In this work by the most famous novelist of our time, S. Rushdie, his artistic skill and scale as a writer were vividly embodied. This is a love story, a story of rock music and a meditation on the fate of people and our planet itself in today's globalizing world.

Annotations from the dust jacket:* * *Works by Salman Rushdie, born in India (in 1947) and now living in Great Britain, have long and firmly entered the annals of world literature. His second novel, Midnight's Children (1981), was awarded the Booker Prize, the most prestigious award in the field of English-language literature, as well as the Booker of Bookers Prize as the best novel received this award in twenty-five years. Salman Rushdie is a recipient of the French Order of Literature in the Arts. In 2007, he was awarded a knighthood by the Queen of Great Britain, and in 2008, Rushdie received the honorary Best Booker Prize, established in honor of the 40th anniversary of the Booker Prize.* * *The alchemy of music is as secret as mathematics, wine or love . We may or may not have learned it from birds. Maybe we're just beings eternally seeking the ultimate delight. There is already undeservedly little of it in our lives, which, you see, is painfully imperfect. Music turns it into something else. It opens to us a world worthy of our aspirations, shows us what we could become if we were allowed into it.S. Rushdie* * *This is a book-myth, a book-universe. This is a novel about love-miracle, love-madness. Orpheus with a guitar is trying to bring back to life his Eurydice, who was swallowed up by the earth - perhaps as a punishment? to salvation? This is a novel about music, about rock and roll and its triumph. A strong, fascinating, multi-layered book about life and death, reality and fiction, about how closely intertwined everything in this world is and how fragile it is, this world - after all, the patience of the earth is not endless.

The Earth is Beneath Ours feet. Tunnels of pipes and wires, buried underground cemeteries, layers of uncertainty of the past. Gaps in the earth's crust into which our history goes and disappears, passing into a different state. Underworlds we dare not think about. Among the eternal - good-evil, meaning-meaninglessness, etc. - human problems, there is also such a deep conflict between the idea of Home and the idea of a Foreign Land, the dream of roots and the mirage of the path. You can rush off your treadmill, leaving behind family, clan, nation and race, passing invulnerable through the minefields of taboo, until you find yourself at the final limit, the most forbidden of doors. You cross the final boundary, and then—then it may turn out that you have gone too far, and you are destroyed.S. Rushdie