I fell in love with Rushdie when I read Midnight's Children because he so clearly loved his subject (India and Indians), and he made me love it too. Rushdie's writing is always wonderfully juicy and bawdy and unexpected and delightful, and you can expect the same from him with The Satanic Verses. However, for me, Satanic Verses is no Midnight's Children. 
 The fatwa calling for Rushdie's death by some Muslims was harder to understand than if the British had put out a contract on him for the libel and slander of Ellowen Deeowen (sound it out), because Rushdie is ruthless in his satire of London, and the English, and the racism that exists there. It would also have helped me appreciate Rushdie's humor and innuendos if I had been familiar with English landmarks and London streets, but I'm not. Pretty much through the whole book, I was just silently glad I wasn't English and didn't have to take the lampooning personally. 
 And I missed the love. Rushdie wrote this with a couple of bones to pick, and is completely justified in doing so, but a book written from anger, or disgust, or disillusionment while using satire, parody and sarcasm as its humorous basis is no longer of interest to me. The humor dispels the passion, and the love is sacrificed to the punch line. 
 After reading Midnight's Children, I acquired several of Rushdie's books, eager to read more of this genius stylist's words and magical images. After reading Satanic Verses however, I will tread a little more carefully. My next Rushdie will probably be his memoir, Joseph Anton: A Memoir.