Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [73]
“You don’t read Gatsby,” I said, “to learn whether adultery is good or bad but to learn about how complicated issues such as adultery and fidelity and marriage are. A great novel heightens your senses and sensitivity to the complexities of life and of individuals, and prevents you from the self-righteousness that sees morality in fixed formulas about good and evil . . .”
“But, ma’am,” Mr. Nyazin interrupted me. “There is nothing complicated about having an affair with another man’s wife. Why doesn’t Mr. Gatsby get his own wife?” he added sulkily.
“Why don’t you write your own novel?” a muffled voice cracked from some indefinable place in the middle row. Mr. Nyazi looked even more startled. From this point on, I hardly managed to get a word in. It seemed as if all of a sudden everyone had discovered that they needed to get in on the discussion.
At my suggestion, Mr. Farzan called for a ten-minute recess. I left the room and went outside, along with a few students who felt the need for fresh air. In the hall I found Mahtab and Nassrin deep in conversation. I joined them and asked them what they thought of the trial.
Nassrin was furious that Nyazi seemed to think he had a monopoly on morality. She said she didn’t say she’d approve of Gatsby, but at least he was prepared to die for his love. The three of us began walking down the hallway. Most of the students had gathered around Zarrin and Nyazi, who were in the midst of a heated argument. Zarrin was accusing Nyazi of calling her a prostitute. He was almost blue in the face with anger and indignation, and was accusing her in turn of being a liar and a fool.
“What am I to think of your slogans claiming that women who don’t wear the veil are prostitutes and agents of Satan? You call this morality?” she shouted. “What about Christian women who don’t believe in wearing veils? Are they all—every single one of them—decadent floozies?”
“But this is an Islamic country,” Nyazi shouted vehemently. “And this is the law, and whoever . . .”
“The law?” Vida interrupted him. “You guys came in and changed the laws. Is it the law? So was wearing the yellow star in Nazi Germany. Should all the Jews have worn the star because it was the blasted law?”
“Oh,” Zarrin said mockingly, “don’t even try to talk to him about that. He would call them all Zionists who deserved what they got.” Mr. Nyazi seemed ready to jump up and slap her across the face.
“I think it’s about time I used my authority,” I whispered to Nassrin, who was standing by, transfixed. I asked them all to calm down and return to their seats. When the shouts had died down and the accusations and counteraccusations had more or less subsided, I suggested that we open the floor to discussion. We wouldn’t vote on the outcome of the trial, but we should hear from the jury. They could give us their verdict in the form of their opinions.
A few of the leftist activists defended the novel. I felt they did so partly because the Muslim activists were so dead set against it. In essence, their defense was not so different from Nyazi’s condemnation. They said that we needed to read fiction like The Great Gatsby because we needed to know about the immorality of American culture. They felt we should read more revolutionary material, but that we should read books like this as well, to understand the enemy.
One of them mentioned a famous statement by Comrade Lenin about how listening to “Moonlight Sonata” made him soft. He said it made him want to pat people on the back when we needed to club them, or some such. At any rate, my radical students’ main objection to the novel was that it distracted them from their duties as revolutionaries.
Despite, or perhaps because of, the heated arguments, many of my students were silent, although many gathered around Zarrin and Vida, murmuring words of encouragement and praise. I discovered later that most students had supported Zarrin, but very few were prepared to risk voicing