I think the concept of Shariar Mandanipour’s novel Censoring an Iranian Novel (Alfred A. Knopf May 9, 2009) is really cool. He writes the story according to the Iranian Cultural Ministry’s standards and includes imagined sentences in crossed out or bold text, realizing they will be censored. The book was a gift and I plan to read it after graduation, but I’ve read the opening so far. The book seems very well translated and clearly written, which is always appreciated with translated texts.
Here’s the opening, which I think is pretty neat in light of what’s going on in Iran today. I’m thinking of Neda Aghah Soltan, as she comes to mind as the girl described in the opening passage. I think that Mandanipour should expect a surge in book sales, if the post-election focus on Iranian women/universities/youth culture is any indication.
DEATH TO DICTATORSHIP, DEATH TO FREEDOM
In the air of Tehran, the scent of spring blossoms, carbon nonozide, and the perfumes and poisons of the tales of One Thousand and One Nights sway on top of each other, they whipser together. The city drifts in time.
In front of the main entrance of Tehran University, on Liberty Street, a crowd of students is gathered in political protest. With their firsts raised they shout, “Death to captivity!” Across the street, members of the Party of God, with clenched fists and perhaps chains and brass knuckles in their pockets, shout “Death to the Liberal. . .”
The antiriot police, armed with the most sophisticated paraphernalia, including stun batons purchased from the West, stand facing the students. Both groups try, before they come to blows, to triumph over their opponents by shouting even louder. Drops of sweat ooze from faces and specks of spit spew from their mouths. Fists, before pounding on heads, rise without miracle toward the sky.
It is perhaps because of these fists that from the sacred sky of Iran no miracle ever descends. Since one hundred and one years ago – when the first revolution for democracy triumphed in Iran – fists similar to these have risen toward the sky of a country with the greatest number of holy men, with the most prayers, tears, and religious lamentations; and today, I believe, the greatest pleas to God for speeding up the day of resurrection rise from Iran.
A short distance away, on the sidewalk, with her back to the steel fence lodged in the three-foot-tall stone wall surrounding Tehran University, stands a girl who, unlike most girls in the world but like most girls in Iran, is wearing a black headscarf and a long black coat as a coverall. She possesses a beauty common to all girls in love stories, a beauty that many girls around the world, and in Iran, who read these stories want to possess. If the ghosts of the thousands of poets who died a thousand years ago, seven hundred years ago, or four hundred years ago, and the spirit of those yet to be born – who, unlike the living, in the democracy of death amicably and tolerantly wander the streets of Tehran – see her large black eyes, they will liken them, as is customary of their poetry, to the sad eyes of a gazelle. And old simile for a pair of Oriental eyes that stole Lord Byron’s heart, and Arthur Rimbaud’s, too . . . But contrary to this cliched simile, there is a mysterious look in the girl’s eyes. It is as if they possess the power to traverse time, the power to pass through the golden walls of harems or pershaps the firewalls of Web sites and Internet filters.
But the girl does not know that in precisely seven minutes and seven seconds, at the height of the class between the students, the police, and the members of the Party of God, in the chaos of attacks and escapes, she will be knocked into with great force, she will fall back, her head will hit against a cement edge, and her sad Oriental eyes will forever close. . .
It is perhaps