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The Moor’s Last Sigh was almost exactly what I expected it to be: a sprawling family drama written with vibrancy and pulsing with layers of foreign mysticism. However, something was missing. Yes, the characters were larger than life and uniquely distinct. Yes, there were magical undercurrents inhabiting almost every nook. Yes, there was exposure to culture in an in your face kind of way that effectively transplanted you. But somehow, despite all the trimmings and embellishments for greatness, something just wasn't right� and I suspect it had all to do with the plot.

I was bored too many times with this one. Bored not for lack of activity, but bored because the activity that was going on took on a plodding and methodical approach. The Moor begins his narration hinting at a personal trauma that invades his life, and the reader is left on anticipatory pins and needles as one awaits this in the lion’s den moment for the Moor. But before we get to that tragedy, we are taken on a journey into the detailed history of the day to day of his family’s ancestors, starting with a great grandmother and several emasculated uncles, then working its way down the genealogical tree to the Moor’s heralded birth. Usually I am on board for these kinds of narratives, for in families of a kooky caliber such as this, one is exposed to all manner of voodoo and intrigue, which always leads to a good read. However, I could not help but feel that in the process of describing everyone but himself, that the narrator felt more like a casual observer than an actual partaker for most of the novel. Though I was very into learning how this parent meant that parent, or how that relative beat up that relative, I still found myself wishing the Moor’s story would just start happening sooner.

For even though the last third of the novel does focus on him, there were still distractions that made even his ascent into manhood come across with a whimper. The focus felt always elsewhere, either on the politics of India as told by a gossip columnist, or on the unpredictable happenings of his steel-blooded and unlikable mother, Aurora. Once again not bad distractions should you need one, but I felt that the story of the Moor, who enters the world deformed of hand and with a form of progeria that laces him immediately with distinction and magic, was strong enough to stand on its own without the superfluous disturbances that took away from me really identifying with the Moor like I should have.

I feel ultimately unsure of why this one somewhat failed, because even mentioning the above seems like an exaggerated and nitpicky heresy of sorts. The writing at times was beautiful, as one would expect from Rushdie, but at times the writing also felt like muck that I had to maneuver through in order to get to the end. I hope over the course of my life to read more Rushdie, but somehow this one makes me want to hold off before I enter that desert of an experience again. Pound for pound, this was a well written book by a well-known author, but somehow it did not leave a taste in my mouth that I am yearning to experience again.