A sumptuous feast of a book. I spent two whole days devouring this treat and feel pretty full up. The bibliography at the back alludes to the extensive research the author conducted, and as you flick through the rich tapestry between the pages, it shows. It takes some chutzpah to create an Akbar who intones: 'is there a god?' 'are we not members of the religion of our forebears passed down from generation to generation like a family heirloom?' - God forbid an atheistic Akbar?! - Moghul King gone haywire; but you can see Salman had huge fun creating this larger than life personality and giving him a totally unexpected quirk; imbibing him with his own sense of whimsy and the absurdity of creation. To the chagrin of the other female princesses Akbar even goes as far as to magically 'create' an imaginary princess of princesses. Most beautiful, most sexed, and not at all sycophantic like the others; this perfect female creation of his mind is disdainful and rebukes him for his puppy love sickness, teasing him with vicious sex games and clawing at his skin with finger nails. The novel traipses between the Indian city of Sikri and the Florence of Machiavelli (who even manages to make an entrance) - the two cities connected by the magical filigrees of a dainty story about a beautiful princess and a yellow haired charlatan. There is much here to like. Such as the sexual habits of the Moghul court replete with scheming concubines, lecherous wenches, love potions, performance enhancing 'horse testes' rubs, sodomy, sado-masochistic sex, debauchery, and Akbars retinue of advisers; all characters themselves. One thing you come out of this book appreciating, if anything, is how sexed the Moghuls were. No wonder Akbar is believed to have sired hundreds if not thousands of spawns. A virtuoso performance indeed. No, not Akbar, I meant Salman.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Currently reading...The Enchantress of Florence
A sumptuous feast of a book. I spent two whole days devouring this treat and feel pretty full up. The bibliography at the back alludes to the extensive research the author conducted, and as you flick through the rich tapestry between the pages, it shows. It takes some chutzpah to create an Akbar who intones: 'is there a god?' 'are we not members of the religion of our forebears passed down from generation to generation like a family heirloom?' - God forbid an atheistic Akbar?! - Moghul King gone haywire; but you can see Salman had huge fun creating this larger than life personality and giving him a totally unexpected quirk; imbibing him with his own sense of whimsy and the absurdity of creation. To the chagrin of the other female princesses Akbar even goes as far as to magically 'create' an imaginary princess of princesses. Most beautiful, most sexed, and not at all sycophantic like the others; this perfect female creation of his mind is disdainful and rebukes him for his puppy love sickness, teasing him with vicious sex games and clawing at his skin with finger nails. The novel traipses between the Indian city of Sikri and the Florence of Machiavelli (who even manages to make an entrance) - the two cities connected by the magical filigrees of a dainty story about a beautiful princess and a yellow haired charlatan. There is much here to like. Such as the sexual habits of the Moghul court replete with scheming concubines, lecherous wenches, love potions, performance enhancing 'horse testes' rubs, sodomy, sado-masochistic sex, debauchery, and Akbars retinue of advisers; all characters themselves. One thing you come out of this book appreciating, if anything, is how sexed the Moghuls were. No wonder Akbar is believed to have sired hundreds if not thousands of spawns. A virtuoso performance indeed. No, not Akbar, I meant Salman.
