And Yet... by Christopher Hitchens

The renegades would then depart and be relieved of their uniforms while the armed forces attacked the house, blew it to bits and murdered the dead militants all over again for public consumption.
    Through this tournament of shadows the figure of Shalimar/Noman moves inexorably, kept alive by his unslakable thirst for private revenge on the American Jew who so deftly seduced his beautiful wife. From the frozen mountains of the north he beams a telepathic message to Los Angeles: Everything I do prepares me for you and for him. Every blow I strike, strikes you or him. The people leading us up here are fighting for God or for Pakistan but I am killing because it is what I have become. I have become death.
    That last line is easily recognizable from another Indian epic, the Bhagavad Gita—“I am become death: the shatterer of worlds.” These, as I recall, were the very words mouthed by Robert Oppenheimer as he saw the flash and felt the fire at Alamogordo.
    This fusion of the psychopathic with the apocalyptic—surely the essence of “terror” in our time—is transferred to America by another “factive” passage, this one interleaving Noman’s presence in Los Angeles with the riots of 1992 and with the first attempt to bring down the World Trade Center, in 1993. Anonymous though he may prefer to be, Noman actually fits rather well into the crazed world of LA celebrity defendants, special wings for same in the LA countyjail, and special attorneys for same in the LA courts. He also mingles fairly effortlessly with the city’s proliferating gang-and-maximum-security scene. One of his targets, meanwhile (I seek to give away as little as possible), has become an adept in the parallel world of private security—the latter being an area of expertise in which Mr. Rushdie requires no lessons from anyone.
    This is a highly serious novel, on an extremely serious subject, by a deeply serious man. It is not necessary to assimilate all the details of the conflict in Kashmir in order to read it. Nor is it necessary to favor one or another solution, though we get a hint from the epigraph page—Mercutio’s “plague on both your houses,” from Romeo and Juliet —of Rushdie’s opinion of Indian and Pakistani policy. Rather than seek for anything as trite as a “message,” I should guess that Rushdie is telling us, No more Macondos. No more Shangri-las, if it comes to that. Gone is the time when anywhere was exotic or magical or mythical, or even remote. Shalimar’s clown mask has been dropped, and his acrobatics have become a form of escape artistry by which he transports himself into “our” world. As he himself says in closing his ominous message of Himalayan telepathy, I’ll be there soon enough.
    ( The Atlantic , September 2005)

My Red-State Odyssey

    I T ISN’T RECENT, this psychic partition between the red and the blue states of our Union. One hundred years after the Emancipation Proclamation, the late Daniel Patrick Moynihan—a quintessential northeastern big-city boy, even if he was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma—was an assistant secretary in the “New Frontier” administration when he heard the news that his president had been shot dead in Dallas. While everyone else in Washington was rushing around, shouting importantly about going to the shelters or about “the loss of American innocence,” Moynihan called everyone he knew. The main thing, he insisted, was to “get Oswald out of Dallas.” If anything happened to him while he was in the custody of the Dallas PD, the tragedy and the mystery would last forever. Before everything, before anything, secure the prisoner Oswald.
    That’s it, in a way, for a lot of people I know. The states of the former Confederacy are not quite American. The inhabitants—of course one strives to avoid cliché, let alone the deadly word “stereotype”—are perhaps