Near the beginning of the novel, he informs us that he is falling apart--literally: I mean quite only that I have begun to crack all over exchangeable an old jug--that my poor body, singular, unlovely, buffeted by too practically history, subjected to drainage above and drainage below, mutilated by doors, brained by spittoons, has started coming apart at the seams. In short, I am literally disintegrating, slowly for the moment, although there are signs of an acceleration. - In shadowy of this unfortunate physical degeneration, Saleem has decided to write his life story, and, incidentally, that of Indias, before he crumbles into (approximately) six hundred...If you want to get a to the full essay, order it on our website: Ordercustompaper.com
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