
Salman Rushdie has returned from the brink, bearing the artfully penned account of his near-death experience. “Knife,” his first book since the 2022 stabbing that partially blinded him and put him in the hospital, intricately revisits the day he almost lost his life.
Rushdie, with unflinching intensity, paints the scene of the crime. “On a bright and hopeful Friday morning in upstate New York, 15 minutes shy of 11 o’clock on August 12, 2022, I was assaulted on stage at Chautauqua’s amphitheater, barely escaping death by a knife-wielding young man, moments after I stepped up to discuss safeguarding the sanctity of writers,” he vividly depicts in the book’s opening paragraphs.
With a slightly over 200-page content, “Knife” contrasts with the usual grandiosity of Rushdie’s literary opus. This memoir also marks his first since “Joseph Anton,” a 2012 work recounting the fear and turmoil in the aftermath of the death sentence decreed upon him by Iran’s Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. The religious leader was incensed by the perceived sacrilegious content in Rushdie’s book “The Satanic Verses.”
Living a life on the run, under constant guard, became Rushdie’s reality. Over time though, the immediate peril faded into the background. Rushdie had begun to relish a fulfilling life of engagement and imagination, weaving tales into novels like “Quichotte” and “Victory City.”
“Knife”, subtitled “Meditations After an Attempted Murder,” reflects Rushdie’s musings about the threat that had returned unexpectedly. The attack, he writes, felt “anachronistic,” like an old specter risen to settle old scores. In his memoir, he refers to the day before the attack, August 11, as his “last innocent evening.”
Of greater interest than its gruesome and shocking accounts of the assault, are the glimmers of indomitable spirit that resonate within the pages of “Knife,” an echo of his previous works.
Rushdie lauds the “absolute bravery,” the physical audacity of Henry Reese, the event moderator who seized the attacker. He writes about the different form of bravery, one composed of resilience, hope, and even a dash of humor in the face of trauma. This is the saga of his struggle from a puddle of his own blood to a triumphant return, 13 months later, to the same stage, finding solace within a state of “wounded happiness.”
Folded into the narrative of “Knife” is the acknowledgment that his life’s tapestry, even in these past two years, is woven of more threads than just a violent act. He devotedly writes of his meeting and subsequent marriage to poet Rachel Eliza Griffiths. The chapter describes the captivating smile she revealed when they first met at a PEN America event in 2017, a memory he treasured. Griffiths was in New York City when news of the stabbing reached her. Without delay, she rushed to his side on a private plane, being told that he was unlikely to survive. “I wasn’t dead,” Rushdie informs us. “I was in surgery.”
As he convalesced, the saddening news of his dear friend Martin Amis’ critical illness reached him. Rushdie and Amis were part of a distinguished circle of British friends that also included Christopher Hitchens and Ian McEwan. He reminisces about Amis’ warm encouragement post-attack, and his novels “London Fields” and “Money,” highlighting the tenderness of their friendship. Amis passed away in May 2023.
Throughout the book, Hadi Matar – the charged assailant – is referred to as “The A.,” short for “The Ass,” or “Asinine man.” Rushdie pens an unlikely dialogue, a hypothetical conversation with “The A.” Not desiring an apology, but rather out of curiosity, he wondered how “The A.” felt after considerable time to mull things over.
Following hospitalization, he was able to return to a semblance of normality – stronger in body and mind, attending annual events like the PEN America gala, and drawing strength from heartfelt messages of support. He was even buoyed by commendations from heads of state, including President Joe Biden who lauded Rushdie’s courage in “sharing ideas without fear.”
Rushdie shares an intimate revelation: the closeness of death can imbue a profound loneliness while the words of others can foster a sense of companionship, reminding him, “that maybe you haven’t lived and worked in vain.”