Reading Lolita In Tehran Part 7

"So you see," said Zarrin, turning again to Mr. Farzan, "this is the judgment the most reliable character in the novel makes about the rich. The rich in this book, represented primarily by Tom and Daisy and to a lesser extent Jordan Baker, are careless people. After all, it is Daisy who runs over Myrtle and lets Gatsby take the blame for it, without even sending a flower to his funeral." Zarrin paused, making a detour around the chair, seemingly oblivious to the judge, the prosecutor and the jury.

"The word careless careless is the key here," she said. "Remember when Nick reproaches Jordan for her careless driving and she responds lightly that even if she is careless, she counts on other people being careful? is the key here," she said. "Remember when Nick reproaches Jordan for her careless driving and she responds lightly that even if she is careless, she counts on other people being careful? Careless Careless is the first adjective that comes to mind when describing the rich in this novel. The dream they embody is an alloyed dream that destroys whoever tries to get close to it. So you see, Mr. Nyazi, this book is no less a condemnation of your wealthy upper cla.s.ses than any of the revolutionary books we have read." She suddenly turned to me and said with a smile, "I am not sure how one should address a book. Would you agree that your aim is not a defense of the wealthy cla.s.ses?" is the first adjective that comes to mind when describing the rich in this novel. The dream they embody is an alloyed dream that destroys whoever tries to get close to it. So you see, Mr. Nyazi, this book is no less a condemnation of your wealthy upper cla.s.ses than any of the revolutionary books we have read." She suddenly turned to me and said with a smile, "I am not sure how one should address a book. Would you agree that your aim is not a defense of the wealthy cla.s.ses?"

I was startled by Zarrin's sudden question but appreciated this opportunity to focus on a point that had been central to my own discussions about fiction in general. "If a critique of carelessness is a fault," I said, somewhat self-consciously, "then at least I'm in good company. This carelessness, a lack of empathy, appears in Jane Austen's negative characters: in Lady Catherine, in Mrs. Norris, in Mr. Collins or the Crawfords. The theme recurs in Henry James's stories and in Nabokov's monster heroes: Humbert, Kinbote, Van and Ada Veen. Imagination in these works is equated with empathy; we can't experience all that others have gone through, but we can understand even the most monstrous individuals in works of fiction. A good novel is one that shows the complexity of individuals, and creates enough s.p.a.ce for all these characters to have a voice; in this way a novel is called democratic-not that it advocates democracy but that by nature it is so. Empathy lies at the heart of Gatsby, Gatsby, like so many other great novels-the biggest sin is to be blind to others' problems and pains. Not seeing them means denying their existence." I said all this in one breath, rather astonished at my own fervor. like so many other great novels-the biggest sin is to be blind to others' problems and pains. Not seeing them means denying their existence." I said all this in one breath, rather astonished at my own fervor.

"Yes," said Zarrin, interrupting me now. "Could one not say in fact that this blindness or carelessness towards others is a reminder of another brand of careless people?" She threw a momentary glance at Nyazi as she added, "Those who see the world in black and white, drunk on the righteousness of their own fictions.

"And if," she continued with some warmth, "Mr. Farzan, in real life Fitzgerald was obsessed with the rich and with wealth; in his fiction he brings out the corrupt and decaying power of wealth on basically decent people, like Gatsby, or creative and lively people, like d.i.c.k Diver in Tender Is the Night. Tender Is the Night. In his failure to understand this, Mr. Nyazi misses the whole point of the novel." In his failure to understand this, Mr. Nyazi misses the whole point of the novel."

Nyazi, who for some time now had been insistently scrutinizing the floor, suddenly jumped up and said, "I object!"

"To what, exactly, do you object?" said Zarrin with mock politeness.

"Carelessness is not enough!" he shot back. "It doesn't make the novel more moral. I ask you about the sin of adultery, about lies and cheating, and you talk about carelessness?"

Zarrin paused and then turned to me again. "I would now like to call the defendant to the stand." She then turned to Mr. Nyazi and, with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, said, "Would you like to examine the defendant?" Nyazi murmured a defiant no. "Fine. Ma'am, could you please take the stand?" I got up, rather startled, and looked around me. There was no chair. Mr. Farzan, for once alert, jumped up and offered me his. "You heard the prosecutor's remarks," Zarrin said, addressing me. "Do you have anything to say in your defense?"

I felt uncomfortable, even shy, and reluctant to talk. Zarrin had been doing a great job, and it seemed to me there was no need for my pontifications. But the cla.s.s was waiting, and there was no way I could back down now.

I sat awkwardly on the chair offered me by Mr. Farzan. During the course of my preparations for the trial, I had found that no matter how hard I tried, I could not articulate in words the thoughts and emotions that made me so excited about Gatsby. Gatsby. I kept going back to Fitzgerald's own explanation of the novel: "That's the whole burden of this novel," he had said, "the loss of those illusions that give such color to the world so that you don't care whether things are true or false as long as they partake of the magical glory." I wanted to tell them that this book is not about adultery but about the loss of dreams. For me it had become of vital importance that my students accept I kept going back to Fitzgerald's own explanation of the novel: "That's the whole burden of this novel," he had said, "the loss of those illusions that give such color to the world so that you don't care whether things are true or false as long as they partake of the magical glory." I wanted to tell them that this book is not about adultery but about the loss of dreams. For me it had become of vital importance that my students accept Gatsby Gatsby on its own terms, celebrate and love it because of its amazing and anguished beauty, but what I had to say in this cla.s.s had to be more concrete and practical. on its own terms, celebrate and love it because of its amazing and anguished beauty, but what I had to say in this cla.s.s had to be more concrete and practical.

"You don't read Gatsby, Gatsby," I said, "to learn whether adultery is good or bad but to learn about how complicated issues such as adultery and fidelity and marriage are. A great novel heightens your senses and sensitivity to the complexities of life and of individuals, and prevents you from the self-righteousness that sees morality in fixed formulas about good and evil . . ."

"But, ma'am," Mr. Nyazin interrupted me. "There is nothing complicated about having an affair with another man's wife. Why doesn't Mr. Gatsby get his own wife?" he added sulkily.

"Why don't you write your own novel?" a m.u.f.fled voice cracked from some indefinable place in the middle row. Mr. Nyazi looked even more startled. From this point on, I hardly managed to get a word in. It seemed as if all of a sudden everyone had discovered that they needed to get in on the discussion.

At my suggestion, Mr. Farzan called for a ten-minute recess. I left the room and went outside, along with a few students who felt the need for fresh air. In the hall I found Mahtab and Na.s.srin deep in conversation. I joined them and asked them what they thought of the trial.

Na.s.srin was furious that Nyazi seemed to think he had a monopoly on morality. She said she didn't say she'd approve of Gatsby, but at least he was prepared to die for his love. The three of us began walking down the hallway. Most of the students had gathered around Zarrin and Nyazi, who were in the midst of a heated argument. Zarrin was accusing Nyazi of calling her a prost.i.tute. He was almost blue in the face with anger and indignation, and was accusing her in turn of being a liar and a fool.

"What am I to think of your slogans claiming that women who don't wear the veil are prost.i.tutes and agents of Satan? You call this morality?" she shouted. "What about Christian women who don't believe in wearing veils? Are they all-every single one of them-decadent floozies?"

"But this is an Islamic country," Nyazi shouted vehemently. "And this is the law, and whoever . . ."

"The law?" Vida interrupted him. "You guys came in and changed the laws. Is it the law? So was wearing the yellow star in n.a.z.i Germany. Should all the Jews have worn the star because it was the blasted law?"

"Oh," Zarrin said mockingly, "don't even try to talk to him about that. He would call them all Zionists who deserved what they got." Mr. Nyazi seemed ready to jump up and slap her across the face.

"I think it's about time I used my authority," I whispered to Na.s.srin, who was standing by, transfixed. I asked them all to calm down and return to their seats. When the shouts had died down and the accusations and counteraccusations had more or less subsided, I suggested that we open the floor to discussion. We wouldn't vote on the outcome of the trial, but we should hear from the jury. They could give us their verdict in the form of their opinions.

A few of the leftist activists defended the novel. I felt they did so partly because the Muslim activists were so dead set against it. In essence, their defense was not so different from Nyazi's condemnation. They said that we needed to read fiction like The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby because we needed to know about the immorality of American culture. They felt we should read more revolutionary material, but that we should read books like this as well, to understand the enemy. because we needed to know about the immorality of American culture. They felt we should read more revolutionary material, but that we should read books like this as well, to understand the enemy.

One of them mentioned a famous statement by Comrade Lenin about how listening to "Moonlight Sonata" made him soft. He said it made him want to pat people on the back when we needed to club them, or some such. At any rate, my radical students' main objection to the novel was that it distracted them from their duties as revolutionaries.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the heated arguments, many of my students were silent, although many gathered around Zarrin and Vida, murmuring words of encouragement and praise. I discovered later that most students had supported Zarrin, but very few were prepared to risk voicing their views, mainly because they lacked enough self-confidence to articulate their points as "eloquently," I was told, as the defense and the prosecutor. Some claimed in private that they personally liked the book. Then why didn't they say so? Everyone else was so certain and emphatic in their position, and they couldn't really say why they liked it-they just did.

Just before the bell rang, Zarrin, who had been silent ever since the recess, suddenly got up. Although she spoke in a low voice, she appeared agitated. She said sometimes she wondered why people bothered to claim to be literature majors. Did it mean anything? she wondered. As for the book, she had nothing more to say in its defense. The novel was its own defense. Perhaps we had a few things to learn from it, from Mr. Fitzgerald. She had not learned from reading it that adultery was good or that we should all become shysters. Did people all go on strike or head west after reading Steinbeck? Did they go whaling after reading Melville? Are people not a little more complex than that? And are revolutionaries devoid of personal feelings and emotions? Do they never fall in love, or enjoy beauty? This is an amazing book, she said quietly. It teaches you to value your dreams but to be wary of them also, to look for integrity in unusual places. Anyway, she enjoyed reading it, and that counts too, can't you see?

In her "can't you see?" there was a genuine note of concern that went beyond her disdain and hatred of Mr. Nyazi, a desire that even he he should see, definitely see. She paused a moment and cast a look around the room at her cla.s.smates. The cla.s.s was silent for a while after that. Not even Mr. Nyazi had anything to say. should see, definitely see. She paused a moment and cast a look around the room at her cla.s.smates. The cla.s.s was silent for a while after that. Not even Mr. Nyazi had anything to say.

I felt rather good after cla.s.s that day. When the bell rang, many had not even noticed it. There had been no formal verdict cast, but the excitement most students now showed was the best verdict as far as I was concerned. They were all arguing as I left them outside the cla.s.s-and they were arguing not over the hostages or the recent demonstrations or Rajavi and Khomeini, but over Gatsby and his alloyed dream.

19.

Our discussions of Gatsby Gatsby for a short while seemed as electric and important as the ideological conflicts raging over the country. In fact, as time went by, different versions of this debate did dominate the political and ideological scene. Fires were set to publishing houses and bookstores for disseminating immoral works of fiction. One woman novelist was jailed for her writings and charged with spreading prost.i.tution. Reporters were jailed, magazines and newspapers closed and some of our best cla.s.sical poets, like Rumi and Omar Khayyam, were censored or banned. for a short while seemed as electric and important as the ideological conflicts raging over the country. In fact, as time went by, different versions of this debate did dominate the political and ideological scene. Fires were set to publishing houses and bookstores for disseminating immoral works of fiction. One woman novelist was jailed for her writings and charged with spreading prost.i.tution. Reporters were jailed, magazines and newspapers closed and some of our best cla.s.sical poets, like Rumi and Omar Khayyam, were censored or banned.

Like all other ideologues before them, the Islamic revolutionaries seemed to believe that writers were the guardians of morality. This displaced view of writers, ironically, gave them a sacred place, and at the same time it paralyzed them. The price they had to pay for their new pre-eminence was a kind of aesthetic impotence.

Personally, the Gatsby Gatsby "trial" had opened a window into my own feelings and desires. Never before-not during all my revolutionary activities-did I feel so fervently as I did now about my work and about literature. I wanted to spread this spirit of goodwill, so I made a point the next day of asking Zarrin to stay after cla.s.s, to let her know how much I had appreciated her defense. I'm afraid it fell on deaf ears, she said somewhat despondently. Don't be so sure, I told her. "trial" had opened a window into my own feelings and desires. Never before-not during all my revolutionary activities-did I feel so fervently as I did now about my work and about literature. I wanted to spread this spirit of goodwill, so I made a point the next day of asking Zarrin to stay after cla.s.s, to let her know how much I had appreciated her defense. I'm afraid it fell on deaf ears, she said somewhat despondently. Don't be so sure, I told her.

A colleague, pa.s.sing me two days later in the hall, said: I heard shouts coming from the direction of your cla.s.s the other day. Imagine my surprise when instead of Lenin versus the Imam I heard it was Fitzgerald versus Islam. By the way, you should be thankful to your young protege. Which one? I asked him with a laugh. Mr. Bahri-he seems to have become your knight in shining armor. I hear he quieted down the voices of outrage and somehow convinced the Islamic a.s.sociation that you had put America on trial.

The university was going through many rapid changes in those days, and bouts between the radical and Muslim students became more frequent and more apparent. "How is it that you have sat idle and allowed a handful of Communists to take control of the university?" Khomeini reprimanded a group of Muslim students. "Are you less than them? Challenge them, argue with them, stand up to them and express yourselves." He went on to tell a story, as he so often did-a parable of sorts. Khomeini had asked a leading political cleric, Modaress, what he should do when an official in his town decided to call his two dogs Sheikh and Seyyed, a clear insult to clerics. Modaress's advice, according to Khomeini, had been brief and to the point: "Kill him." Khomeini concluded by quoting Modaress: "You hit first and let others complain. Don't be the victim, and don't complain."

20.

A few days after the Gatsby Gatsby trial, I hastily gathered my notes and books and left the cla.s.sroom somewhat preoccupied. The aura of the trial still dominated the cla.s.s. Some students had waylaid me in the halls to talk about trial, I hastily gathered my notes and books and left the cla.s.sroom somewhat preoccupied. The aura of the trial still dominated the cla.s.s. Some students had waylaid me in the halls to talk about Gatsby Gatsby and present their views. There were even two or three papers written voluntarily on the subject. Stepping outside into the gentle light of the late afternoon sun, I paused on the steps, drawn by a heated argument between a handful of Muslim students and their Marxist and secular opponents. They were gesticulating and shouting. I noticed Na.s.srin standing a little apart from the crowd, listening to their arguments. and present their views. There were even two or three papers written voluntarily on the subject. Stepping outside into the gentle light of the late afternoon sun, I paused on the steps, drawn by a heated argument between a handful of Muslim students and their Marxist and secular opponents. They were gesticulating and shouting. I noticed Na.s.srin standing a little apart from the crowd, listening to their arguments.

Soon Zarrin, Vida and a friend of theirs from another cla.s.s joined me. We were all standing there idly, observing the show, making desultory comments, when Mr. Bahri came out the door with a purposeful frown. He paused for a moment, hovering beside me on the wide steps. His gaze followed mine to the intersection of the argument. He turned to me with a smile and said, "Nothing unusual. They are just having a bit of fun," and left. I stood there somewhat stupefied with Zarrin and her friends.

As the crowd dispersed, Na.s.srin remained alone and hesitant, and I beckoned for her to join us. She walked shyly towards our group. It was a mild afternoon; the trees and their shadows seemed to be engaged in a flirtatious dance. Somehow my students got me talking about my own student days. I was telling them about American students' idea of protest: boys with long hair streaking across the quad.

After I finished my stories, there was some laughter, followed by silence as we returned to the scene in front of us. I told them that perhaps my best memories were of my professors. In fact, I laughed, four of my very favorites were Dr. Yoch, who was conservative, the revolutionary Dr. Gross and Dr. Veile and Dr. Elconin, both liberals. Someone said, "Oh, Professor"-they called me Professor; it sounded even stranger to me then than it does now-"you would have liked Professor R, who taught in our department until very recently."

One or two students had not heard of him, some knew of him and one had been to his cla.s.ses a few times. He was a professor at the Faculty of Fine Arts, a well-known and controversial film and theater critic and writer of short stories. He was what one would call a trendsetter: at twenty-one, he had become the literary editor of a magazine, and in a short time he and a few of his friends had made many enemies and admirers among the literary set. It seemed that now, in his late thirties, he had announced his retirement. Rumors were circulating that he was writing a novel.

One of the students said that he was moody and unpredictable. Zarrin's friend corrected him: he was not moody, just different. Another, with a flash of insight, turned to me and said, "You know, Professor, he is one of those people who have a knack for becoming legendary. I mean, they cannot be ignored."

The legend was that he set no time limits for his cla.s.ses, that a cla.s.s could start at three in the afternoon and continue for five or six hours. The students had to stay for as long as it continued. Soon his reputation spread, especially among those interested in film. Many from other universities, despite the threat of penalization, sneaked out of their cla.s.ses to attend his. They were not allowed into the University of Tehran without a student I.D. card, but by now partic.i.p.ating in his cla.s.ses had become a challenge. The most dedicated and rebellious jumped over the fences to escape the guards at the entrance. His lectures were always crowded; students sometimes had to stand for hours just to get in.

He taught drama and film-Greek theater, Shakespeare, Ibsen and Stoppard, as well as Laurel and Hardy and the Marx Brothers. He loved Vincente Minnelli, John Ford and Howard Hawks. I registered these stories unconsciously and put them aside for later. Years later, when he gave me as a birthday present videotapes of The Pirate, Johnny Guitar The Pirate, Johnny Guitar and and A Night at the Opera, A Night at the Opera, I would remember that day on the steps of the university. I would remember that day on the steps of the university.

Vida asked me if I had heard about his latest stunt before he was expelled. He left before he could be expelled, another student corrected her. I had not heard anything about his departure, I said, including this stunt, as she put it. But after I heard the story for the first time, I was always eager to repeat it to any sympathetic listener. When I knew him-my magician-much later, I forced him to tell and retell it to me many times.

One day the radical students and faculty members in the Drama Department at the Faculty of Fine Arts convened to change the student curriculum. They felt certain courses were too bourgeois and were not needed anymore, and they wanted to add new, revolutionary courses. Heated debates had ensued in that packed meeting as drama students demanded that Aeschylus, Shakespeare and Racine be replaced with Brecht and Gorky, as well as some Marx and Engels-revolutionary theory was more important than plays. The faculty had all sat on the platform in the hall, except for this particular professor, who stood at the back by the door.

In a nod to democracy, it was asked if anyone disapproved of the new proposal. From the back of the room, a voice said quietly, "I disagree." A silence fell over the room. The voice gave as his reason his conviction that as far as he was concerned, there was no one, and he meant no one, certainly no revolutionary leader or political hero, more important than Racine. What he could teach was Racine. If they did not want to know about Racine, that was up to them. Whenever they decided they wanted to run a proper university and reinstate Racine, then he would be happy to come back and teach. Heads turned abruptly towards the voice in disbelief. It was the impertinent magician. Some started to attack him and his "formalist" and "decadent" views. They claimed his ideas were old-fashioned and that he should get with the times. A girl rose and tried to calm the cries of indignation. She said this professor always had the students' best interests at heart and that he should be given a chance to defend himself.

Later, when I told him the story as I had heard it, he corrected me: he had started to talk from the back but was asked to go to the podium. He had walked to the podium in the silence that had already put him on trial.

When he spoke again, it was to say that he felt one single film by Laurel and Hardy was worth more than all their revolutionary tracts, including those of Marx and Lenin. What they called pa.s.sion was not pa.s.sion, not even madness; it was some coa.r.s.e emotion not worthy of true literature. He said that if they changed the curriculum, he would refuse to teach. True to his word, he never did go back, although he partic.i.p.ated in the vigils against the closing of the universities. He wanted his students to know that his withdrawal that day was not out of fear of government reprisal.

I was told that he almost imprisoned himself in his apartment, meeting with a select group of friends and disciples. "I bet he'd see you, Professor," one of my students said eagerly. I was not so sure.

21.

The last day we gave to Gatsby Gatsby was in January; heavy snow had covered the streets. There were two images I wanted my students to discuss. I no longer have my battered was in January; heavy snow had covered the streets. There were two images I wanted my students to discuss. I no longer have my battered Gatsby Gatsby with me, the one with cryptic notes in the margins and at the end of book. When I left Iran, I left my precious books behind. This with me, the one with cryptic notes in the margins and at the end of book. When I left Iran, I left my precious books behind. This Gatsby Gatsby is new, published in 1993. The cover is unfamiliar and I don't know how to treat it. is new, published in 1993. The cover is unfamiliar and I don't know how to treat it.

I would like to begin with a quote from Fitzgerald that is central to our understanding, not just of Gatsby Gatsby but of Fitzgerald's whole body of work, I began. We have been talking about what but of Fitzgerald's whole body of work, I began. We have been talking about what Gatsby Gatsby is all about and we've mentioned some themes, but there is an overall undercurrent to the novel which I think determines its essence and that is the question of loss, the loss of an illusion. Nick disapproves of all the people with whom Gatsby is in one way or another involved, but he does not pa.s.s the same judgment on Gatsby. Why? Because Gatsby possesses what Fitzgerald, in his story "Absolution," calls the "honesty of imagination." is all about and we've mentioned some themes, but there is an overall undercurrent to the novel which I think determines its essence and that is the question of loss, the loss of an illusion. Nick disapproves of all the people with whom Gatsby is in one way or another involved, but he does not pa.s.s the same judgment on Gatsby. Why? Because Gatsby possesses what Fitzgerald, in his story "Absolution," calls the "honesty of imagination."

At this point, Mr. Nyazi's hand shot up. "But Gatsby is even more dishonest than all the others," he squealed. "He earns his money through unlawful activities and he consorts with criminals."

In a sense you are right, I said. Gatsby fakes everything, even his own name. All the other characters in the novel have more stable positions and ident.i.ties. Gatsby is constantly being made and remade by others. At all of his parties, most of his guests speculate in conspiratorial whispers about who he is and the fabulous or awful deeds he has committed. Tom sets out to investigate his true ident.i.ty and Nick himself is curious about the mysterious Jay Gatsby. Yet what Gatsby inspires is curiosity tinged with awe. The reality of Gatsby's life is that he is a charlatan. But the truth is that he is a romantic and tragic dreamer, who becomes heroic because of his belief in his own romantic delusion.

Gatsby cannot tolerate the shabbiness of his life. He has an "extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness," and "some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life." He cannot change the world, so he re-creates himself according to his dream. Let's see how Nick explains this: "Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself. He was a son of G.o.d-a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that-and he must be about His Father's business, the service of a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty. So he invented just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen-year-old boy would be likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end."

Gatsby's loyalty was to his reinvented self, which saw its fulfillment in Daisy's voice. It was to the promises of that self that he remained faithful, to the green light at the end of the dock, not a shabby dream of wealth and prosperity. Thus the "colossal illusion" is born for which he sacrifices his life. As Fitzgerald puts it, "No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart."

Gatsby's loyalty to Daisy is linked to his loyalty to his imagined idea of himself. "He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was. . . ."

The dream, however, remains incorruptible and it extends beyond Gatsby and his personal life. It exists in a broader sense in the city, in New York itself, and the East, the harbor that once became the dream of hundreds of thousands of immigrants and is now the mecca of Midwesterners, who came to it in search of a new life and thrills. While the city evokes enchanted dreams and half-promises, in reality it harbors shabby love affairs and relationships such as Tom and Myrtle's. The city, like Daisy, has in it a promise, a mirage that when reached becomes debased and corrupted. The city is the link between Gatsby's dream and the American dream. The dream is not about money but what he imagines he can become. It is not a comment on America as a materialistic country but as an idealistic idealistic one, one that has turned money into a means of retrieving a dream. There is nothing cra.s.s here, or the cra.s.sness is so mingled with the dream that it becomes very difficult to differentiate between the two. In the end, the best ideals and the most sordid of realities all come together. Could you please turn to the last page. You remember that this is Nick's last good-bye to Gatsby's house. Mr. Bahri, I see you have honored us with your presence today. Could you kindly read the pa.s.sage, third line in the paragraph beginning with "Most of the big sh.o.r.e places . . ." one, one that has turned money into a means of retrieving a dream. There is nothing cra.s.s here, or the cra.s.sness is so mingled with the dream that it becomes very difficult to differentiate between the two. In the end, the best ideals and the most sordid of realities all come together. Could you please turn to the last page. You remember that this is Nick's last good-bye to Gatsby's house. Mr. Bahri, I see you have honored us with your presence today. Could you kindly read the pa.s.sage, third line in the paragraph beginning with "Most of the big sh.o.r.e places . . ."

" 'And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors' eyes-a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby's house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.' "

Shall I read on? Please continue until the end of the next paragraph.

" 'And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.' "

He could be dishonest in life and he could lie about himself, but one thing he could not do was to betray his own imagination. Gatsby is ultimately betrayed by the "honesty of his imagination." He dies, for in reality no such person can survive.

We, the readers, like Nick, both approve and disapprove of Gatsby. We are more certain of what we disapprove of than of what we admire, for, like Nick, we are caught in the romantic implications of his dream. His story reverberates with the tales of the pioneers who came to the sh.o.r.es of America in search of a new land and a new future and of their dream, already tainted with the violence that had gone into making it real.

Gatsby never should have tried to possess his dream, I explained. Even Daisy knows this; she is as much in love with him as she can ever be and yet she cannot go against her own nature and not betray him.

One autumn night they stop at a place where "the sidewalk was white with moonlight. . . . Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalk really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees-he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy's white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of G.o.d."

Now, could you kindly turn to page 8, read from "No-Gatsby . . ."

" 'No-Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.' "

For Gatsby, access to wealth is a means to an end; it is a means to the possession of his dream. That dream removes from him the power to differentiate between imagination and reality-of "foul dust" he tries to create a fairyland. His reveries for a while "provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing."

So now, let us review all the points we have discussed. Yes, the novel is about concrete living relationships, a man's love for a woman, a woman's betrayal of that love. But it is also about wealth, its great attraction as well as its destructive power, the carelessness that comes with it, and, yes, it is about the American dream, a dream of power and wealth, the beguiling light of Daisy's house and the port of entry to America. It is also about loss, about the perishability of dreams once they are transformed into hard reality. It is the longing, its immateriality, that makes the dream pure.

What we in Iran had in common with Fitzgerald was this dream that became our obsession and took over our reality, this terrible, beautiful dream, impossible in its actualization, for which any amount of violence might be justified or forgiven. This was what we had in common, although we were not aware of it then.

Dreams, Mr. Nyazi, are perfect ideals, complete in themselves. How can you impose them on a constantly changing, imperfect, incomplete reality? You would become a Humbert, destroying the object of your dream; or a Gatsby, destroying yourself.

When I left the cla.s.s that day, I did not tell them what I myself was just beginning to discover: how similar our own fate was becoming to Gatsby's. He wanted to fulfill his dream by repeating the past, and in the end he discovered that the past was dead, the present a sham, and there was no future. Was this not similar to our revolution, which had come in the name of our collective past and had wrecked our lives in the name of a dream?

22.

After the cla.s.s I felt exhausted. I tried to leave quickly, pretending I had some important business at hand. In fact, I had nothing to do. I put on my coat and hat and gloves and left. I had nowhere to go. It snowed heavily that afternoon, and then the sun came out over piles of clean, fresh white snow. I had a friend, a childhood friend I loved a great deal-she was older than me-when I was very young, before I was sent to England. She and I would sometimes walk in the snow for a long time. We would walk to our favorite pastry shop, where they had amazing cream puffs, made with real cream. We bought the cream puffs and went back out into the snow, in whose protective gleam we ate them as we talked nonsense and walked and walked.

I left the university and started to walk past the book-lined street. The street vendors selling tapes had turned up the volume, and they hopped from one foot to the other to keep warm, their woolen hats pulled low over their ears, steam escaping from their mouths and appearing to rise with the sound of the music, rising and disappearing into the blue sky. I walked down the street until the bookstores gave way to other shops, and to a movie house where we used to go as children that was now closed. So many movie houses were burned down during those jubilant days of the revolution! I continued down the street until I came to a square called Ferdowsi, named after our greatest epic poet, and paused. Was it on this spot that my friend and I had stopped to laugh that day as we licked our cream puffs?

As the years went by, the snow became polluted with the increasing pollution of Tehran; my friend was now in exile, and I had come home. Until then home had been amorphous and elusive: it presented itself in tantalizing glimpses, with the impersonal familiarity of old family photographs. But all of these feelings belonged to the past. Home was constantly changing before my eyes.

I had a feeling that day that I was losing something, that I was mourning a death that had not yet occurred. I felt as if all things personal were being crushed like small wildflowers to make way for a more ornate garden, where everything would be tame and organized. I had never felt this sense of loss when I was a student in the States. In all those years, my yearning was tied to the certainty that home was mine for the having, that I could go back anytime I wished. It was not until I had reached home that I realized the true meaning of exile. As I walked those dearly beloved, dearly remembered streets, I felt I was squashing the memories that lay underfoot.

23.

The spring semester started ominously. From the very beginning, there were few cla.s.ses. For the past year the government had been preoccupied with suppressing opposition groups, closing down the progressive newspapers and magazines, punishing former government functionaries and carrying on a war against the minorities, especially the Kurds. Now it turned its attention towards the universities, hotbeds of dissent, where the Muslim revolutionaries did not hold power. The universities played the role of the now-banned newspapers in protesting the suppression of progressive forces. Almost daily a protest meeting, talk or demonstration was organized at one of the universities, especially the University of Tehran.

One morning as I entered the department building, I could sense that something was wrong. An enlarged photograph of Hashemi Rafsanjani, who at the time was the speaker of the Parliament, was pasted to the wall opposite the entrance. Beside it was a flyer alerting students to a "conspiracy" to shut down the universities. Beneath the photograph and the warning, a large half-circle of students had formed, which seemed to contain smaller half-circles within it. As I drew closer, the students, some of whom I recognized as my own, made way and opened a s.p.a.ce for me, in the middle of which I found Mr. Nyazi, arguing heatedly with one of the leaders of a leftist student organization.

Mr. Nyazi was vehemently denying that the government had any intention of closing down the universities. The other student pointed to Mr. Rafsanjani's speech at Mashad University about the need to purify the educational system and to trigger a cultural revolution in the universities. They went back and forth for some time, encouraged by murmurs from the crowd surrounding them. I did not stay to the end of the arguments; it seemed clear that there wouldn't be any. In those days the secular and leftist forces dominated the universities, and certain developments were not yet conceivable to some of us. To think that the universities could be closed down seemed as far-fetched as the possibility that women would finally succ.u.mb to wearing the veil.

It did not take long, however, for the government to announce its intention to suspend cla.s.ses and to form a committee for the implementation of the cultural revolution. This committee was given the power to reconstruct the universities in such a way as to make them acceptable to the leaders of the Islamic Republic. What they wanted was not very clear, but they had no doubt as to what they didn't want. They were given the power to expel undesirable faculty, staff and students, to create a new set of rules and a new curriculum. It was the first organized effort to purge Iran of what was called decadent Western culture. The majority of students and faculty did not give in to this dictate, and once more the University of Tehran became the scene of a battle.

Going to cla.s.ses became more impossible every day. We were all frantically shuffling from one meeting to another, as if by force of sheer movement we would be able to stop them. The faculty marched, and the students marched. There were many disagreements between the various student organizations.

The students convened demonstrations and sit-ins. I went to these demonstrations, although I felt no affinity at this point towards any particular organization. If the leftists had come to power, they would have done the same thing. This, of course, was not the point: the point was to save the university, which, like Iran, we had all had a hand in destroying.