I cannot find it in myself to distinguish - perhaps it is because I am too close to the subject: myself - whether with the passage of time into the status of an elderly reader,  that I have become somewhat crotchety in my expectations, or simply more discriminating and fastidious in my ability to recognize and appreciate the worthwhile.

I always thought I had that faculty.  I always felt that, having selected with some degree of deliberation, a book that I would read, I was then committed to honour its author.  In the sense that, one should always complete a book before drawing any conclusions about its full value.  Lately it seems I've been deviating hugely from that commitment.  I have begun setting aside those (admittedly few) books, sometimes by writers whose other work I've hugely appreciated) that don't meet expectations.

I don't feel my expectations as a reader are immense and by their nature difficult to meet and even transcend.  Above all, the book's purpose should be a useful one; to entertain, to elucidate, to educate, enlighten, amuse.  The criteria are universal.  Relevance in a social, educative sense is never out of place, nor is presenting a topic with a unique perspective, meant to draw the reader in to the reality that there are many perspectives and many approaches to understanding the human condition and life in general.

Salman Rushdie's novel The Ground Beneath Her Feet, which has received immensely enthusiastic reception from literary critics: "Nearly every page of The Ground Beneath Her Feet offers something to arrest a devoted reader's attention....  No novelist currently writing in English does so with more energy, intelligence, and allusiveness than Rushdie" according to Time, has been a total loss for me.

Not only a loss, but an inexpressible waste of time.  It is the work of a self-admiring literary giant whose reputation is such that any trivial, banal, inconsequential work can receive hosannas of insincere admiration.  This novel is so weighted with dismal inscriptions to pop art, and admittedly clever but ultimately meaningless and trite comparisons to demonstrate the writer's cleverly ironic mindset, that it wearies any attempt on my part to slog through it.

Rock n'Roll, which is the signal named value of this novel in its universal acclaim and appeal to the masses for whom that kind of music framed the events of their lives, becomes the central theme, alongside the precocious claim of a famed Indian star of having 'invented' it before it ever became thematically North American; its origin denied as it was hijacked, and the anguish it caused its initiator whose paranormal experiences gave it birth.

The fanciful novel, as it expands and releases its inventive story line simply is not capable of carrying this reader's interest, resulting instead in irritation surpassing anticipation.  A complete and utter dud of a story relying heavily on fable and clever 'allusiveness'.  It should never have seen publication, and Salmon Rushdie is surely capable of better, far better than this?

One-third of the way through this epic is more than enough for me, exhausting my store of patience, overriding my wish to honour an author by completing his literary production.  Ugh.