Some quotes from Salman Rushdie’s story (New Yorker 2001-06-16):
“What is the digital equivalent of lovely? he wondered. What are the digits that encode beauty, number-fingers that enclose, transform, transmit, decode, and somehow, in the process, fail to trap or choke the soul out of it? Not because of the technology but in spite of it, beauty, that ghost, that treasure, passes undiminished through the new machines.”
“Life is fury, he’d thought. Fury – sexual, Oedipal, political, magical, brutal – drives us to our finest heights and coarsest depths. Out of furia comes creation, inspiration, originality, passion, but also violence, pain, unafraid destruction, the giving and receiving of blows from which we never recover. The Furies pursue us; Shiva dances his furious dance to create and also to destroy. But never mind about gods! Sara, ranting at him, represented the human spirit in its purest, least socialized form. This is what we are, how we civilize ourselves to disguise the terrifying human animal in us – the exalted, transcendent, self-destructive, untrammelled lord of creation. We raise each other to the heights of joy. We tear each other limb from fucking limb.”
“Somewhere in the existing software there was a bug, a potentially lethal flaw. Nothing less than the unselfing of the self would do. If he could cleanse the whole machine, then maybe the bug, too, would end up in the trash.”