By this point you've almost certainly heard about the attack on Taslima Nasrin yesterday.
Let me start by admitting that I've never much cared for Ms. Nasrin's writing. Admittedly, I haven't read that much of her work - just Shame and a collection of poems whose name I no longer recall - but it's always struck me as flat, uninspired and tedious; an exercise in thinly disguised polemic that embodies the perils of mixing art and politics. This could, of course, be the fault of her translators, or the stuff I've read may be unrepresentative of her work. At any rate, if you'd asked me 24 hours ago whether I ever intended to read anything Ms. Nasrin had written again (let alone in the near future), I would have confidently said no.
Enter the ruffians of the MIM. The way I see it, the only way to fight this kind of crass intimidation is to make sure it has exactly the opposite effect from the one intended. So if the folks at MIM want to stop us from reading Ms. Nasrin then never mind that I'm half way through The Red and the Black, and have two novels from the Booker long list waiting at my bedside (Michael Redhill's Consolation and Anne Enright's The Gathering) as well as one on its way (Peter Ho Davies' The Welsh Girl), never mind that I'm on my semi-annual Polish poetry trip and have absolutely no desire to tear myself away from the new Collected Poems of Zbigniew Herbert, never mind that I have a dissertation to write; I'm issuing Getting Even out of the library and reading it today. Just on general principle. And I suggest you do the same.