To understand a work, one must first understand the context in which it was created. Only then can we begin to grasp it in its full depth.

Today marks 5 weeks since Iran was struck by the USA and Israel. Nearly three months have passed since the massacre of protesters, and more than a month since the country was plunged into a complete internet blackout.

I mention this because the state of mind I carried into reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being inevitably shaped my experience of it.

I had bought the Farsi translation years ago, but could never finish it. Only now, reading it in English, did I realise why: censorship had hollowed it out. Something essential—its spirit, its boldness—had been stripped away, leaving behind a text that felt muted, almost lifeless.

This time, I returned to it because its name would not leave me. It echoed insistently in my mind—perhaps because I, too, have been feeling the unbearable weight of being.

I finished it a few days ago, and I loved it. It is the kind of book that lingers, that quietly settles within you and refuses to fade—like Nausea or The Metamorphosis.

At first glance, it appears to be a philosophical meditation on love, centred around a Don Juan figure. But it unfolds into something far greater: a reflection on existence itself. Life, in all its contradictions and fragility, is examined through the intertwined perspectives of its characters—each one illuminating a different facet of being.

The opening

The opening is fascinating, beginning with the idea of eternal return—a promising beginning to an extraordinary book:

To think that the recurrence itself recurs ad infinitum! What does this mad myth signify?

Through the idea of eternal return, Kundera reflects on whether our actions carry any real weight in a life that happens only once. Through love, history, and political reality—and through his four central characters—he makes us question whether anything we do truly matters, or whether it is all, in the end, unbearably light.

Kundera does not treat eternal return as something real; he uses it as a thought experiment.

If everything in life repeated infinitely, then our choices would carry immense weight, because we would have to live them again and again.

But if life happens only once, as it seems to, everything becomes light — and lightness, Kundera suggests, is not the relief it might appear to be. Without repetition, our choices lose their weight, their consequence. And yet this is precisely what makes lightness unbearable: happiness, he argues, is the desire for repetition. A life that occurs only once is a life in which true happiness remains forever out of reach.

Characters

Tomas is the protagonist—a middle-aged, successful, womanising doctor who falls in love with Tereza, a young waitress escaping the suffocating world of her mother — a controlling, immodest woman whose hold on Tereza amounted to a kind of degradation

Tomas and Tereza stand at the centre of the novel, embodying two opposing ways of experiencing love—and, in many ways, life itself.

Tomas begins as a man devoted to lightness. A successful surgeon and a committed womaniser, he separates love from desire, refusing to let emotional attachment limit his freedom. For him, relationships are meant to be light, without burden or consequence. Yet his encounter with Tereza unsettles this carefully constructed world.

Tereza, in contrast, is defined by her longing for weight. She seeks depth, exclusivity, and meaning in love. Her relationship with Tomas is not just romantic; it is existential.

Their relationship becomes a constant tension between lightness and weight. Tomas resists commitment, yet finds himself repeatedly drawn back to Tereza. Tereza, meanwhile, suffers under the lightness of his infidelities, experiencing them not as freedom but as a kind of erasure.

To me, it felt as though she was trying to create the idea of a family she never had—Tomas becoming, in a way, her mother, father, lover, and husband, and Karenin(their Dog) their child.

My favourite character, however, is Sabina—a free-spirited painter and one of Tomas’s mistresses.

Sabina represents lightness taken to its extreme. She rejects all forms of attachment—home, country, relationships—constantly moving, constantly betraying. For her, betrayal is not cruelty, but a form of freedom.

And, Franz, a university lecturer, on the other hand, longs for weight. He seeks meaning in commitment, ideals, and grand gestures. But Kundera presents this with irony—Franz’s need for meaning often blinds him, drawing him towards illusions rather than reality.

The idea of home

A person who longs to leave the place where he lives is an unhappy person.

I moved to a different city at 18, another at 22, and then to a different country at 32. When I told my mum I was leaving, she said: You left this city because you were unhappy. Now you’re leaving the country to find happiness—what will you do if you can’t find it there either? Move to the moon?

The novel takes place during the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia, when Tomas, Tereza, and Sabina leave their country in search of a better life. I don’t think I have ever felt a book more deeply than I do now.

Tereza leaves to find happiness, Tomas leaves for her, and Sabina leaves for freedom.

Yet Tereza cannot find happiness abroad—just as she could not find it by escaping her mother. Maybe happiness is not something we find externally, no matter how far we run.

Kitsch

Kundera uses the concept of kitsch to give us a deeper understanding of what he is trying to say. To him, kitsch is the denial of everything in human existence that is unacceptable—wiping away all ugliness from the surface and creating a falsely beautiful reality to make people happy. A lie we choose in order to make our lives bearable.

For Kundera, kitsch is not simply a matter of bad taste, but a way of seeing the world—one that denies everything uncomfortable, complex, or contradictory in human existence. It is the desire to turn life into something simple, beautiful, and emotionally satisfying, where suffering, doubt, and imperfection are erased.

Through both his characters and the political backdrop of the novel, he reveals how kitsch operates—in idealised love, in grand political narratives, and in our own need for comforting illusions. In contrast to the raw ambiguity of life he presents elsewhere, kitsch becomes a kind of false harmony—a lie we choose in order to avoid facing the full reality of being.

“The categorical agreement with being is a world in which shit is denied and everyone acts as though it did not exist. This aesthetic ideal is called kitsch.”

Kundera also beautifully captures the human desire to belong—to be part of something beautiful, effortless, and larger than ourselves. According to him, religions, nationalities, and political groups can all become forms of kitsch, offering a sense of unity and liberation, while quietly masking complexity and contradiction.

And as he writes:

Before we are forgotten, we will be turned into kitsch. Kitsch is the stopover between being and oblivion.

The need to be seen

We all need someone to look at us.

Kundera suggests that people can be divided into different categories, each defined by their own desire for recognition. What struck me is how relevant this feels today. With the rise of the internet and social media, we now have a voice more easily than ever, and yet the need to be seen remains just as strong—if not stronger.

In the novel, when the editor tries to convince people to sign a petition for the release of political prisoners, the narrator reminds us that he knows the petition will not actually free them. And yet, he still insists on it—not because it will change the outcome, but because it allows him to be seen, to raise his voice, and to exist in the eyes of others.

Final thoughts

When I first decided to write about this book, I had so much to say—especially about how deeply I related to Sabina. But somewhere along the way, I felt exhausted.

I think I have passed the phase where writing helps me process everything. Now, I feel closer to silence.

My homeland is in a devastating situation. Every minute brings new, terrifying news—and there is nothing we can do.

Perhaps this is the ultimate irony of the 'unbearable lightness': to be far away is to be light, untethered from the physical danger, yet that very distance carries a weight more crushing than any stone. Watching my homeland from afar, I am haunted by the realization that while history repeats itself in cycles of 'eternal return,' our individual lives do not. We have only one chance to stand, to speak, and to be.

I hope one day I can return to this piece and say everything I could not say today. Until then, I carry this book as a reminder that even when the state attempts to hollow out our stories through censorship and silence, the truth of our existence remains.

If you haven’t read this book yet, let this be your sign. Pick it up, not just as a classic, but as a map for navigating the heavy, beautiful, and often unbearable reality of being alive in a world that refuses to stay still.

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We call our mum’s mother Mamani. She is the strongest woman I know. She lost two children: one boy, when he was ten, in an accident, and a newborn girl to measles. More than fifty-six years later, whenever she remembers them, she places one hand over the other, shakes her head with the deepest sadness in the world, and says: My sun, my little boy. My infant girl. How can I explain how hard it was—and still is?

I already knew the story of Hamnet before reading the book: the story of Shakespeare’s dead son and the immeasurable grief of his mother, Agnes. I’m usually suspicious of books that go viral—call me pessimistic, but as a marketing person, I know how often hype replaces substance. Still, because I love Shakespeare, I grew curious. I read the Kindle sample, and before I even realised it was over, I had bought the book.

I loved it.

I couldn’t believe how similar human beings are in pain, love, and grief—across centuries, borders, and languages.

Maggie O’Farrell is a remarkable storyteller. She understands the human spirit and goes deep into the souls of her characters, as if she has lived their lives herself. Her imagination, intertwined with tenderness and love, is truly extraordinary.

In the saddest days of my life—when my country is soaked in blood—Hamnet became my only escape. When I was numb, unable to hear from my family, overwhelmed by stress and horrifying news, unable even to cry, Agnes’s grief broke something open in me. While watching videos and images of Iranian mothers searching for their dead children in morgues, I found myself sobbing uncontrollably. Is there any pain greater than losing one’s child?

She, like all mothers, constantly casts out her thoughts, like fishing lines, towards her children… And Hamnet? And Hamnet? Where is he?

At the same time, as O’Farrell walks us through Agnes’s sacrifices, she never forces us to hate Shakespeare for leaving— for pursuing his dreams in London while his family suffered in Stratford. Instead, she allows us to see his survival guilt. I feel his pain deeply now, because I live it myself. Not only today, but from the moment I left my family and moved to London. I understand William’s battle: the breathlessness of staying, the knowledge that leaving is the only way to survive—even when you know your loved ones are struggling without you. You leave, you breathe, you start a new life, but you remain half-dead inside, because the pain never truly leaves.

Hamnet on Screen

I watched Hamnet yesterday, and I was completely moved. Jessie Buckley is extraordinary. I can only say: wow. I had listened to the audiobook in her voice, and for me, Hamnet is Jessie. She is unforgettable. The film was beautiful. Everything was done with such care and sensitivity. I sobbed throughout, and when I came out of the cinema, I needed time to return to life.

For once, I can honestly say: read the book first, then watch the film—and you won’t be disappointed. This adaptation honours the novel. Well done to everyone involved.

As always, literature and art remain my only shelters. I am deeply grateful to Maggie O’Farrell for writing this book; it helped me endure these days and kept me from losing my mind.

Read this beautiful book. Watch the film.
And don’t forget a box of tissues.

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I first read Zorba the Greek six years ago, and I was completely mesmerised. It quickly became one of my favourite books, a place it held for years. I read it in Farsi, and for quite a long time it had been on my list to reread in English. When we decided to visit Athens, I told myself: this is the moment. So I read it again—this time discovering new layers, new meanings. And yes, I still liked it, but not in the same way as the first time. Is anything ever the same the second time we experience it?

Zorba the Greek is the story of two men. The narrator is a wealthy, bookish writer who decides to rent a lignite mine in Crete in an attempt to experience life beyond books for the first time. There, he meets Zorba—a wandering, free-spirited man who lives entirely in the present. The narrator hires him to cook and work in the mine, and what follows is not simply a partnership, but a profound encounter between two opposing ways of being.

The novel is deeply grounded in the belief that life has no inherent meaning beyond what we create ourselves. The narrator, fascinated by Buddhist philosophy and introspection, encounters Zorba, a man who lives on his own terms, guided not by theory but by instinct. Through Zorba, he discovers a radically different way of living—one centred on experience rather than thought, action rather than analysis.

For me, Zorba is unforgettable. An uneducated man who somehow knows how to live—to enjoy every minute of existence. He is existentialist in spirit but Dionysian in practice. He understands that life itself may be meaningless, and that meaning must be found in the smallest moments: eating, working, loving, dancing.

At its core, Zorba’s philosophy is simple: life must be lived with the whole body and soul, not observed from a distance. While the narrator searches for meaning through books, ideas, and restraint, Zorba finds it in action, sensation, love, pain, food, labour, music, and dance. For him, excessive thinking is a kind of fear.

I’ve stopped thinking about what happened yesterday.

I’ve stopped asking what will happen tomorrow.

What’s happening today—this very minute—that’s what matters.

“What are you doing at this moment, Zorba?”

“I’m sleeping.”

“Well, sleep well.”

“What are you doing at this moment, Zorba?”

“I’m working.”

“Well, work well.”

“What are you doing at this moment, Zorba?”

“I’m kissing a woman.”

“Well, kiss her well, Zorba! Forget everything else while you’re doing it; there’s nothing else on earth—only you and her!”

Zorba plays the santuri whenever he feels like it; his true language is dance. He spreads passion through everything he does, which is what makes him so vivid, so alive.

On our way back from the Acropolis, we saw a group of old men playing music, and one of them dancing freely in the street. I was certain—that was Zorba.

Reading it for the second time, this time, I noticed something new: the narrator himself. Perhaps I missed it before because of censorship in the Farsi edition, but the way he describes his distant friend, his emotional attachment to Zorba, and his lack of genuine interest in women made me wonder whether he might be grappling with his sexuality. Kazantzakis likely intended ambiguity. The narrator can be read as gay, bisexual, sexually repressed, or simply emotionally blocked. To me, he isn’t just a man who chooses books over life; he is a man who uses books as a shield against his own desires.

Last but not least, as much as I like this book, one troubling aspect is its mindset toward women. I understand that it was written in the 1940s, reflecting patriarchal Mediterranean societies where women were often reduced to bodies rather than minds—figures of desire or temptation rather than independent subjects. Still, understanding the context does not make it any easier to read the offensive conversations about women. The narrator, despite being an intellectual, never challenges this mindset. He plays with Madame Hortense’s feelings for his own amusement. When he witnesses violence against the widow he slept with the night before, he remains silent—more concerned about Zorba than her suffering, even justifying the violence in his thoughts, which is deeply troubling.

From Page to Screen: Zorba the Greek (1964 Film)

Another remarkable aspect of Zorba the Greek is its film adaptation. The 1964 film, starring Anthony Quinn, with music by Mikis Theodorakis, became a cornerstone of modern Greek cultural identity. The soundtrack is one of the most recognisable film scores in the world.

Mikis Theodorakis was one of my favourite musicians when I was younger. I remember filming a session for my guitar instructor and his band while they played his music. I was completely absorbed, dreaming of one day playing those melodies myself.

It’s astonishing how memories are tied to stories—those we read and those we live.

If you’re looking for a warm, unconventional, and deeply human book, put Zorba the Greek on your list. I’m sure you won’t regret it.

Before you go, read these two passages from the conversations between Zorba and the narrator, and tell me I’m not the only one who can’t stop thinking about them:

“Let people be, boss; don’t open their eyes. And supposing you did—what would they see? Their misery! Leave their eyes closed and let them dream.”

“Unless,” he said at last.

“Unless what?”

“Unless, when they open their eyes, you can show them a better world than the darkness they’re wandering in… Can you?”

And this:

“You understand—and that’s why you’ll never have any peace. If you didn’t understand, you’d be happy. What do you lack? You’re young, you have money, health—you lack nothing. Nothing, except one thing: folly.”

If you’ve already read this book—or plan to read it soon—I’d love to hear what you think.

Happy New Year’s Eve everyone! I hope you enjoyed my last post of the year! Thanks for reading☺️ If you liked this review, press ❤️ and share it with your friends!

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There are cities we dream of long before we ever see them, and for me, Athens was one of those quiet, persistent dreams. Wrapped in mystery and wonder, it first entered my imagination through philosophy—Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Epicurus. I was always fascinated by how a single corner of the world could shape minds that went on to shape humanity itself.

Later came ‘Zorba the Greek’, one of my all-time favourite books. Although Kazantzakis set his story in Crete, something about his Greece—its spirit, its contradictions, its warmth—deepened my curiosity. I wanted to walk where the ancient thinkers walked, to stand beneath the Acropolis, and to see the people behind the stories.

And finally, after years of imagining, I arrived. Four days in Athens: mostly rain-soaked, one radiant day of sun, and countless moments quietly stitched into memory. I wandered through ruins and living streets, met strangers who felt strangely familiar, and discovered a city far more layered and complex than any book had promised.

Day 1: Running Toward the Sun (and Meeting the Rain Instead)

Travelling to Athens felt like running toward the sun, escaping the grey drizzle of London. But rain, it seems, is loyal to us—we landed on a rainy afternoon. My first encounter with Athens wasn’t its ancient monuments or marble ruins, but the graffiti. Everywhere. Bright, chaotic, alive.

For some reason, I had expected Athens to resemble Istanbul, but it was completely different—rawer, more direct, more expressive.

Since it was raining and we were exhausted, we didn’t explore much that first day. We visited friends, took a slow walk through the city centre, and ended the night with a lovely dinner. But the moment that stayed with me most was seeing the Acropolis glowing above the city at night—my first glimpse of the ancient world quietly watching over everything.

Day 2: Acropolis, Plaka, and the City in the Sun

The sun returned generously on our second day—warm, bright, and kind, as if Athens was making up for all the rain. Feeling lighter and happier, we headed toward the Acropolis, walking slowly and letting the city lead the way. On the way, we stopped at Panaghia Kapnikarea Church, a small and lovely 11th-century Greek Orthodox church quietly standing in the middle of the city’s constant movement.

From there, we walked toward the Roman Agora of Athens, on the northern side of the Acropolis. It was actually the first historic site that truly caught my attention the night before—it looks magical after dark. Seeing it again in daylight felt softer, more alive. I took far too many photos and spent a good amount of time admiring the true rulers of the place: the cats, stretched out in the sun like gods, fully aware of the attention they were receiving.

The most striking structure there is the Tower of the Winds, also known as the Horologion of Andronikos. This octagonal marble building, dating back to the first century BC, is often considered the world’s first meteorological station. It once functioned as a clock, sundial, weather vane, and compass all at once. Over the centuries, it was even used as a church—just another layer added to its long, complicated life.

Walking through the area, it became clear how many times this part of Athens has been reshaped. Invasions by the Venetians and the Ottomans left their marks, with ancient ruins giving way to houses, workshops, churches, and mosques. All these layers still exist side by side today. The Fethiye Mosque, standing quietly next to the Roman Agora, felt like a reminder that Athens has never belonged to just one time—it has always been many cities at once.

Our next stop was the Acropolis of Athens—the main reason I had always wanted to visit this city. After a pleasant walk and a steady climb under the Athenian sun, we finally reached the citadel. The first structure we encountered was the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, a stone theatre commissioned in 161 AD by the wealthy Athenian magnate and Roman senator Herodes Atticus, in memory of his late wife, Aspasia Annia Regilla. If you’re lucky enough to visit during a performance, you can sit on the ancient stone seats and experience history as something alive.

Next came the Parthenon, the iconic former temple dedicated to the goddess Athena. Standing in front of it felt surreal—one of those moments when something you’ve seen in books and photos suddenly becomes real.

My favourite building, though, was the Temple of Athena Polias, known today as the Erechtheion. This elegant Ionic structure once housed the statue of Athena Polias and is believed to encompass two sacred buildings mentioned by the ancient geographer Pausanias: the Temple of Athena Polias and the sanctuary of Erechtheus or Poseidon. It felt less imposing than the Parthenon, but more intimate—and deeply moving.

After exploring these spectacular places, we simply stood and looked out over the city from the Acropolis. Athens stretched out below us like a painting—soft, layered, endless.

We had lunch at Ristorante Atlantikos afterward. The seafood was excellent and surprisingly reasonably priced. Full and tired, we wandered through Plaka, the oldest and most picturesque neighbourhood in Athens, often called the “Neighbourhood of the Gods.” It quickly became my favourite street in the city—full of character, vibrant, and alive. Sadly, my phone died, and I couldn’t take many photos.

We returned to the hotel, then headed back to the city centre for dinner and shisha. The funniest part? They didn’t have black tea. For us, as Iranians, shisha without tea feels almost impossible—but we survived!

And just like that, Day 2 came to an end.

Day 3: Seaside, Bookshops, and More Cats

Day 3 began with a visit I had been looking forward to the most: Little Tree Books and Coffee.

It instantly reminded me of the book cafés in the north of Tehran—warm, artistic, and welcoming. I finally tried Greek coffee… and to my surprise, I didn’t like it at all (sorry!). Another surprise: books were more expensive than in the UK. Thanks, UK.

Later, we went to meet our friends, who had recently opened a café-bakery—one of the branches of Veneti, one of the largest café chains in Greece. As you can imagine, we were spoiled with free coffee and pastries (thank you, Homa and Babak!). From there, we headed to the seaside. It was rainy again, so we couldn’t fully enjoy the sea, but it was still peaceful and beautiful. Next time, I might come to Greece just for the seaside alone.

After another delicious seafood meal, we returned to the hotel to rest and prepare for our last day.

Day 4: One Last Coffee, Then Home

After one last coffee at our friends’ café, we went out for a final walk around the city. I stopped at Wild Souls Café for another coffee—this one I enjoyed much more. It felt youthful, modern, and energetic, like seeing Athens through a younger lens.

Last but not least, what I loved most about Athens wasn’t its historical sites, but its cats. Everywhere you looked, there they were—beautiful, majestic, and clearly the true rulers of the city. 🐈✨ That’s what makes Athens so special.

And then it was time to head to the airport. We missed Leo and Leni terribly, and as much as I loved this trip, I couldn’t wait to go home to them. They were just as happy to see us, too.

This was my first travel blog. I hope you enjoyed it. If you have any suggestions—or would like me to write more stories like this—feel free to leave a comment. 💛

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Giovanni's Room kept popping up in my reading suggestions, but I never paid it much attention until it was chosen as the Classic Book of the Month for the Book on the Hill book club. This is the second book I've read from their club, and just like the first—The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro -I loved it. Though I couldn't attend the meetings, reading both selections was a joy.

This book is small in size but immense in its depth. Usually, it takes me a while to get into a new book, but this one was different; I was hooked from the very first sentence and couldn't put it down. I’m so glad I finally read it, and for the first time, I envy those who haven’t, because they still have the joy of discovering it ahead of them.

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A Deeper Look at the Author and the Book

James Baldwin (1924–1987) was an American novelist, essayist, playwright, poet, and civil rights activist. He was renowned for his eloquent and passionate prose, which explored complex themes of race, sexuality, and class, offering a profound commentary on American identity during the mid-20th century. Baldwin, a gay man who also had relationships with women, wrote extensively about love and sexuality, seeing it as fluid rather than defined by rigid categories. He preferred to be seen as someone who simply chose love, no matter its recipient.

Published in 1956, Giovanni’s Room is a novel about a young American man, David, who struggles to accept his sexuality. The book was initially titled One for My Baby, and was dedicated to Lucien Happersberger, Baldwin’s lover in Europe during the 1950s. Today, Giovanni’s Room is celebrated as a cornerstone of LGBTQ literature, although Baldwin initially struggled to find a publisher for it.

The story:

Baldwin employs a clever strategy by telling us about the ending right at the beginning. Knowing what will happen made me even more eager to understand David's story. Reading about David’s love life — his dilemma between choosing his girlfriend or Giovanni- is as beautiful as it is sad.

It's astonishing how beautifully Baldwin writes, and the conversations between David and Giovanni are some of the most beautiful parts of the book. Giovanni is David’s opposite in his view of life — open, fearless, and free in his feelings, yet a true philosopher.

The book’s main theme is the shame David feels about his sexuality, but it’s actually much more than that. It's about the shame people feel toward themselves in general. David is a symbol for most of us: people who don’t fully accept social norms but are also unable to free themselves from them, almost like Stockholm syndrome.

As someone who often thinks about the meaning of home, I particularly enjoyed the parts of the book that explored this idea. In the story, home is not just a physical place; it represents the self, a whole identity.

During one of their conversations about Giovanni’s home country, Italy, they shared this beautiful exchange:

Would you rather go to Italy? Would you rather visit your home?'

He smiled. I do not think I have a home there any more.' And then: No. I would not like to go to Italy - perhaps after all, for the same reason you do not want to go to the United States.' But I am going to the United States,' I said, quickly. And he looked at me. I mean, I'm certainly going to go back there one of these days.'

'One of these days,' he said. 'Everything bad will happen - one of these days.'

'Why is it bad?'

He smiled, 'Why, you will go home and then you will find that home is not home any more. Then you will really be in trouble. As long as you stay here, you can always think: One day I will go home.

On another occasion, in a haunting line, David thinks,

Perhaps home is not a place, but simply an irrevocable condition.

This idea of a permanent, unshakeable identity—his disconsolate and deeply un-American home—is what he finally can't pretend to shed.

Giovanni's Room, to me, is a masterpiece that needs to be read and recognised more widely. What lingers after closing the book is not only Baldwin’s lyricism, but the ache of recognition: the shame, the longing, the search for one’s true self – or perhaps, for home.

It's a must-read for anyone who wants a book that will make them ponder and enjoy great writing.

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For the hundredth time, my mum shakes her head, stares into the camera on her phone, and says — as Mamani (my grandmother) always says — “Better a wolf in the wilderness than a mother.” It’s her way of telling me how hard it is for her to be a continent away from me.

I have always felt her frustration, agony, and despair at having me and my sister, and at us not being the daughters she once imagined. Yet in words, she always told me how wonderful it is to be a mother — how I’m missing out on this “amazing feeling” — and warned me that I would regret not having children one day.’

The stereotype of the mother as a holy figure makes women without children seem less than whole, something mortal instead of eternal — in extreme cases, nothing at all. This sanctity prevents mothers from being honest about the hardships of motherhood. They join in the shared story of mystery and romance, smiling and declaring gratitude, while hiding the darker truths. I’m sure the love a mother feels for her baby is indescribable, but is there anything in this world that is ever completely black or white?

A Life’s Work by Rachel Cusk is different. It is her tribute to her own experience of motherhood — an honest, unflinching memoir that refuses to hide behind sentimentality. She touches a nerve, provoking the anger of those who want to keep their own hidden feelings buried. The honesty on the page reflects back the things we fear, and that honesty makes her a target. Not only for writing about motherhood, but also for being a woman who refuses to accept the roles imposed on her.

Reading her, I felt my own unspoken fears rise to the surface: the responsibilities we silently accept just because of our gender, the way we censor ourselves even in our own thoughts. I could feel both her love for her daughter and her fear of losing herself as an individual. When I read about the brutal reviews she received after publishing this book, I could only admire her courage. I, myself, often silence my own thoughts because I feel I am not brave enough to face the consequences of acknowledging them. What kind of courage must it take, then, to live so openly as herself?

I can imagine how hard it must be for women who sanctify motherhood to read her words, as they deny feelings they have tried so hard to hide. But to me, this is the most truthful, fearless book I have ever read about being a mother.

Of course, experiences differ. For some women, even the difficulties of motherhood are joyful and rewarding. I can’t imagine the sacrifices mothers make for their children. But the truth is that motherhood is not for everyone — and even if a mother sometimes feels anger or even hatred toward her children, it does not make her a bad person. It only makes her human. What matters is accepting the responsibility of raising another human being in this violent world.

Motherhood is not for everyone, and if a woman chooses not to have a child, she is no less than one who does.

I have read Rachel Cusk’s trilogy — Outline, Transit, and Kudos — as well as Second Place and A Life’s Work. I can’t decide which one is my favourite, as each of them is different and in its own way amazing. I admire her deeply — as a writer, and as a woman. My next read will be Parade, and I can’t wait to read the rest of her works.

Her writing gives me courage: the courage to face the feelings I often silence, and to believe that even what is difficult, contradictory, or unspeakable has value. If anything, that is the real gift of her work — not answers, but the permission to be honest.

In the end, A Life’s Work is not just a memoir of motherhood, but a meditation on identity, sacrifice, and truth. It unsettles, provokes, and consoles all at once — and I know it will stay with me long after I turn the last page.

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I asked my friend, “Do you still wear hijab there?”

She said, “No, not anymore. But in some public places, they text us and ask us to follow the country’s rules and wear proper clothing. Other than that, we don’t cover our hair anymore.”

Hearing this after reading The Lion Women of Tehran brought a smile to my face. I thought of Homa—and all the real-life Homas in Iran—and felt that maybe, just maybe, their hard work has paid off. For now, at least. Even if it’s just a small step toward freedom.

The Lion Women of Tehran is the third book I’ve read by an Iranian-American author writing in English.

The first was Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar, a brilliant read. You can read my review of it here [Martyr! | Kaveh Akbar].

The second was The Persians by Sanam Mahloudji, which, despite its success and Women’s Prize nomination, was a bit disappointing for me.

The Lion Women of Tehran, on the other hand, is an authentic and powerful narration of two women’s lives—from the end of Pahlavi era, through the Islamic Revolution, and into the present day.

Plot Summary

Set in 1950s Tehran, The Lion Women of Tehran begins with seven-year-old Ellie, who moves with her mother from a life of comfort to a small, modest home after the sudden death of her father. Lonely and adjusting to a very different life, Ellie meets Homa—a brave, outspoken girl from a working-class background. The two girls form a strong bond and dream of one day becoming “lion women”—a symbol of strength, courage, and independence in a world that doesn’t expect much from girls.

But life changes quickly. Ellie’s mother remarries, and suddenly, they’re back in their former lifestyle. Ellie is pulled into a world of privilege and slowly drifts away from Homa. Years later, the two meet again at an elite girls’ school. Their friendship rekindles, but the paths they take into adulthood couldn’t be more different: Ellie chooses marriage and family, while Homa throws herself into activism, fighting for women’s rights in a country where that kind of work comes with real danger.

The story spans decades—through the Shah’s regime, the Islamic Revolution, and into modern-day Iran. We see the cost of silence and the power of resistance. Ellie eventually moves to the U.S., carrying with her a deep sense of guilt for a decision that shaped Homa’s fate. When they reunite later in life, the pain and love between them is still there—proving how some friendships never really die.

Themes

Female Friendship & Betrayal

At its heart, this is a story about friendship—its power, its fragility, and the pain of betrayal. The relationship between Ellie and Homa is so real. It reminded me of how even the deepest bonds can be shaken by time, choices, and the pressures around us. But also how love, once rooted deeply, doesn’t disappear.

Women’s Rights & Activism

Through Homa, we see the strength of Iranian women who don’t back down. Her journey—from student activism to prison, to building women’s communities under constant pressure—reflects the courage we’ve seen in real life, especially in recent years. Her dream of freedom never fades, and she becomes a voice for all the women who keep fighting.

Class & Social Divide

The contrast between Ellie’s and Homa’s lives says so much about class in Iran—how your background shapes your opportunities, your choices, even your dreams. And yet, despite that divide, the girls find each other again. That tension and connection felt very honest and familiar.

Politics & Personal Lives

Kamali doesn’t just write about politics—she shows how it seeps into every part of life, especially for women. From the Revolution to the Mahsa Amini protests, we see how historical events don’t stay outside the home—they enter it, change it, and shape who we become.

Immigration, Identity & Memory

Ellie’s move to the U.S. brings in another layer—what it means to leave your country, and how the past follows you. Her guilt, her longing, her attempt to make sense of it all—it’s something many of us who’ve left Iran can understand. That feeling of being torn between two places, two selves.

What I really appreciated about the book, was its honest observation. Kamali doesn’t romanticise the Shah’s regime or portray those who sought change as irrational—something we often see always. Instead, she gives us a nuanced view, told through the eyes of two women: one from an affluent family, and the other from downtown Tehran. She helps us understand the dissatisfaction that existed at the time, while also showing how the new regime became even more oppressive.

Unlike the radical narratives that paint the Shah’s era in black and white, Kamali takes a realistic approach, allowing us to see both the good and the bad.

At times, the novel reminded me of My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante—an Iranian version of it. Like Ferrante’s story, it explores the complex friendship between two women from childhood. The love and jealousy, the rivalry and loyalty, and the invisible thread that ties them together—even after years of separation.

I appreciated Kamali’s realism and empathy. Her protagonists feel believable, touchable, and deeply human. One woman, despite her youthful dreams of changing the world, chooses marriage, spending her time in the beauty salons, and the role of a housewife—like many women in Iran at that time. The other, Homa, is a feminist with a dream: for Iranian women to be free. She never gives up. From her communist activism during the Shah’s rule, to her women’s empowerment work under the Islamic regime, to the Mahsa Amini movement—her mission remains the same. Equality. Freedom. Voice.

Even though Marjan Kamali hasn’t lived in Iran for most of her life, she understands Iranian women. As the title suggests, she sees them as they truly are: The Lion Women of Tehran. And Tehran, of course, symbolises Iran itself.

This novel is as much a tribute to the strength of Iranian women as it is a meditation on the quiet rebellions that shape our destinies. Kamali’s prose is filled with nostalgia and quiet urgency. The lion women—those who roar even when they’re expected to stay silent—are unforgettable.

P.S.

When I tell people here how much I miss driving, they look surprised and ask, “You could drive in Iran?” Or, when they find out I worked there, they respond with pity. And even though I share in the anger and sorrow over my country’s situation, I also feel sad about how distorted the image of Iran is.

We Iranian women go to university. We drive. We work—many of us in high-level positions. Most of us are free to choose how to live, how to shape our lives, how to be ourselves. We earn our freedom not by staying quiet, but by resisting. Our families often support us. Many of our educated men are our allies.

We love our beautiful country, whether we choose to stay or leave. No matter how difficult things are, we are lion women. And we roar—even when they expect us to stay silent.

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How it felt to leave, to go away from what you knew and put yourself somewhere else.

Rachel Cusk’s Outline Trilogy is one of the most quietly radical works of contemporary literature—a masterclass in voice, restraint, and the art of listening. Comprising “Outline” (2014), “Transit” (2016), and “Kudos” (2018), the trilogy is a deep, deliberate observation of people’s lives and existential questions.

At the centre—though rarely at the forefront—is Faye, a writer and mother who, after her divorce, moves through a series of conversations, encounters, and reflections. But Cusk isn’t interested in telling us what happens to Faye in the traditional sense. These novels are less about her personal story and more about the people she meets and the stories they choose to share with her.

In each book, Faye is named just once. In “Outline”, it’s in passing, by a mortgage adviser—a moment of quiet, crushing loneliness. In “Transit”, it’s piercing, spoken by her lover. In “Kudos”, it’s by her son during a phone call.

Cusk’s ability to include so many voices in a single book never feels overwhelming. You don’t get lost, and no story feels like it’s been compromised to make space for another. Faye, as the quiet narrator, draws out what feels like the core story of each person—as though everyone has one defining narrative that shapes the rest of their life. Her voice is mesmerising. She mostly listens, but when she speaks, you can’t help but admire her depth, her maturity, and her way of observing people.

I wrote about “Outline” before, which you can read here (Book review: ‘Outline’ by Rachel Cusk). It follows Faye as she flies to Athens to teach a summer writing course. We learn only a few facts about her: she’s recently divorced, and her sons live with their father. That’s all we’re told about her life in “Outline”.

In “Transit”, we begin to see more. After the divorce, she moves to London with her sons and buys a new flat—a nearly uninhabitable place, described as a “can of worms.” The symbolism is obvious: as she renovates the flat, she’s trying to rebuild her life. The challenges she faces with the renovation mirror the emotional struggles of starting over. In another scene, she visits a hairdresser to dye her grey hair. The hairdresser suggests keeping it natural, but Faye insists on changing it—a quiet but powerful moment that reflects her desire to transform something, anything, in her life.

She seems to always be in motion, searching for something better, yet there’s a feeling that she knows movement alone won’t fix the deeper things she wants to change.

As her ex-boyfriend Gerard tells her:

It’s strange,” he said, “that you always changed everything and I changed nothing, and yet we’ve both ended up in the same place.

Later, Faye reflects:

The question of whether to leave or remain was one we usually asked of ourselves in private, to the extent that it could constitute the innermost core of self-determination.

This line feels like the central thesis of the trilogy: the tension between leaving and remaining, between identity and transformation.

In “Kudos”, Faye is once again flying—this time to various European cities for literary events. It opens with a conversation with the man sitting next to her, echoing “Outline”, and for a moment, you think it will be the same again. But it’s not. “Kudos” is sharper, more ironic, and more openly critical. It questions the value of praise—is it positive and rewarding?—and it’s the most overtly feminist of the three, depicting the difficulties women face as both mothers and writers.

In “Outline”, Faye becomes the outline of her former self—a listener, a witness, a vessel into which others pour their truths. In “Transit”, there’s a shift toward reconstruction: a flat being renovated, new relationships forming, and a life in transition. By “Kudos”, the tone turns more philosophical, even bitter at times, as Cusk critiques literary culture, public performance, and the meaning of success.

There’s a circular emotional arc in the trilogy: detachment, transition, clarity. And through it all, one quiet but persistent question remains:

What does it mean to leave? And what does it mean to remain?

Some personal reflections:

Maybe like most readers, while reading the books, I saw myself in Faye—listening to the characters’ stories through her eyes and asking the same questions she did. Rachel Cusk is definitely a brilliant writer—one of those writers I wish I could write like one day. I enjoyed reading all three books and recommend them to anyone who wants a different kind of reading experience. I can’t wait to read the rest of her work!

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Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start, and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt use it—don’t cheat with it. Be as faithful to it as a scientist—but don’t think anything is of any importance because it happens to you or anyone belonging to you. And so on…

“On Writing,” a compilation of insights from one of the most influential literary figures of the 20th century, is like a short course in writing. Through letters, essays, and musings, Hemingway shares his thoughts on craft, discipline, and the philosophy that shaped his famously concise and impactful style.

This was my third encounter with Hemingway’s writings. I first read The Killers as part of my translation course, then A Moveable Feast, one of my favourite memoirs. Hemingway was a dedicated writer—sometimes obsessed with perfection—which, as we can see, led to great success.

Learning from the Best

To be good at anything, one must study the best. Whether by reading, watching, or listening, learning from the greats is essential for mastery and creativity. As a marketer, I apply the same principle: knowing the best brands in the market, studying them, and striving to be as good as—or better than—them. Hemingway embraced this idea fully, believing that writers should challenge themselves against the greatest literary minds in history.

In a letter to William Faulkner, Hemingway advised him to read the best writers of all time and aim to surpass them. He outlined a plan:

You shouldn’t read the shit about living writers. You should always write your best against dead writers—we know their stature (not just stature, but evocative power). Beat them one by one. Why start with Dostoevsky in your first fight? Beat Turgenev first—which we both did soundly.

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Writing with Experience and Precision

Not only did Hemingway believe in learning from the best, but he also firmly believed that experience is the foundation of great storytelling. He often advised writers to observe the world keenly and draw from real-life experiences rather than relying solely on imagination.

It’s always fascinating to learn about the writing habits of great authors. Hemingway believed in simplicity and precision. He emphasized short sentences, cutting unnecessary words, and writing with honesty. His approach—“write the truest sentence that you know”—has influenced generations of writers.

Discipline Over Inspiration

Hemingway’s dedication to daily writing habits is another lesson. He was meticulous in his process, often writing in the morning and tracking his word count, reinforcing the idea that writing is as much about discipline as it is about inspiration.

Although his life ended tragically, his work continues to inspire. His influence on literature is undeniable, and his lessons on writing remain relevant today.

P.S. The first time I saw this title, I thought it was Stephen King’s book. I haven't read it yet, but it’s on my list!

If you enjoy reading about writing, this is a small but insightful read worth exploring!

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Seventeen years ago, in the first year of my bachelor’s, my roommate told me that her father had suggested she read Nausea. He was a high school literature teacher. She told me I should read it too. I tried to find the book, but at that time, for some reason, it was impossible to get hold of. I forgot about it.

Months ago, I started reading about existentialism and discovered that this book is considered the bible of the movement. Then, for my 35th birthday, while I was at Hatchards looking for a present for myself, I saw it.

I’m glad I didn’t read it when I was 18. I feel like the right time for me was now—to read it, to feel it, and to love it more than any book.

Nausea: A Book to Read, A Book to Remember

Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea is a philosophical novel that pulls us into the unsettling depths of existentialism. Published in 1938, it is often considered the cornerstone of existentialist literature, presenting a raw and unfiltered look at the absurdity of existence through the eyes of its protagonist, Antoine Roquentin.

Plot & Themes

The novel follows Roquentin, a solitary historian living in the fictional town of Bouville. As he documents the life of a historical figure, he begins to experience an overwhelming sense of nausea—a visceral reaction to the sheer existence of things. This existential crisis leads him to question the meaning of life, identity, and reality itself. Through his introspective musings, Sartre explores key existentialist themes: the absurdity of life, the burden of freedom, and the alienation that comes with self-awareness.

Roquentin’s nausea isn’t just a physical sensation; it’s a profound philosophical revelation. He realises that objects, people, and even his own existence lack inherent meaning. What Sartre suggests is both hopeful and terrifying. Hopeful—because he tells us we are free. Terrifying—because we are free. This freedom is both an opportunity and a prison; we are responsible for our own existence, with no external force to define it for us. Sartre masterfully portrays the weight of human consciousness—the way perception itself can turn existence into something oppressive and grotesque.

But what made it so special to me? Reading it felt like realising I’m not the only one who sees the world this way. Most importantly, it deepened my understanding of freedom, our role in life, and the significance of time and special moments.

The Idea of Freedom

What Sartre is trying to tell us in this book is liberating. It’s as if he is saying: ‘What if I told you that life, as a whole, is meaningless? And that you are the one who chooses to give it meaning—your desired meaning. You are free to shape it, just as you are free to destroy it. A bittersweet freedom.’ But isn’t it better this way? To take responsibility for your life instead of being a character in someone else’s story?

Past: Reality or Dream?

The protagonist, Antoine Roquentin, struggles with how the past relates to his present self and existence:

• The Past as Inauthentic – Roquentin comes to see the past as something that is no longer real. He feels disconnected from his own memories and realises that trying to find meaning in them is futile. He reflects on past experiences, particularly his love affair with Anny, but he finds that they no longer hold the significance they once did.

• The Past as a Construct – Sartre, through Roquentin, suggests that the past is merely a human invention. Unlike the present, which is filled with the overwhelming nausea of existence, the past feels stable and meaningful only because people impose narratives on it. However, Roquentin eventually sees this as an illusion.

• The Weight of the Past – Roquentin collects historical documents for a biography he is writing, but he starts to feel that history itself is arbitrary and dead. His work, instead of giving him purpose, makes him feel that the past is nothing but a collection of meaningless facts, further deepening his existential crisis.

• The Present Overcoming the Past – By the end of the novel, Roquentin realises that he must focus on the present and create meaning rather than search for it in the past. This aligns with Sartre’s existentialist philosophy, which rejects predetermined essence in favour of individual freedom and the creation of meaning.

I always tried to ignore the past and think of it as a dream. Recently, I started to feel that without a past, I am nothing. Our past, whatever its memories or effects on us, plays an important role in our existence, our present, and our future. It’s undeniable. Reading Nausea, I realised the past is a comforting illusion that crumbles when examined too closely. It is neither a source of stability nor identity but something transient and ultimately powerless in the face of raw existence.

Anny’s ‘Perfect Moments’

Just as we start to believe that Roquentin is utterly alone, we realise there is one person who once mattered deeply to him: Anny. She is his former lover, someone he hasn’t seen in years, yet her presence in his life remains undeniable. We meet her only towards the end of the book, but she leaves a lasting impression with her idea of “Perfect Moments”—rare, fleeting experiences of beauty and completeness that seem to stand outside the meaningless flow of time. For Anny, these moments are the only thing that makes life bearable, offering a sense of significance in an otherwise indifferent world.

She believes that true perfection isn’t spontaneous; it must be carefully crafted and seized at the right time. Unlike Roquentin, who spirals into existential despair, Anny tries to impose structure and meaning onto her life through these carefully curated experiences. However, as time passes, she realises that she can no longer recreate them. Life moves forward, and the illusion of control slips away.

I know. I know that I shall never again meet anything or anybody that will inspire me with passion. You know, it's quite an undertaking to start loving somebody. You have to have energy, generosity, blindness. ... There is even a moment, right at the start, where you have to jump across an abyss: if you think about it you don't do it. I know that I shall never jump again.

When she and Roquentin meet again, Anny is disillusioned, recognising that her pursuit of “Perfect Moments” was ultimately futile. This reflects Sartre’s broader existentialist idea: meaning cannot be found in fixed, idealised experiences—it must be created in the present, through the acceptance of one’s freedom and responsibility.

Anny’s disillusionment serves as a contrast to Roquentin’s nausea. While he recoils from the sheer weight of existence, she mourns the loss of a past where meaning still seemed possible. Both characters, in their own way, confront the impossibility of anchoring life to something solid and unchanging.

Final Thoughts

Nausea is a novel that does not provide comfort but rather forces us to confront the weight of our own existence. It is not merely a book to read; it is a book to experience. Sartre’s writing is raw, unsettling, and thought-provoking, challenging us to acknowledge both the terror and the liberation of absolute freedom.

Reading it at the right time in my life made all the difference. It showed me that existence is something we must learn to bear, that meaning is something we must create. And perhaps, most importantly, it reassured me that I am not alone in feeling this way about the world.

Whether you want to learn about existentialism or simply explore existence itself, read this book. But read it at the right time—when you’re ready for it!

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When it’s time for the clock change, my grandmother, Mamani, refuses to adjust her wall clock. She believes the old time works better and dislikes these changes. Whenever she has an appointment or a guest, she always asks: With the old time or the ridiculous new one? For her, the past was the golden era—when fruits were sweeter, people were kinder, the grass was greener, the sky was bluer, and life was simply better.

Reading Time Shelter reminded me of Mamani. I could picture her in her velvet green dress, her cheeks red with joy and health, wearing her gold earrings and necklace, waiting for my grandpa to take her to his parents’ house—the time of youth and glory!

Unlike her, I’ve always tried to forget the past and focus on the future. For me, the past belonged to the dead. But recently, I’ve been thinking more about it. And I keep remembering this quote from the book:

When you have no future, you vote for the past.

And isn’t that the moment we start living in the past instead of the present or the future? When we lose hope in what’s ahead, the only thing left to hold on to is what once was.

Georgi Gospodinov’s Time Shelter, the winner of the 2023 International , is a profound and deeply moving novel. With its unique and creative take on memory, nostalgia, and the unsettling passage of time, it offers a fresh perspective on familiar themes.

The story follows an enigmatic therapist, Gaustine, who creates a clinic for Alzheimer’s patients. Each floor is designed to resemble a different decade, offering patients a refuge in the past. But what begins as a compassionate experiment soon spirals into a wider societal phenomenon, as entire nations start retreating into past eras—blurring the line between memory and reality.

Imagine being able to live in any time period of your choosing. It sounds like a dream, doesn’t it? But the novel explores the dangers of such nostalgia.

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This concept resonated deeply with me. I grew up in a country where people constantly live in the glory of the past. Unhappy with the present, and uncertain about the future, they cling to their golden age. Perhaps this is the curse of ancient civilizations—having a great past to hold on to while ignoring an uncertain and grey future. We filter out the bad memories and turn the past into an imagined utopia. And this is exactly what Gospodinov portrays so brilliantly: How does society manipulate history to escape an uncertain future?

The euphoria of the past becomes even stronger as we age and start losing the people we love. The book captures this feeling beautifully:

When people with whom you’ve shared a common past leave, they take half of it with them. Actually, they take the whole thing, since there’s no such thing as half a past... The person holding the other half is gone. The person who was so close during those days, mornings, afternoons, evenings, and nights, in the months and years... There is no one to confirm it, there is no one to play through it with.

He has no friends, no living relatives. No one to call. If we are not in someone else’s memory, do we even exist at all?

I thoroughly enjoyed Time Shelter. It’s the kind of book that makes you think, and what’s better than reading something exceptional that leaves you questioning and discovering? The novel is both melancholic and darkly humorous, capturing the human desire to escape uncertainty by seeking solace in the past. At its core, Time Shelter is not just about individual memory loss but also about how societies manipulate nostalgia—sometimes dangerously—to shape their future.

I loved the International Booker Prize winners of 2023 and 2024—Time Shelter and Kairos—and they have become my favourites. I can’t wait to see this year’s list!

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Whenever someone asks me why I moved to London, I give them obvious answers, but the truth is much deeper. Actually, it’s quite a story—one that, in some chapters, mirrors the experience of many immigrant Iranians. Reading Lolita in Tehran could easily be a chapter in the book of my reasons for leaving my country!

Reading Lolita in Tehran (2003) is a memoir by Azar Nafisi, blending personal experience with literary analysis to explore life in post-revolutionary Iran.

About Reading Lolita in Tehran

I was born in 1990, two years after the Iran-Iraq war. Reading Nafisi’s memories about that time reminded me of my own childhood—the fears, the blurry hopes about my life as a girl in my country.

The book follows Nafisi’s experiences as a literature professor in Tehran, where she secretly gathered a small group of female students to read and discuss Western classics: Lolita, The Great Gatsby, Pride and Prejudice, Henry James' works, and Madame Bovary.

She believed literature could teach people how to live and cope with challenges:

“...how these great works of imagination could help us in our present trapped situation as women. We were not looking for blueprints, for an easy solution, but we did hope to find a link between the open spaces the novels provided and the closed ones we were confined to. I remember reading to my girls Nabokov’s claim that ‘readers were born free and ought to remain free.’”

What made this book special to me was not just its powerful narrative about being a woman in Iran, but also the way she, as a literature professor, taught us how to interpret stories and learn from them—just like she did with A Thousand and One Nights:

“Before Scheherazade enters the scene, the women in the story are divided into those who betray and then are killed (the queen) and those who are killed before they have a chance to betray (the virgins)... Scheherazade breaks the cycle of violence by choosing to embrace different terms of engagement. She fashions her universe not through physical force, as does the king, but through imagination and reflection. This gives her the courage to risk her life and sets her apart from the other characters in the tale.”

Reading this book felt like being in a literature class. See how beautifully she explains how we should read novels:

“A novel is not an allegory, I said as the period was about to come to an end. It is the sensual experience of another world. If you don’t enter that world, hold your breath with the characters, and become involved in their destiny, you won’t be able to empathize, and empathy is at the heart of the novel. This is how you read a novel: you inhale the experience. So start breathing. I just want you to remember this.”

Another reason I loved this book was that, for the first time in my life, I was reading a story about my country without censorship. It was real. I could relate to it, I could enjoy it. It made me angry, sad, sometimes even made me cry—but it was real!

I experienced the same things she described. It felt good to feel heard! She taught at the same university where I studied for my master’s—Allameh Tabatabai. Years after her, I experienced the same discrimination. Before entering, there was a separate gate for women. An angry woman, dressed in all black, in her Chador, was always there, checking our clothes, making sure our makeup wasn’t too much, inspecting our nails. Once, I had nail polish on, and she forced me to remove it before I could enter the university.

By our time, they had even separated classes for boys and girls. After class, we gathered in the university courtyard to talk. As their restrictions grew, we became more courageous, more rebellious. This is how the author describes our university:

“Yet that green gate was closed to her, and to all my girls. Next to the gate there was a small opening with a curtain hanging from it... Through this opening, all the female students went into a small, dark room to be inspected. Yassi would describe later... ‘I would first be checked to see if I had the right clothes: the color of my coat, the length of my uniform, the thickness of my scarf, the form of my shoes, the objects in my bag, the visible traces of even the mildest makeup, the size of my rings and their level of attractiveness... all would be checked before I could enter the campus.’”

Their Thursday classes became a ritual—a space where they discussed their lives as women in society, in their families, and among themselves. Through these discussions, Azar and her students reflected on oppression, resistance, and personal freedom, drawing parallels between fiction and their own lives under Iran’s strict theocratic regime.

One important thing to mention: Just because we lived in a restricted Islamic country doesn’t mean we accepted our fate and did nothing. I was reading this book during my lunch break at work when my colleagues asked me about it. One of them asked me the same question my university supervisor in London once did: Could you drive in Iran as a woman? I laughed—of course, I drove there! Of course, I worked as a senior manager! Living under restrictions doesn’t mean we stopped living. We had our secret parties, we made our own homemade drinks, we wore whatever we wanted at private gatherings. The problem was, and still is, that we were always being watched. If a woman doesn’t cover her hair while driving, they fine her. If they catch you drinking alcohol, they lash you. But none of this stopped us from dreaming and living the lives we wanted!

Immigration

After about eighteen years in Tehran, Azar decided to leave for the U.S. She left in 1997, when I was seven. When I left Tehran in 2022, I had the same, and even more, reasons to leave.

To keep it short—like the opening of her epilogue—I left Tehran for the same green light that Gatsby once believed in.

Like her, I always tried to live in freedom. I left my hometown in my 18th to move to Tehran—a city with more opportunities, more freedom. And yet, it wasn’t enough.

I feel all my life has been a series of departures.

When I completed my second master’s in London, some of my classmates chose to return to their home countries. They felt staying here wasn’t worth it. And while I do like it here, I was heartbroken to realise that, unlike them, I didn’t have a choice. At least they had a home to return to.

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.

There’s a song by the legendary Iranian singer Fereydoun Farrokhzad called ‘Melancholy Eastern (Sharghie Ghamgin).’ Whenever we find moments of happiness here but hear about another tragedy in Iran, we call each other ‘Melancholy Eastern.’ As Nafisi puts it:

Going away isn’t going to help as much as you think. The memory stays with you, and the stain. It’s not something you slough off once you leave.

When I returned to Iran after two years to see my family, I realised just how much I had changed. I remembered who I was there, and in some ways, I missed that version of myself. But I believe life is about moving forward, about finding meaning. No matter where we’re born, we all have the right to seek peace and joy. Home isn’t just a place—it’s the people we love, the culture we carry, and the memories we cherish.

Like you’ll not only miss the people you love, but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you’ll never be this way ever again.

About the Author

Azar Nafisi is an Iranian-American author, professor, and literary scholar best known for her memoir Reading Lolita in Tehran (2003). Born in 1948 in Tehran, she studied in the United States before returning to Iran, where she taught literature during the Iranian Revolution. Her work often explores themes of freedom, censorship, and the transformative power of literature, particularly in oppressive societies. Nafisi later emigrated to the U.S., where she has continued to write and advocate for intellectual freedom and women’s rights. Her other notable books include Things I’ve Been Silent About and The Republic of Imagination.

At the End

I felt this book with my whole heart. And if someone wants to understand why we choose to leave a beautiful country, our families, our successes, and our happiest moments with loved ones, this book offers a powerful explanation!

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Have you ever thought about the most important quality that makes us unique? It could be our distinct physical traits, unique voices, or, simply, something we often overlook: our unique scent! A scent can make someone attractive to us while leaving another unnoticed.

Perfume is a story about this magical aspect of existence—something so intangible that nothing but itself can fully represent it. We can capture a beautiful image or record a lovely sound, but we can never preserve someone’s or something’s scent, except in our memory. To me, this ephemeral nature is what makes this story magical.

I watched Perfume many years ago and absolutely loved it. As someone particularly sensitive to scents, I appreciated the story’s celebration of this often-overlooked sense. I didn’t realise at the time that the movie was based on a book. A month ago, while heading home from a work meeting, I came across a Waterstones on Finchley Road and decided to treat myself to a new book. When I saw Perfume, I immediately knew it was time to read it. Funny enough, whenever I read it during lunch breaks, my colleagues would ask about the plot. When I told them, their reactions were often along the lines of, “Wow, you’re scary for loving this book so much!” 😅

The Story

Set in 18th-century France, the novel tells the story of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, an orphan born with an extraordinary sense of smell and a chilling lack of morality. Born in the squalor of Paris, Grenouille grows up unloved but discovers his unique gift: an unparalleled ability to discern scents. This talent becomes both his salvation and his curse, leading him down a path of obsession as he seeks to create the ultimate perfume—one that grants him power over others. His ambition takes him to the picturesque countryside of Grasse, the center of perfume production, where he devises a horrifying plan to distill the essence of beauty itself.

The novel’s climax is both shocking and surreal, blending elements of horror and the grotesque with Patrick Süskind’s razor-sharp critique of human nature, societal norms, and religious beliefs. Grenouille’s challenge to conventional notions of God and power is particularly amazing!

And none of them will know that it is truly not how she looks that has captured them, nor her reputed unblemished external beauty, but solely her incomparable, splendid scent! Only he would know that, only Grenouille, he alone. He knew it already in fact.

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Movie vs. Book

Representation of Grenouille

Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (2006), directed by Tom Tykwer, features Ben Whishaw as Grenouille. Whishaw delivers an eerily understated performance, capturing Grenouille’s enigmatic presence and his descent into madness. His portrayal renders Grenouille both sympathetic and monstrous—a brilliant man whose genius is overshadowed by his moral emptiness.

In contrast, the book describes Grenouille as grotesque, deformed, and repellant. His physical repulsiveness underscores his lack of humanity, making him an object of revulsion. In the film, however, Whishaw’s portrayal humanizes Grenouille, making him appear physically normal and even delicate, which changes how the audience perceives him. To me, he was the best choice!

Focus on Smell

Süskind’s writing masterfully conveys the world of scent, with detailed descriptions that make smells almost tangible. The novel takes readers in Grenouille’s sensory experiences, making the olfactory world central to the story. In contrast, the movie uses visual and auditory cues, such as slow-motion shots and close-ups of Grenouille as he smells objects, to approximate the experience of scent. While effective, the film cannot replicate the novel’s immersive sensory depth due to the inherent limitations of the medium, but still, does the job!

Grenouille’s Methodology

Without spoiling the story, there are notable differences between the book and the movie in Grenouille’s methods for creating his perfume.

Final Thoughts

Perfume: The Story of a Murderer is a dark, mesmerizing story that stays with you long after the final page. It is both a ghastly thriller and a profound meditation on art, ambition, and the human condition. For fans of gothic literature, historical fiction, or philosophical novels, Perfume is a must-read. I thoroughly enjoyed both the book and the movie, and like always, I recommend reading the book first before watching the movie.

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I’ve always been more into classics or modern classics, but every time a new book starts making waves or wins a big literary award, I feel like I have to check it out. Sometimes, I’m blown away; other times, it’s a total letdown. It’s made me wonder why I enjoy classics more than most contemporary ones.

So, I decided to dig in and figure it out. I’ve read some popular contemporary books that I absolutely loved—like Elena Ferrante, Salman Rushdie, and Margaret Atwood’s books, as well as a few Booker Prize contenders. But then there are the ones I can barely get through, like Sally Rooney’s books or, more recently, The Bee Sting by Paul Murray, which was the shortlisted for the 2023 Booker Prize and won the 2023 Nero Book Award.

Why Some Modern Books Just Don’t Work for Me

Here’s what I’ve realized: it’s not about the writing itself. Most of these authors are crazy talented. The problem for me is their story theme. A lot of modern books focus on everyday people living everyday lives, and that bores me to tears. I think social media has something to do with it—I’m already bombarded with people’s daily dramas on my feeds. So when a book feels like an extended episode of someone’s life, it’s just... too much.

That said, I know these kinds of stories really resonate with people, and I totally get why they’re so popular. There’s an audience for everything, and these books often capture the realness of life in a way that hits home for a lot of readers.

The ‘The Bee Sting’ Dilemma

The book that made me reflect and write down these random thoughts was The Bee Sting. It’s a 2023 novel by Irish writer Paul Murray. The story depicts the dysfunctional, hapless lives of the Barnes family in Ireland, with portions of the book dedicated to the perspectives of each family member. It’s full of dark humor and explores themes of family, love, loss, and grief.

Deciding whether I liked it or not was a real dilemma! On the one hand, Paul Murray is a genius. The way he wrote about this family—their dynamics, their struggles as individuals and as part of a family—was absolutely top-notch. Structurally, the book is brilliant. But by the end, I felt like I had wasted my time. It didn’t leave me with any big takeaway or emotional punch.

It’s not that the book is bad; it just wasn’t my thing. I couldn’t connect with the story in a meaningful way, and for me, that’s the dealbreaker.

That said, there was one redeeming aspect: I listened to the audiobook, and the Irish accents made it a delightful experience. Even though the story frustrated me, I had a great time listening to it!

Why Classics Win (For Me)

Here’s where classics have the edge: they’re not just about people living their lives. They take you somewhere new—whether it’s exploring deep philosophical questions (Crime and Punishment), offering biting social commentary (Pride and Prejudice), or creating epic, unforgettable worlds (War and Peace).

They stick with you. Even when they’re tough to get through, there’s always something to take away—a new perspective, a bigger idea, or just a story that feels timeless. Modern classics like ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ and ‘East of Eden’ hit that same sweet spot.

At the end of the day, it’s not that contemporary literature can’t be as great as the classics—it totally can. Authors like Ferrante and many others prove that. But for me, it’s about what I want from a book. I want to be transported, to think about something bigger, to experience a story that sticks with me long after I’ve closed the cover.

Modern books can be brilliant, but they don’t always offer that kind of magic. Classics, though? They almost never let me down.

Which one is your favourite? Is it just me, or do you feel the same?

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Have you ever experienced calmness when reading a book? Like sitting next to a waterfall, after a great yoga session in mild weather! It might seem too romanticized, but it was my experience while reading Outline. Although it is a small read, it's not a book to read in one sitting. To enjoy it, you have to give it time.

Rachel Cusk’s Outline, the first in her acclaimed trilogy, is a bold experiment in narrative form and perspective. The other ones are Transit and Kudos. A different style of narrative through a series of conversations and encounters experienced by Faye, a writer teaching a creative writing course in Athens. The book is less about Faye herself, she remains a largely opaque figure, and more about the people she meets and the stories they tell her. Her style is understated but piercing, allowing the voices of her characters to come alive with startling clarity. The conversations Faye engages in touch on themes of identity, relationships, ambition, and the fractures of modern life. As I read their conversations, it felt like I was Faye, present at the moment, enjoying my conversation, learning new insights!

Each story works as a kind of reflective surface, revealing as much about the speaker as it does about Faye, even though her interiority remains elusive. The novel feels both intimate and distant, creating a meditative space for readers to ponder their own perceptions of life and art.

If someone had told me about it before, I might have felt that it’s a boring one, and reading it and not being bored was surprisingly pleasant! I enjoyed her unconventional approach to storytelling, challenging the public assumption about it and the fact that it gives us the opportunity to enjoy a new perspective.

I always dreamed of writing a book and always thought of something similar, but never experienced anything like that. I started to like the book from the beginning after reading this part, as I’m experiencing it already:

As it happened I was no longer interested in literature as a form of snobbery or even of self-definition - I had no desire to prove that one book was better than another: in fact, if I read something I admired I found myself increasingly disinclined to mention it at all. What I knew personally to be true had come to seem unrelated to the process of persuading others. I did not, any longer, want to persuade anyone of anything.

Through the book, I felt more and more close to Faye. Maybe because she was my forever dream of myself in my 50s, a writer, teaching creative writing!

I haven’t started the second book yet. I need some time to get back to it, to fully enjoy it. Though, if you’re looking for a new reading experience, Outline could be a great choice for you!☺️

Have you read any of her books?

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I was listening to one of my favorite podcasts, ‘Hardcore Literature’ by Benjamin McEvoy when I learned about The Importance of Being Earnest. I decided to read the play as soon as I finished the episode. It took me months to finally get to it, though!

Eventually, I read the book, which consists of six plays: Lady Windermere's Fan (I wrote about that before), Salomé, A Woman of No Importance, An Ideal Husband, A Florentine Tragedy, and The Importance of Being Earnest.

The plays follow a similar concept: illustrating the absurdity of social conventions with Wilde's signature wit. Except for Salomé and A Florentine Tragedy, which have different storylines, the other four plays focus on the lives of upper-class Victorian English people, mocking their lifestyles and beliefs. To be fair, I couldn’t enjoy Salomé and A Florentine Tragedy, but the other plays were great!

At the heart of the play are two friends, Algernon Moncrieff and Jack Worthing, both of whom lead double lives to escape the constraints of their rigid social circles. Algernon fabricates an invalid friend, "Bunbury," to excuse himself from tedious social obligations, while Jack adopts the name "Ernest" to enjoy a life of carefree bachelorhood in the city. This elaborate deception spirals out of control when both men fall in love—Algernon with Jack’s ward, Cecily, and Jack with Gwendolen, Algernon’s cousin—neither of whom would settle for anyone whose name isn’t “Ernest.”

Playing with the name "Ernest" and the word "earnest" in the title is genius which works in two ways:

1. Seriousness and Earnestness: The name itself means "serious". This irony is central to the play, as both Jack and Algernon use the name "Ernest" as a facade to hide their true identities and avoid their responsibilities.

2. The Importance of Appearances: The play satirizes the Victorian obsession with appearances and social status. The name "Ernest" represents a traditional, respectable, and serious image that both Jack and Algernon strive to maintain, even though they are far from earnest in their actions.

By using the name "Ernest" as a central theme, Wilde highlights the superficiality of Victorian society and the emphasis on appearances over genuine character. The play's title, The Importance of Being Earnest, is a clever play on words, suggesting that while earnestness may be valued, it is ultimately less important than the appearance of being earnest. This is evident in the dialogue between Gwendolen and Jack, and Cecily and Algernon:

GWENDOLEN: We live, as I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, in an age of ideals. The fact is constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines and has reached the provincial pulpits, I am told; and my ideal has always been to love someone of the name of Ernest. There is something in that name that inspires absolute confidence. The moment Algernon first mentioned to me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to love you.

CECILY: There is something in that name that seems to inspire absolute confidence. I pity any poor married woman whose husband is not called Ernest.

Wilde's razor-sharp wit and sparkling dialogue are on full display in The Importance of Being Earnest. The characters are delightfully shallow and self-absorbed, yet their antics are so absurdly entertaining that it's impossible not to be amused.

The transformation of Algernon was particularly interesting to me. At the beginning of the play, Wilde leads us to believe he is against marriage, but later on, we find him in love and proposing to Cecily:

ALGERNON: I really don't see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then the excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty. If ever I get married, I'll certainly try to forget the fact.

The play’s exploration of the superficiality of Victorian society is both clever and insightful, as Wilde highlights the importance of appearances and social status over genuine character. Lady Bracknell, as the representative of this society, exemplifies this absurdity perfectly.

One of the play’s most memorable moments is the "Bunburyist" philosophy, which Algernon espouses. "Bunburying" refers to the practice of inventing a fictitious invalid relative to escape one’s social obligations. Wilde uses this concept to satirize the lengths to which people go to avoid their responsibilities and pursue their own desires.

The Importance of Being Earnest is a truly delightful comedy that has stood the test of time. Its witty dialogue, clever characters, and timeless themes make it a must-read for anyone who appreciates classic literature. Whether you're a fan of Wilde’s work or simply looking for a hilarious and thought-provoking play, The Importance of Being Earnest is sure to entertain and delight.

A Funny Side Note 😅:

A funny coincidence happened when I read these lines and, ten minutes later, heard a woman on TV repeating them. It felt like my mind was using cookies to enhance my reading experience!

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Movie Adaptations of The Importance of Being Earnest

While Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest has been adapted for the screen several times, these adaptations have not always been as successful as the original play. The play's intricate dialogue, witty humor, and sophisticated characters like most of the plays, can be challenging to translate to film, which often requires a more visual and fast-paced approach.

Here are a few notable film adaptations of The Importance of Being Earnest:

• The Importance of Being Earnest (1952): This early adaptation stars Michael Redgrave as Jack Worthing and Joan Greenwood as Gwendolen Fairfax. While the film is faithful to the original play, it has been criticized for its slow pacing and lack of visual flair.

  

• The Importance of Being Earnest (2002): This modern adaptation stars Colin Firth as Jack Worthing, Reese Witherspoon as Cecily Cardew, and Judi Dench as Lady Bracknell. The film is set in the 1920s and features a more contemporary take on the story. Despite its stylish production values, the film has been criticized for its lack of comedic spark.

I haven’t watched any of the movie adaptations, but I'm looking forward to seeing this play in a theater one day!

Have you read this play or any of Wilde's other works?

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Lady Windermere's Fan is a play from Oscar Wilde's collection, which can be found in the book The Importance of Being Earnest and Other Plays. I’ve decided to write about each play in a separate post, as they’re great to consider as distinct works!

Oscar Wilde's ‘Lady Windermere's Fan’ is a brilliant and witty exploration of societal expectations, morality, and the nuances of human relationships. At its core, the play follows the young and virtuous Lady Windermere, who becomes consumed by suspicion of her husband's infidelity. However, Wilde skillfully transforms what could have been a straightforward marital drama into a sharp critique of rigid social norms and the complexities of personal choices. Oscar Wilde's Lady Windermere's Fan is a product of its time, deeply embedded in the social and cultural climate of late Victorian England*.

Lady Windermere’s Transformation

Wilde, a man who himself struggled against the constraints of Victorian society, uses this play to challenge the moral absolutes imposed by the upper class. Lady Windermere initially embodies this dogmatic worldview, seeing the world in strict black-and-white terms. As we can see in her conversation with Lord Darlington about ‘women with a past’:

LADY WINDERMERE: I think they should never be forgiven.

LORD DARLINGTON: And men? Do you think that there should be the same laws for men as there are for women?

LADY WINDERMERE: Certainly!

LORD DARLINGTON: I think life too complex a thing to these hard and fast rules.

LADY WINDERMERE: If we had 'these hard and fast rules', we should find life much more simple.

LORD DARLINGTON: You allow of no exceptions?

LADY WINDERMERE: None!

LORD DARLINGTON: Ah, what a fascinating Puritan you are, Lady Windermere!

Yet, her journey through the play leads her to realize that human nature is far more complex and that judgment often oversimplifies the truth. Wilde's decision to have this realization occur on her 21st birthday—a symbolic coming-of-age moment—highlights the growth and maturity that accompany such self-awareness.

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Mrs. Erlynne’s Role

Mrs. Erlynne, another pivotal character, adds depth to this exploration of morality. Viewed through the lens of society, she could easily be dismissed as a selfish woman who abandoned her daughter. Yet Wilde invites the audience to look beyond superficial judgments. Mrs. Erlynne’s paradoxical nature—pursuing her own life while making a profound sacrifice to protect her daughter, and at the same time wishing her daughter to devote herself to her own child—adds emotional complexity. Her motives remain ambiguous: Is she driven by guilt or regret? Wilde leaves this question unanswered, forcing the audience to grapple with the idea that people’s actions and motivations often resist simple categorization.

Redefining Stereotypes

Throughout the play, Wilde's main focus is on redefining the overused late-Victorian stage stereotype of the "woman with a past." In doing so, he refines the simplistic moral framework that this stereotype was meant to uphold.

In ’Lady Windermere's Fan’, Wilde's signature wit and social critique shine, offering a compelling examination of the blurred lines between morality and judgment, sacrifice and selfishness, and societal expectations and personal freedom. The result is a timeless commentary on human nature and society’s often hypocritical standards.

In the end, the story offered a valuable lesson for me: to keep in mind that nothing is absolutely right or wrong, and I must be open to new ideas and the acceptance that I can be wrong! And one should: Never Says, Never!

*Some notes on the play's historical context:

Victorian Society and Morality

The Victorian era was characterized by a strict adherence to social conventions and a pervasive sense of morality. The upper class, in particular, was expected to uphold a facade of respectability, even at the expense of personal happiness. The play's central theme of social hypocrisy and the consequences of deviating from societal norms is a direct reflection of this Victorian ideal.

The Cult of Domesticity: Victorian women were often confined to the domestic sphere, expected to be devoted wives and mothers. Lady Windermere's initial adherence to this ideal and her subsequent rebellion against it highlight the limitations and pressures placed on women during this time.

The Importance of Reputation: Reputation was paramount in Victorian society, especially for women. A woman's reputation was closely linked to her marriageability and social standing. The play explores the devastating consequences of a tarnished reputation and the lengths to which people would go to protect their social status.

There are some movie adaptations of this play, which I haven't watched yet, and I probably won't. The most famous adaptation probably is A Good Woman, a 2004 romantic comedy drama film directed by Mike Barker. The screenplay is by Howard Himelstein, starring Scarlett Johansson as Lady Windermere.

I'm looking forward to seeing this play in a theater one day!

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Does a blood bond actually prove stronger than the love of people we choose to love?

Claire Keegan answers this question in her warm and lovely novella Foster.

You might think that to be a great writer, you need to craft a huge novel with complex characters and storylines, but Claire Keegan proves the opposite. She wrote a short story that effortlessly captures your heart from the very beginning.

Foster is a wonderful story about the need for love, being loved, and the small but significant ways we shape one another’s lives. The story follows a young, unnamed girl sent to live with distant relatives while her mother is pregnant. What begins as a simple arrangement gradually unfolds into a transformative experience for the girl. Through the tender care of her foster parents, particularly the warmth of the childless woman who takes her in, the narrator experiences a level of attention and affection that contrasts sharply with the neglect she faces at home. Keegan masterfully uses small details—the smell of baking, the comfort of warm baths, and the quiet presence of a kind hand—to build a narrative that resonates deeply without ever becoming overtly sentimental.

The girl's observations are both innocent and insightful, offering a unique perspective on the world around her. In Keegan’s spare but lyrical prose, every word counts, painting a delicate portrait of childhood and the nuances of human relationships. As she grows closer to her foster family, she begins to question her own place in the world and the nature of family bonds.

What stands out most in Foster is Keegan’s control of tone and atmosphere. The novella is filled with silences and pauses, yet it speaks volumes about the unspoken tensions of family dynamics, the shame of poverty, and the tender ache of being loved in ways one never expected. There is a deep sense of place in Keegan’s rural Ireland, a world shaped by the quiet rhythms of farm life, where emotions are often held back or hinted at rather than expressed outright.

The novella's ending is heart-wrenching and thought-provoking, leaving readers with a sense of both sadness and hope. Foster is a powerful and unforgettable story that will stay with you long after you finish reading.

To me, Foster was a reminder of the valuable connections with people who played important roles in my life, like my elderly neighbor who lived next door when I was a child. She loved me deeply, and in times when I felt alone and neglected by my parents, she was there for me, loving me and taking care of me. She was a true angel!

Foster, like ‘Small Things Like These’, is a testament to Keegan's talent as a writer, and I wish she would write more books!

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“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

My early impression of Paris was shaped by this quote from Hemingway. I don’t remember when or where I read or heard it, but it’s the most memorable description of a city I’ve ever encountered!
I remember buying the book many years ago, but either because of the Farsi translation or its ugly cover, I never got through it. Luckily, I donated all my translated books, and now I must read and reread all of them in English, without censorship!
Anyway, I listened to the audiobook, but when I like a book, I need a print copy to feel relaxed and happy. So, yes, I’ve ordered a secondhand 2000 Vintage edition to keep on my bookshelf!

listening to the audiobook, I was impressed by Hemingway’s narrative of his life! Some writers tell their stories like poems. Kaveh Akbar’s Martyr! is one of them, and A Moveable Feast—though it is a memoir—felt like I was reading a poem!

"You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen."

“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people, and if you could avoid making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few who were as good as spring itself.”

I could imagine spending my time with him in 1920s Paris, chatting and traveling with Fitzgerald, and receiving valuable advice:

“Never go on trips with anyone you do not love.”

I liked his approach to writing—so disciplined, so confident, and professional. As someone who has always dreamed of being a writer, I hope to one day say:

‘I belong to this notebook and this pencil.’
A Moveable Feast is like a masterclass on how to be a great writer!

“I always worked until I had something done, and I always stopped when I knew what was going to happen next. That way, I could be sure of going on the next day. But sometimes, when I was starting a new story and couldn’t get it going, I would sit in front of the fire and squeeze the peel of little oranges into the edge of the flame and watch the blue sputter they made. I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, 'Do not worry. You have always written before, and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.' So finally, I would write one true sentence and go on from there. It was easy then because there was always one true sentence that I knew or had seen or heard someone say. If I started writing elaborately or like someone introducing something, I would cut that scrollwork or ornament out and throw it away, starting again with the first true, simple declarative sentence I had written. Up in that room, I decided that I would write one story about each thing I knew about. I was trying to do this all the time I was writing, and it was a good and severe discipline.”

I also liked learning about his feelings and thoughts—how he loved his wife, how fragile he was when he thought he might hurt her, and how he still couldn’t help being young and acting juvenile.

“When two people love each other, are happy and gay, and one or both of them is doing really good work, people are drawn to them as surely as migrating birds are drawn at night to a powerful beacon. If those two people were as solidly constructed as the beacon, there would be little damage except to the birds. Those who attract people through their happiness and performance are usually inexperienced. They do not know how not to be overrun and how to go away. They do not always learn about the good, attractive, charming, soon-beloved, and generous rich, who have no bad qualities and who give each day the quality of a festival, and who, after taking the nourishment they needed, leave everything deader than the roots of any grass Attila’s horses’ hooves have ever scoured.”

His descriptions of food and drink are amazing! The way he describes his experiences makes you want to go to Paris and eat and drink whatever he had!

“As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.”

Café as the writer’s office:

Another remarkable aspect of the book is learning about the habits and culture of writers and young people at that time. Sitting in cafés as a writer’s workplace is one of the most important parts of the book for me, and it resonates deeply with my own culture.

“The people I liked and hadn’t met went to the big cafés because they were lost in them, unnoticed, and could be alone in them together.”

Sitting in cafés, writing, and having intellectual conversations with fellow writers, artists, and cultural and political activists was central to Hemingway’s time, and it has played a similar role for Iranian writers, poets, and artists—especially during the Pahlavi era. Where Cafés provided a platform for intellectuals to engage with new ideas and challenge traditional norms. Cafés have always been regular spots for them to gather. This could be due to the influence of French culture on Iranian elites at that time. It was common for them to travel to France for their studies, and French fashion and language remain popular among Persians. A great example is Sadegh Hedayat, one of the pioneers of modern Persian literature, who frequented cafés to write. His favorite spot in Tehran, Café Naderi, is still one of the city’s iconic cafés. He’s buried in the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise in Paris. Today, despite all the limitations imposed by the government, cafés remain popular places for the younger generation.

And as we reach the end of Hemingway’s first Parisian era, we feel the same sentiment:

"But we were not invulnerable, and that was the end of the first part of Paris. Paris was never to be the same again, though it was always Paris, and you changed as it changed... this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy."

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While sharing my thoughts about ‘My Brilliant Friend’, some people told me that their favourite book was the second one: ‘The Story of a New Name’. I finished the book wondering why; Despite enjoying it greatly, I felt a bit irritated and uncomfortable. Why did I feel much more comfortable with the first book than with this one? I still don’t have a clear answer to that, but I feel like this book awakened some emotions in me that I’ve tried to hide for so long. It is somehow my defence mechanism to cope with everything that makes me sad. I try to run and hide from those feelings. As I remember, in my mind, I had a closet, and whenever I felt rage, sadness, or insecurity, I put all those emotions in that closet and locked the door. So, they were never in front of my eyes. Actually, I feel better this way until something provokes them and makes them start talking and yelling at me. And I feel ‘The Story of a New Name’ awakened some of my unresolved emotions, which is why I felt uncomfortable.

Let’s move on to the book review:

If you haven’t read the review for ‘My Brilliant Friend’ yet, read it first.

The second book covers Elena and Lila’s early adulthood, focusing on the difficulties and terrifying responsibilities that adulthood brings. They wanted to take control of their fate from a young age; as children, they made a pact to write a book, get rich, and escape. As they grow up, Lila chooses another path, marrying a wealthy man to gain money and power, while Elena sticks to their original plan of staying in school, writing a book, and becoming rich.

For Lila, adulthood is about starting a family while she’s still a teenager and doesn’t know anything about married life and its responsibilities. For Elena, it’s more about shaping her future by studying hard and writing her first novel, which changes her life. Elena stays in school and aims to find a career that will allow her to move away from her family, neighborhood, and the predetermined roles of the women she knew. In contrast, Lila marries a rich man and stays in the neighborhood, focusing on his business.

Despite the different paths their lives take, and although Elena is sometimes angry with Lila and tries to avoid her, she can’t deny Lila’s influence on her identity and personality. She believes Lila is a part of her. They share something profound, something that has connected them since childhood. Their bond is so strong that not even their conflicts can completely separate them. As Elena feels, they are actually two halves of a whole, completing each other.

I admired how masterfully Ferrante depicted the feelings of teenage girls, Elena's secret love for Nino, her feelings about her rivals, her hidden wounds, and their effects on her sexual life. How she adores Lila and at the same time hates her—just like reading my teenage diary! (I received a message from one of my friends yesterday; she told me my "Lila" is coming to London next week, and I’m going to meet her after ten years! What a coincidence!)

The story shows us how they are products of their time and place. They both try hard to detach from their family and neighbourhood, but in the end, they are shaped by that time and place, and it feels like there is no escape from it.

Reading ‘The Story of a New Name’, I felt like I was growing up with them. You can see the process of growth in each character. It’s so brilliantly written that the reader never feels a gap anywhere! Sometimes it makes me believe that the whole story is truly the memoir of Elena Ferrante, much like Elena herself, who is the writer of the story in the book.

I’m living with the book all the time; I think about it a lot. Most of the time, I think about Lila, an uneasy girl who doesn’t want to have a child with her husband. The rumours that say “She has the power to unconceived babies” stayed in my mind for days, and last night, they were with me the whole night. Let me tell you what happened:

When I’m home, I like to turn on the TV and play something. I like to hear people’s voices when I’m home, so most of the time, I play random TV series or movies without really watching them. Last night, I played a movie whose name I don’t even remember, but it was about some women who were either pregnant or trying to have a baby. One of the characters was Jennifer Lopez. As I understood it, her eggs were lazy, and she couldn’t get pregnant, so they decided to adopt a baby. One of her dialogues with her husband was: “I feel bad that I can’t do the one thing that a woman is supposed to do!” Hearing this, I was alarmed and thought, WHAT?!! It’s not shocking to hear that, though. Just as in the book, in the 1960s, people judged Lila as an inadequate woman because she wasn’t an obedient wife and couldn’t have a child in her unready body; it’s the same in 2012 in a movie full of stars—and I bet it’s still the same today!

To me, Elena Ferrante’s book is a comprehensive exploration of women’s lives—their feelings, frustrations, and attempts to fit into a patriarchal world without losing their identity. Most importantly, it’s about their relationships and how crucial they are in their lives. It's a story of brilliant, troubled girls with different paths but the same goal: to become brilliant, troubled women!

Now that I’m writing this, I’m reading the third book, and I’m enjoying it while thinking about how much I miss my best girlfriend, who helped me find myself, just as Lila did for Elena.

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Side Note:

In the book, whenever they want to make fun of Lila's new appearance (out of jealousy), they mention that she wore clothes like a princess, similar to Soraya, the former Queen of Persia. Here is a short note about our former queen, Soraya Pahlavi:

Soraya Esfandiary-Bakhtiary (1932-2001), commonly known as Soraya Pahlavi, was the second wife of Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, the last Shah of Iran. Born in Isfahan, Iran, to an Iranian father and a German mother, Soraya grew up in a privileged environment, being educated in Switzerland.

She married the Shah of Iran in 1951, becoming Queen of Iran at the young age of 19. Soraya was known for her beauty and grace, often appearing in the media as a glamorous figure. However, her marriage to the Shah was troubled by her inability to produce an heir, a critical issue for the royal family. Despite attempts to resolve the issue, including medical treatments, the couple remained childless, leading to their divorce in 1958.

After her divorce, Soraya moved to Europe, where she lived a relatively private life, though she remained in the public eye due to her previous role as Queen. She briefly pursued a career in acting, appearing in a few films in Italy, but ultimately withdrew from the spotlight.

Soraya's life was marked by both immense privilege and profound personal sadness. Her story is often viewed as a tragic tale of a young woman caught in the complex web of royal duty and personal desires. She passed away in Paris in 2001, leaving behind a legacy of beauty, elegance, and a life shaped by both love and loss.

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