I realized the other day that I didn’t have any fiction on the go. Poetry, a biography, a book of essays, but no fiction. This had to be corrected immediately! My Bookman has been urging me to read Salman Rushdie’s Haroun and the Sea of Stories since he read it about a year ago. Because my reading time has shrunk dramatically with the last few weeks of my library school quarter, I thought a book of short stories would be good.

And it would have been. But Haroun is not short stories, it is a novel. Bookman never called it short stories, I just assumed because of the “Sea of Stories” part of the title. It is perfectly fine that it is a novel. The chapters are short and the perfect length to fill twenty minutes of reading before bed.

I am so glad I finally picked up this book! It is truly delightful. It has a folk/ fairy tale quality and a sort of magical realism mixed with the absurd. It is playful at the same time it is serious and sad. And of course it is about the importance of storytelling.

I’ve only read two chapters and I want to swim in this sea of stories until my skin is all prune-y. It is a good thing the chapters are short or I would have difficulty stopping and stay up until the wee hours. It’s been a long time since 20 and such a maneuver would be bad. We needs our beauty sleep.

But to tease and tantalize you, here is how the book begins:

There was once, in the country of Alibay, a sad city, the saddest of cities, a city so ruinously sad that it had forgotten its name. It stood by a mournful sea full of glumfish, which were so miserable to eat that they made people belch with melancholy even though the skies were blue.

And it just gets better.

Off to work on school so maybe I can fit in a chapter of Haroun and a Sappho poem or two tonight.