Who am I?
Who else is there?
The aircraft cracked in half, a seed-pod giving up its spores, an egg
yielding its mystery. Two actors, prancing Gibreel and buttony, pursed
Mr. Saladin Chamcha, fell like titbits of tobacco from a broken old
cigar. Above, behind, below them in the void there hung reclining seats,
stereophonic headsets, drinks trolleys, motion discomfort receptacles,
disembarkation cards, duty-free video games, braided caps, paper cups,
blankets, oxygen masks. Also -- for there had been more than a few
migrants aboard, yes, quite a quantity of wives who had been grilled by
reasonable, doing-their-job officials about the length of and
distinguishing moles upon their husbands' genitalia, a sufficiency of
children upon whose legitimacy the British Government had cast its
ever reasonable doubts -- mingling with the remnants of the plane,
equally fragmented, equally absurd, there floated the debris of the soul,
broken memories, sloughed-off selves, severed mother tongues, violated