and edge are goner as soon as they've released 'Pop'. Now We don't want Rushdie to release his unpublished till now short-stories, do we ? And a consolation : Rushdie at his worst is still better than the most, and so the above 4 stars are quite justified.
Rating:
Summary: He's not for everyone
Review: In 1982, I picked up a paperback edition of *Midnight's Children* in London, partly because I have a long-term interest in modern Indian fiction and partly because I had, strangely, never heard of the name "Salman" and it caught my attention. Once I started the novel, I could not put it down, and since then I have read everything Rushdie has written as soon as I could get my hands on it. For every novel except *The Moor's Last Sigh*, he passes my "ultimate readability test": as soon as I finish the novel, I immediately turn back to the first page and start it again. I don't know what happened with *The Moor's Last Sigh* but I suspect it may have been something about my own state; someday I'll give the book another go. Anyway, as soon as I got my copy of *The Ground Beneath Her Feet* last spring, I read the first few pages and realized I was going to be unable to put it down (again); at that moment, I just didn't have time to get pulled into Rushdie's world. So I put the book aside until last week. I'm now into the second read and am enchanted. Reading the comments below reinforces my awareness that Rushdie, like all strong flavors, isn't for everyone. The things some other readers complain about are sometimes for me the best things about his work. I've never felt Rushdie's strength (or even perhaps his aim) was the creation of memorable "characters" in the traditional sense--they don't walk in and take residence in my mind as do, say, the characters of Dickens or Hardy. They are more permeable, shiftier, less "visualizable" than those. But his swooping, looping plots, his pyrotechnical language, his creation of a universe simultaneously like and unlike the one we think we live in, his interweaving of myth, allusion, consciousness, magic--all these things that one seems either to love or to hate--I confess to loving. *The Ground Beneath Her Feet* seems to me a triumphant example of one of Rushdie's recurrent concerns: the power of storytelling. A slightly jarring note was a few pages of what read like an imitation of Doris Lessing--I'm still not sure what's going on there. But then Rushdie is always knocking me off-balance in one way or another. My only real complaint about his latest novel is that, like his others, it is over far too soon. For me, his novels are never long enough.
Rating:
Summary: Not Rushdie's best, but brilliant nonetheless.
Review: Salman Rushdie has expunged any semblance I had of a writing career. I read his books and think to myself, I could never be that good. It all started with Midnight's Children. Since then I've been a devotee. I've just finished The Ground Beneath her Feet and never has Rushdie been more vivid,epic, and engrossing. Rai is a true hero for our times, the new Noam Chomsky. The book falters with Rushdie's pedantic use of all things American. The ink in his pen is the blood of India from his veins. He can't exscape it. He tries to exchange Manhattan for Bombay, but there's no contest when Rushdie is the writer.
Rating:
Summary: Not Rushdie! Written by his brain damaged, deceased twin.
Review: Although Rushdie still weaves moments of literary magic, this work is beneath his ability. Perhaps he fails because he has a only superficial familiarity with the culture of (or lack of culture of) American and Rock and Roll. The result is one dimensional, barely believable characters who he attempts to fill out by having them use volumes of profanity. One might think that this work was written after the author has suffered untreated depression or has completed an exhaustive review of the post WWII French existentialists and has come away with the impression that all of life is for nothing. I am disheartened by this work of free associations, convenient plot resolutions, political tirades and the portrayal of life as futility. Before reading this (twice) I had ranked Rushdie as a great genius. I hope he finds that genius again. The reader, Cazenove, is excellent and if I see his name again as a reader, it would influence me to buy the audiobook.
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