I never know how to rate memoirs because of the extremely personal - and in this case, intense - experiences of the author. Salman Rushdie is an incredible writer, and it’s been a while since I’ve read any of his work. I forgot how FUNNY he is, even when writing about nearly dying. The only thing I disliked about this book was that the chapter where he’s imagining a conversation with the assailant was a bit long and overdrawn, and I could’ve done without some of the graphic descriptions of the eye but that is because I am a Certified Squeamish Baby (TM).

This would probably not be a great entry point to Rushdie, but definitely worth reading if/when you have experienced some of his work already.