Salman Rushdie

I was born in the city of Bombay . . . once upon a time. No, that won’t do, there’s no getting away from the date: I was born in Doctor Narlikar’s Nursing Home on August 15th, 1947. . . . On the stroke of midnight, as a matter of fact.

Not even the visionary or mystical experience ever lasts very long. It is for art to capture that experience, to offer it to, in the case of literature, its readers; to be, for a secular, materialist culture, some sort of replacement for what the love of god offers in the world of faith.

Most of what matters in your life takes place in your absence.

Woe to that nation whose literature is cut short by the intrusion of force.

A book is a version of the world. If you do not like it, ignore it; or offer your own version in return.

Our lives teach us who we are.

After a long, hopeless war, people will settle for peace, at almost any price.

English, no longer an English language, now grows from many roots; and those whom it once colonized are carving out large territories within the language for themselves. The Empire is striking back.

There is no magic on earth strong enough to wipe out the legacies of one’s parents.

FROM THE BEGINNING MEN USED GOD TO JUSTIFY THE UNJUSTIFIABLE.

Reality is a question of perspective; the further you get from the past, the more concrete and plausible it seems—but as you approach the present, it inevitably seems incredible.

One of the things a writer is for is to say the unsayable, speak the unspeakable and ask difficult questions.

It means everything—it means freedom.

What is freedom of expression? Without the freedom to offend, it ceases to exist.