Reading Lolita In Tehran (Review)

The most memorable and horrifying passage I recall from George Orwell's timeless dystopian novel '1984' comes in a response given to Winston Smith, the main character, by loyal Party member O'Brien.

'You are a flaw in the pattern, Winston. You are a stain that must be wiped out. Did I not tell you just now that we are different from the persecutors of the past? We are not content with negative obediency, nor even with the most abject submission. When finally you surrender to us, it must be of your own free will. We do not destroy the heretic because he resists us; so long as he resists us we never destroy him. We convert him, we capture his inner mind, we reshape him (...) The command of the old despotisms was "Thou shalt not". The command of the totalitarian was "Thou shalt". Our command is "Thou art".'

Which begs the question: what could, then, have been the command of Ayatollah Ruhollah Mousavi Khomeini's Islamic Republic? 'Thou art mine'?

Azar Nafisi's vivid memoir, 'Reading Lolita in Tehran' makes a bold attempt to answer that question. That it fails to provide a final response is not due to any shortcomings on the author's part, but on the chamaleonic nature of totalitarian and theocratic regimes.

'Reading Lolita in Tehran' covers Dr Nafisi's eighteen years living in Iran from the early days of the Revolution in 1979 until her final adieu in 1997. The book opens with a chapter called 'Lolita', after Nabokov's famous novel, in which Azar describes a literary club she held in her house for two years every Thursday. The three following sections are named 'Gatsby', 'James' and 'Austen'. The way she weaves together her own professional background - she used to be a lecturer in English and American Literature at the universities of Tehran and Allameh -, her students' personal stories and the turmoil shaking her country is as well-crafted as the novels they discuss.

Professor Nafisi is a consummate observer and the benefits her perception brings to the reader are multifold. For example, here she is on the connection between the title of her memoir and the novel to which it is related.

I want to emphasize once more that we were not Lolita, the Ayatollah was not Humbert and this republic was not what Humbert called his princedom by the sea. 'Lolita' was not a critique of the Islamic Republic, but it went against the grain of all totalitarian perspectives.

With this sleight of hand she also gets rid of the notion of victimhood. At the time of writing, the death toll keeps rising in Haiti in the aftermath of the worst earthquake to have hit the island in two-hundred years. However, rather than merely seeing the ex-French colony as a deprived nation, let's ask ourselves how and why its fate was decided before its inhabitants even had a chance to make that decision themselves. It is the same with Dr Nafisi's Iran. The Ayatollah didn't rule so ruthlessly because the people were weak, but because he created an infrastructure based on hate and intolerance that allowed him to govern without so much as a strong opposition. And those who were too vocal, were dealt with in a very straightforward and brutal way. However, the women who attend Azar's weekly book club, far from being victims, are rebels. Once inside the professor's house, they all shed their black robes and headscarves and dress in civilian clothes.

'Splashes of color separate one from the next. Each has become distinct through the color and style of her clothes, the color and the length of her hair; not even the two who are still wearing their head scarves look the same.'

Dr Nafisi spent her younger years in both the UK and the US (she received her doctorate at the university of Oklahoma). This extended sojourn helped colour her analysis of her surroundings, which then filtered down to her pupils. For instance, consider this passage in which one of the book club's members, Mitra, questions the relevance of the novels they read:

'Why is it that stories like Lolita and Madame Bovary - stories so sad, so tragic - make us happy? Is it not sinful to feel pleasure when reading about something so terrible? Would we feel this way if we were to read about it in the newspapers or if it happened to us? If we were to write about our lives here in the Islamic Republic of Iran, should we make our readers happy?'

Nafisi uses Nabokov's definition of a great novel to answer her student's question. She agrees with the late Russian author that each story is a fairy tale and 'every fairy tale offers the potential to surpass limits, so in a sense, the fairy tale offers you freedoms that reality denies.' That's why 'the perfection and beauty of form rebels against the ugliness and shabbiness of the subject matter.' In other words, a novel stands for escapism. And no matter how cruel its content can be, this is one of the few exit routes available to people caught in the stronghold of a totalitarian or theocratic regime; even if escapism can be dangerous sometimes.

I found it interesting that, just as it has happened in Cuba for decades, in Iran, Khomeini's government was the chief responsible for making western democracies, especially the US, attractive to its population. Again, Professor Nafisi's sharp pen is at the ready to describe the events around her with a mix of wit and prescience:

'That was when the myth of America started to take hold of Iran. Even those who wished its death were obsessed by it. America had become both the land of Satan and Paradise Lost. A sly curiosity about America had been kindled that in time would turn the hostage-takers into hostages.'

And that's not the only parallel between the two bearded leaders. Just as Fidel clamped down on Cuban intellectuals who did not toe his political line in the 60s, Khomeini carried out a similar cleansing campaign against those who dared to think outside his religious dogma. This all-out attack had an immediate effect on the youth, some of which - after being brainwashed by the overpowering state propaganda - ended up confronting Azar Nafisi at her lectures, whilst quoting the Koran. That's why, when I read the passage that follows (a student's intervention during a 'trial' of Scott Fitzgerald's 'The Great Gatsby'), I was reminded so strongly of Fidel's famous 'words to the intellectuals':

'"Imam Khomeini has relegated a great task to our poets and writers," he droned on triumphantly, laying down one page and picking up another. "He has given them a sacred mission, much more exalted than that of materialistic writers in the West. If our Imam is the shepherd who guides the flock to its pasture, then the writers are the faithful watchdogs who must lead according to the shepherd's dictates."

I will leave you now with my favourite passage from this wonderfully written memoir. About the clip at the end, there's a reason for it. This is the first time I post a book review with music attached to it. But in life there are some moments of pure synchronicity that you just can't ignore. One night, whilst reading Dr Nafisi's book, I happened to have a CD of Chopin's nocturnes playing in the background. Suddenly this particular melody came on and for the duration of it I saw a parallel between Azar's inner world and the restlessness that was engulfing her country. It is the ripple, mid-song, that does it for me.

'Imagine you are walking down a leafy path. It is early spring before sundown around six PM. The sun is in the process of receding, and you are walking alone, caressed by the breezy light of the late afternoon. Then suddenly, you feel a large drop on your right arm. Is it raining? You look up. The sky is still deceptively sunny:only a handful of clouds linger here and there. Seconds later, another drop. Then, with the sun still perched in the sky, you are drenched in a shower of rain. This is how memories invade me, abruptly and unexpectedly: drenched, I am suddenly left alone again on the sunny path, with a memory of the rain.'

Copyright 2010



Next Post: 'Killer Opening Songs', to be published on Thursday 28th January at 11:59pm (GMT)

Killer Opening Songs (Chopin 'Fantaisie-Impromptu in C sharp minor Op 66' & Etude in C minor 'Revolutionary' Op 10 No 12)

Classical music has bequeathed the world some of the most beautiful melodies known to man, but it has failed in its duty to provide it with Killer Opening Songs. This, in no way, is a shortcoming of the genre but a technological misfortune. LPs, cassettes and CDs did not exist when compositions by Haydn, Bach and Mozart prowled concert halls all through Europe. That is why it is left to people like yours truly, to figure out which song would open a record by someone like Chopin, for instance. Nocturnes or polonaises? Neither in my opinion. I think that had Chopin had the opportunity to choose the introductory song to an album he would have gone for one of his études or his Fantaisie-Impromptu in C sharp minor Opus 66. And that is precisely the song that I will be uploading today on the blog. But not on its own. What do I mean? Well, my dear, just what I wrote. I will be uploading two Killer Opening Songs today. And if you think that’s cheating, yes, it is, and wait until you see the surprise I have for you two weeks hence.

You see, alongside the Fantaisie-Impromptu I had to include also the Polish musician’s étude in C minor ‘Revolutionary’ Opus 10 No 12, purely because it is a demanding piece, technically speaking, and also because of the feelings that it awakens in me. Chopin wrote this étude when Russian troops were about to crush the ‘November Uprising’ in Poland in 1831 and his patriotic feelings towards his fellow countrymen are as strong as they can be, especially taking into account that the musician was living in exile at the time. The inclusion of the Fantaisie, on the other hand, carries a sentimental motif. This was one of two pieces (Lecuona’s ‘La Comparsa’ was the other one) that my father always used to play as soon as his piano practice was over. And I grew up listening to both.

So, despite classical composers like Schubert and Tchaikovsky not having been able to release albums à la Rolling Stones, I promise to make up for that and every now and then suggest what to me would be the ultimate Killer Opening Song of a particular classical musician's oeuvre. And of course, my dear fellow blogger and reader, your opinion counts, too.







Copyright 2008

Road Songs (Lento)

Get in the car. Adjust the seat and the rear-view mirror. Strap yourself in and turn the engine on. Push the gear lever into reverse and enjoy that little moment when the car rolls back onto the road. Change into first gear, check your blind spot and drive off.

This is a run-of-the-mill journey. You have done it so many times. You’re going coffee-shopping. There’s only one supermarket in the entire borough that stocks the coffee you like and you go there at least once a month to purchase it. You know the route by rote. You could even drive there with your eyes closed. Every street, every traffic signal invites recognition. Even the people are the same. London can seem so provincial sometimes. As you come closer to your destination you stop at a set of traffic lights. Ahead of you the road curves upwards, thus, becoming the surname of this north London quartier. The light changes to green and you continue up that hill now, placidly, humming a tune or listening to the football on the car radio.

And suddenly it happens.

There, to your right there’s a road. Not just any ordinary road, mind. Or rather, it IS an ordinary road. But not anymore. This patch of asphalt has claimed your memory and left you speechless for a nanosecond.

Because it resembles another road, in another country, in another city.

The truth of the matter is that it does not really look like that foreign road at all. The architecture is different; for starters, the houses on either side point at human existence and the cars on the road betray drivers indoors. That other road, in that other country, in that other city, has fewer houses and a big fan on one side of the street, probably belonging to a factory.

But more importantly, one street is in London, and the other one is in Havana.

Yet you still want this road to look like that other one you left behind in November 1997.

I call this unbidden nostalgia. This is not the usual bittersweet longing for the past that the ancient Greeks labelled thus. This is not the gathering with friends that leads to ‘Do you remember…?’ sessions where tears are shed as photos are passed round. This is an uninvited feeling that overwhelms you wherever you are. It calls no one’s door and yet strolls through the front gate and by the time you realise it has sat down and shared your food.

Unbidden nostalgia is a frightening and yet wonderful feeling that tears through the fabric of your memory. It can be anything, someone moving an arm in an incongruous way on the tube, a starry sky at night or a… road.

Music is like that sometimes, too. Unbidden nostalgia in music is not the type that you carry around on your Ipod Nano or the one you stash away on your computer’s playlists. No, unbidden nostalgia will assail you whilst you are in the pub with a few of your mates and all of a sudden a track that you had forgotten about aeons ago comes on the jukebox. You did not even use to like it then to be honest, but never mind, it is eating you alive. And you stand up, walk down the carpeted floor and approach the machine. And by now, who cares? Someone has turned the tap on and your cheeks are wet and you know you can’t, you won’t, and you don’t want to stop it.




Copyright 2008

Autumn Songs (1st Mov 'Andante', 2nd Mov 'Lento', 3rd Mov 'Andante' 4th Mov 'Lento'

As this unique palette of red, yellow and orange falls upon us and the sun dyes its hair a camp auburn, the music that mostly calls to me now is tango. A good old milonga from Uruguay or Argentina that carries with it the echoes of its Bantu ancestry. The term milonga comes from this African language and it translates as 'lyrics'. But words are not needed where music reigns supreme and this is the case with the first clip.

Astor Piazzolla was the indisputed 'King of the bandoneon' in Argentine, his birthplace. He transformed 'tango', incorporating elements from jazz and classical music. And it's because of his importance as a musician, composer and bandleader that I would like to open this week's Autumn Songs session with a clip of him playing one of his most famous pieces, 'Libertango'.

My second clip comes all the way from Portugal. Because we already have tango (see above), bolero and bossa nova in Latin America, it took me longer to understand and appreciate 'fado', that musical lament from that Iberian country that best conveys the word 'saudade; the one term I've asked countless Brazilians and Portuguese alike to translate to me into Spanish and/or English and which every single one of them have failed to do. And when you listen to 'fado' you understand why. So, no more explanations. Here's one of the better ambassadors of 'fado' nowadays.

Next up is a band that defies conventions. Those who want to package them up into a little chill-out bundle will have problems doing so as their latest album shows. This clip is from their first record and it always reminds me of the place we go to in Spain every year, up in the mountains near Granada. It brings back memories of early chilly October mornings watching my children playing with the two local cats whilst my wife and I have our breakfast in the front garden. Pomegranates drop to the ground and their splash creates a whole rainbow of reddish hues, incapable of being re-created by hand, expert painter notwithstanding.

Lastly, where would autumn be without a piano? Just like Astor's bandoneon, the piano is autumn's instrument par excellence. Little did Chopin know that when he wrote his Etude in E Op 10 'Tristesse' it would become the schmaltzy karaoke hit 'So Deep is the Night' belted out by drunkards in places like Blackpool. But here on this blog we like quality and therefore I have a lovely performance of this timeless autumn number for you my fellow readers/bloggers/posters.

And this is all for today. I hope you enjoyed this week's selection.

Copyright 2007