There's no good way to start a critique of Quichotte, Salman Rushdie's new novel. There are, depending on how you look at such things, either too many ways in or no way in at all.
Is it a book that needs to be examined in the light of its author's existence? Of his own life as a British Indian novelist, his past, his family, his love life, his various (quite real) adventures? Or is it one that demands all that be ignored — to be taken simply for the sum of words inside it, evincing no exterior life at all?