Buying snow online in Tehran

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Buying snow online in Tehran

Anguished and glorious. Reading Lolita in Tehran is such a book. Nafisi has produced an original work on the relationship between life and literature. As the world seems to further divide itself into them and us, Nafisi reminds her readers of the folly of thinking in black and white. She is able to capture a moment and describe it with ease and melancholy. Reading Lolita in Tehran is much more than a literary memoir; it becomes a tool for teaching us how to construe literature in a new, more meaningful way. So much is right with this book, if not with this world. Her memoir contains important and properly complex reflections about the ravages of theocracy, about thoughtfulness, and about the ordeals of freedom-as well as a stirring account of the pleasures and deepening of consciousness that result from an encounter with great literature and with an inspired teacher. A masterpiece. Azar Nafisi takes us into the vivid lives of eight women who must meet in secret to explore the forbidden fiction of the west. It is at once a celebration of the power of the novel and a cry of outrage at the reality in which these women are trapped. The ayatollahs don't know it, but Nafisi is one of the heroes of the Islamic Republic. Now, mesmerizingly, she reveals the shimmering worlds she created in those classrooms, inside a revolution that was an apogee of kitsch and cruelty. Here, people think for themselves because James and Fitzgerald and Nabokov sing out against authoritarianism and repression. You will be taken inside a culture, and on a journey, that you will never forget. She lives in Washington, D. For two years before she left Iran in , Nafisi gathered seven young women at her house every Thursday morning to read and discuss forbidden works of Western literature. They were all former students whom she had taught at university. Some came from conservative and religious families, others were progressive and secular; several had spent time in jail. They were shy and uncomfortable at first, unaccustomed to being asked to speak their minds, but soon they began to open up and to speak more freely, not only about the novels they were reading but also about themselves, their dreams and disappointments. In those frenetic days, the students took control of the university, expelled faculty members and purged the curriculum. It is a work of great passion and poetic beauty, written with a startlingly original voice. Azar Nafisi takes us into the vivid lives of eight women who must meet in secret to explore the forbidden fiction of the West. Report an issue with this product. Previous slide of product details. Print length. Random House Inc. Publication date. See all details. Next slide of product details. Related items viewed by customers. Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1. Previous set of slides. Azar Nafisi. Vladimir Nabokov. The Stationery Shop of Tehran. Marjan Kamali. My Year of Rest and Relaxation. Ottessa Moshfegh. Mornings in Jenin. Susan Abulhawa. Deborah Rodriguez. Mass Market Paperback. Next set of slides. Review 'Resonant and deeply affecting. In she was expelled from the University of Tehran after refusing to wear the veil. In she won a teaching fellowship from Oxford University, and in she and her family left Iran for America. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 In the fall of , after resigning from my last academic post, I decided to indulge myself and fulfill a dream. I chose seven of my best and most committed students and invited them to come to my home every Thursday morning to discuss literature. They were all women-to teach a mixed class in the privacy of my home was too risky, even if we were discussing harmless works of fiction. One persistent male student, although barred from our class, insisted on his rights. So he, Nima, read the assigned material, and on special days he would come to my house to talk about the books we were reading. For I am a pessimist by nature and I was sure at least one would turn against me. Nassrin once responded mischievously, You yourself told us that in the final analysis we are our own betrayers, playing Judas to our own Christ. Manna pointed out that I was no Miss Brodie, and they, well, they were what they were. She reminded me of a warning I was fond of repeating: do not, under any circumstances, belittle a work of fiction by trying to turn it into a carbon copy of real life; what we search for in fiction is not so much reality but the epiphany of truth. Yet I suppose that if I were to go against my own recommendation and choose a work of fiction that would most resonate with our lives in the Islamic Republic of Iran, it would not be The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie or even but perhaps Nabokov's Invitation to a Beheading or better yet, Lolita. A couple of years after we had begun our Thursday-morning seminars, on the last night I was in Tehran, a few friends and students came to say good-bye and to help me pack. When we had deprived the house of all its items, when the objects had vanished and the colors had faded into eight gray suitcases, like errant genies evaporating into their bottles, my students and I stood against the bare white wall of the dining room and took two photographs. I have the two photographs in front of me now. In the first there are seven women, standing against a white wall. They are, according to the law of the land, dressed in black robes and head scarves, covered except for the oval of their faces and their hands. In the second photograph the same group, in the same position, stands against the same wall. Only they have taken off their coverings. Splashes of color separate one from the next. Each has become distinct through the color and style of her clothes, the color and the length of her hair; not even the two who are still wearing their head scarves look the same. The one to the far right in the second photograph is our poet, Manna, in a white T-shirt and jeans. She made poetry out of things most people cast aside. The photograph does not reflect the peculiar opacity of Manna's dark eyes, a testament to her withdrawn and private nature. Next to Manna is Mahshid, whose long black scarf clashes with her delicate features and retreating smile. Mahshid was good at many things, but she had a certain daintiness about her and we took to calling her 'my lady. Mahshid is very sensitive. She's like porcelain, Yassi once told me, easy to crack. That's why she appears fragile to those who don't know her too well; but woe to whoever offends her. As for me, Yassi continued good-naturedly, I'm like good old plastic; I won't crack no matter what you do with me. Yassi was the youngest in our group. She is the one in yellow, bending forward and bursting with laughter. We used to teasingly call her our comedian. Yassi was shy by nature, but certain things excited her and made her lose her inhibitions. She had a tone of voice that gently mocked and questioned not just others but herself as well. I am the one in brown, standing next to Yassi, with one arm around her shoulders. Directly behind me stands Azin, my tallest student, with her long blond hair and a pink T-shirt. She is laughing like the rest of us. Azin's smiles never looked like smiles; they appeared more like preludes to an irrepressible and nervous hilarity. She beamed in that peculiar fashion even when she was describing her latest trouble with her husband. Always outrageous and outspoken, Azin relished the shock value of her actions and comments, and often clashed with Mahshid and Manna. We nicknamed her the wild one. On my other side is Mitra, who was perhaps the calmest among us. Like the pastel colors of her paintings, she seemed to recede and fade into a paler register. Her beauty was saved from predictability by a pair of miraculous dimples, which she could and did use to manipulate many an unsuspecting victim into bending to her will. Sanaz, who, pressured by family and society, vacillated between her desire for independence and her need for approval, is holding on to Mitra's arm. We are all laughing. And Nima, Manna's husband and my one true literary critic-if only he had had the perseverance to finish the brilliant essays he started to write-is our invisible partner, the photographer. There was one more: Nassrin. She is not in the photographs-she didn't make it to the end. Yet my tale would be incomplete without those who could not or did not remain with us. Their absences persist, like an acute pain that seems to have no physical source. This is Tehran for me: its absences were more real than its presences. When I see Nassrin in my mind's eye, she's slightly out of focus, blurred, somehow distant. I've combed through the photographs my students took with me over the years and Nassrin is in many of them, but always hidden behind something-a person, a tree. In one, I am standing with eight of my students in the small garden facing our faculty building, the scene of so many farewell photographs over the years. In the background stands a sheltering willow tree. We are laughing, and in one corner, from behind the tallest student, Nassrin peers out, like an imp intruding roguishly on a scene it was not invited to. In another I can barely make out her face in the small V space behind two other girls' shoulders. In this one she looks absentminded; she is frowning, as if unaware that she is being photographed. How can I describe Nassrin? I once called her the Cheshire cat, appearing and disappearing at unexpected turns in my academic life. The truth is I can't describe her: she was her own definition. One can only say that Nassrin was Nassrin. For nearly two years, almost every Thursday morning, rain or shine, they came to my house, and almost every time, I could not get over the shock of seeing them shed their mandatory veils and robes and burst into color. When my students came into that room, they took off more than their scarves and robes. Gradually, each one gained an outline and a shape, becoming her own inimitable self. Our world in that living room with its window framing my beloved Elburz Mountains became our sanctuary, our self-contained universe, mocking the reality of black-scarved, timid faces in the city that sprawled below. The theme of the class was the relation between fiction and reality. As I write the title of each book, memories whirl in with the wind to disturb the quiet of this fall day in another room in another country. Here and now in that other world that cropped up so many times in our discussions, I sit and reimagine myself and my students, my girls as I came to call them, reading Lolita in a deceptively sunny room in Tehran. Against the tyranny of time and politics, imagine us the way we sometimes didn't dare to imagine ourselves: in our most private and secret moments, in the most extraordinarily ordinary instances of life, listening to music, falling in love, walking down the shady streets or reading Lolita in Tehran. And then imagine us again with all this confiscated, driven underground, taken away from us. If I write about Nabokov today, it is to celebrate our reading of Nabokov in Tehran, against all odds. Of all his novels I choose the one I taught last, and the one that is connected to so many memories. It is of Lolita that I want to write, but right now there is no way I can write about that novel without also writing about Tehran. This, then, is the story of Lolita in Tehran, how Lolita gave a different color to Tehran and how Tehran helped redefine Nabokov's novel, turning it into this Lolita, our Lolita. Here they come, one more time. First I hear the bell, a pause, and the closing of the street door. Then I hear footsteps coming up the winding staircase and past my mother's apartment. As I move towards the front door, I register a piece of sky through the side window. Each girl, as soon as she reaches the door, takes off her robe and scarf, sometimes shaking her head from side to side. She pauses before entering the room. Only there is no room, just the teasing void of memory. More than any other place in our home, the living room was symbolic of my nomadic and borrowed life. Vagrant pieces of furniture from different times and places were thrown together, partly out of financial necessity, and partly because of my eclectic taste. Oddly, these incongruous ingredients created a symmetry that the other, more deliberately furnished rooms in the apartment lacked. My mother would go crazy each time she saw the paintings leaning against the wall and the vases of flowers on the floor and the curtainless windows, which I refused to dress until I was finally reminded that this was an Islamic country and windows needed to be dressed. I don't know if you really belong to me, she would lament. Didn't I raise you to be orderly and organized? Her tone was serious, but she had repeated the same complaint for so many years that by now it was an almost tender ritual. Azi-that was my nickname-Azi, she would say, you are a grown-up lady now; act like one. Yet there was something in her tone that kept me young and fragile and obstinate, and still, when in memory I hear her voice, I know I never lived up to her expectations. I never did become the lady she tried to will me into being. That room, which I never paid much attention to at that time, has gained a different status in my mind's eye now that it has become the precious object of memory. It was a spacious room, sparsely furnished and decorated. At one corner was the fireplace, a fanciful creation of my husband, Bijan. There was a love seat against one wall, over which I had thrown a lace cover, my mother's gift from long ago. A pale peach couch faced the window, accompanied by two matching chairs and a big square glass-topped iron table. My place was always in the chair with its back to the window, which opened onto a wide cul-de-sac called Azar. Opposite the window was the former American Hospital, once small and exclusive, now a noisy, overcrowded medical facility for wounded and disabled veterans of the war. On 'weekends'-Thursdays and Fridays in Iran- the small street was crowded with hospital visitors who came as if for a picnic, with sandwiches and children. The neighbor's front yard, his pride and joy, was the main victim of their assaults, especially in summer, when they helped themselves to his beloved roses. We could hear the sound of children shouting, crying and laughing, and, mingled in, their mothers' voices, also shouting, calling out their children's names and threatening them with punishments. Sometimes a child or two would ring our doorbell and run away, repeating their perilous exercise at intervals. From our second-story apartment-my mother occupied the first floor, and my brother's apartment, on the third floor, was often empty, since he had left for England-we could see the upper branches of a generous tree and, in the distance, over the buildings, the Elburz Mountains. The street, the hospital and its visitors were censored out of sight. We felt their presence only through the disembodied noises emanating from below. I could not see my favorite mountains from where I sat, but opposite my chair, on the far wall of the dining room, was an antique oval mirror, a gift from my father, and in its reflection, I could see the mountains capped with snow, even in summer, and watch the trees change color. That censored view intensified my impression that the noise came not from the street below but from some far-off place, a place whose persistent hum was our only link to the world we refused, for those few hours, to acknowledge. That room, for all of us, became a place of transgression. What a wonderland it was! Sitting around the large coffee table covered with bouquets of flowers, we moved in and out of the novels we read. Looking back, I am amazed at how much we learned without even noticing it. We were, to borrow from Nabokov, to experience how the ordinary pebble of ordinary life could be transformed into a jewel through the magic eye of fiction. Read more. About the author Follow authors to get new release updates, plus improved recommendations. Brief content visible, double tap to read full content. Full content visible, double tap to read brief content. Read more about this author Read less about this author. Customer reviews. How are ratings calculated? Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon. It also analyses reviews to verify trustworthiness. Images in this review. Sort reviews by Top reviews Most recent Top reviews. Top reviews from India. There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later. Verified Purchase. I happened to read this book back in July The book left a lasting impression on me. I had since then gifted this to most of my friends who love reading books. The book is a memoir by Azar Nafisi detailing her years after being suspended in the early s from the University for not wearing the veil. She forms a ladies only literary club consisting of her past students. The meetings are held once every week in a clandestine manner to discuss banned works of literature. Soon, they find parallels between the works they discuss and their present situation. As their bond strengthens, they try to use their understanding of fiction to make sense of the constantly changing world that is adversely impacting the lives of women. This book is a delightful read. You shall find yourself to have changed from the one you were before laying your hands on this one. I would like to sit in Azar Nafisi's literature class for sure! She is a wonderful writer and a lover of literature. She is also courageous about voicing her believes and she has been successful in giving her personality to the book. I'm recommending the book to all literature lovers! One person found this helpful. The media could not be loaded. Situation over here is more or less similar when you talk about the mentality of people. This book is helped me understand many other perspectives revolving around issues of 'narrow thinking' and its impact on the one who is over come the odds and realized the reality is different than the way they are conditioned. It is a good read. This book takes you on a literary journey across the works of Nobokov, James, Austen and so on - amidst the distress in Tehran during the war. By the time i was done with this book, it felt like a good friend had left me - but not unfulfilled! A must read. An enthralling tale of womam through the Its an amazing book. An enthralling tale of womam through the great works of Western literature. I learned a lot about the war in Iran back then. The way woman were treated and being oppressed. Some books can never be rated especially when we talk about a book like this one. Non-fiction, for me, has always been a boring read and as an assignment for the upcoming course, Azar Nafisi was just a satisfactory read for me. A one-time read, with some good focal points and relation to the classics of Nabokov, James, Gatsby, Austen and alongside struggle of an Iran, where day in and day out is a constant struggle to survive and live, Nafisi has tried to make synchronisation between the real and the fictional life. A nice piece of work, a memoir very brillantly crafted. Must read book in life. A dig in history and experience. Perhaps the best ever memory by Azar Nafisi. See more reviews. Top reviews from other countries. Translate all reviews to English. O sucesso foi imediato e tive a sorte de assistir a uma palestra dela em Nova York, que muito me marcou. Report Translate review to English. I am very happy that I chose to read this book, it is beautifully written and powerful. The book focuses on a class she teaches in her home, during the class they read forbidden western classic books including Lolita. This class gave Azar and her students a chance to take a break from he restrictions of the Islamic State, and gives them the freedom to express their individuality and opinions. I would highly recommend this book, especially to those who value individuality, individual freedom, women's empowerment, and those who appreciate he power of fiction. Personally, I plan on rereading this book in the summer after I finish reading Lolita, so that I can better appreciate Reading Lolita in Tehran. Azar Nafisi's writing style lacked a lot of dialog, but made up for it with lots of descriptive language and powerful comparisons. The dialog that was included was appropriately placed within the memoir. Azar Nafisi is a talented story teller and while you read her book you can really envision the situations she was in and experience her feelings. Their desire for privacy and reflection is continually being adjusted to their situation within a very small community which keeps them under its constant scrutiny. The balance between the public and private is essential to this world. This comparison was used to show how important he class was for students to have their own private space to be themselves without strict laws getting in the way. The most appropriate audience for this book is someone who doesn't expect a lot of intense action or dialog, but can appreciate hearing personal complex thoughts and feelings. Even though I've never been in any situations similar to Azar Nafisi I was able to feel for her and think of points in my life that I felt similar emotions to hers. For example, I can relate to her students and herself feeling trapped without a private life. Azar did an incredible job of describing her students on a very personal level. She made it easy to understand their internal and external struggles. Before the revolution, she could in a sense take pride in her isolation. At that time she had worn the scarf as a testament to her faith. Her decision was a voluntary act. When the revolution forced the scarf on others, her actions became meaningless. By explaining the shift in the meaning of Mahshid wearing a scarf it allows the reader to better relate to her and have sympathy for her situation. Azar did not write this book in chronical order. Instead the book jumps around in time from when she worked at a small university, to a large university, to her private class, and to moving to America, all of this is talked about but not in order of when the memories and situations happened. This book was engaging the whole way through. 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? While reading this book I learned about what life was like for the people, particularly women, in Iran during the time Azar Nafisi lived there. I now have a better understanding of the restrictions the government put in place and the terrible things people unfairly suffered through. Overall I am very pleased with Reading Lolita in Tehran. Enjoyed reading it as an Iranian youny woman who spent over 20 years of her life in Iran 28 now and learned much about the circumstances back then when i wasnt even born. However, life is very different now in Iran and this book is not giving a correct image of the iran women. Plus, the writer seems to be taking sides with the Western liberating ideology! Your recently viewed items and featured recommendations. Back to top. Get to Know Us. Connect with Us. Make Money with Us. Let Us Help You. Audible Download Audio Books. Shopbop Designer Fashion Brands. Amazon Prime Music million songs, ad-free Over 15 million podcast episodes.

Dizin Ski Resort

Buying snow online in Tehran

It is also one of the 40 largest and highest ski resorts in the world. Being able to host a high number of winter sports lovers is not all there is to this complex. Like to enjoy skiing on the powdery snow of its slopes? Then stay with me…. Dizin ski resort, fun, adventure, skiing, snowboarding, snowy landscape, tehran, iran. The highest point on Dizin is meters from sea level and the lowest point is meters from sea level. The maximum length of its ski run is around 7. Among other resorts in Iran , this resort offers the longest season for skiing. The ski season there starts from around mid-November and extends until around mid-May. Dizin international ski resort, skiing adventure, Tehran, Iran. In Dizin Ski Resort, you can choose from a variety of ski runs and the good thing is that the amateur piste is separate from the professional piste. In Dizin Ski Resort , there are 9 surface lifts and 2 chair lifts. The chair lifts are Gholleh summit , and Chaman. This meter lift that starts from Shaleh Restaurant and extends upward, offers meters of altitude difference. The length of its ski run is meters. This meter lift that starts from Shaleh Restaurant and extends to the northeast, offers meters of altitude difference. There are two 2-person Doppelmayr ski lifts in Dizin. One of them starts from Shaleh Restaurant and extends meters to the northeast. It offers meters of altitude difference and the ski run there is meters. The other one extends meters upward from Off-Piste Restaurant. This meter lift that extends upward from the northwest of Chaman Restaurant offers meters of altitude difference. This meter lift that extends from the northwest of Chaman ski run to its northeast offers meters of altitude difference. This meter lift that extends from the northwest of the management office to the west of the ski run, offers meters of altitude difference. This meter lift that extends upward from the management office, offers meters of altitude difference. This meter lift, that starts from the middle of the resort and extends to the summit, offers meters of altitude difference. This meter lift, that starts from the management office and extends to the southwest of Chaman Restaurant, offers meters of altitude difference. In Dizin Ski Resort, there are other fun choices than skiing. You can enjoy a pleasant gondola lift ride to the heights. There are 4 gondola lifts: Shaleh, Gholleh summit , Darreh valley , and Chaman grass. Among them, Darreh gondola lift is the longest and has the most height difference. This meter lift, that starts from the management office and continues to Shaleh Restaurant, offers meters of altitude difference. Its ski run is meters. This meter lift, that extents from the middle of the ski resort to the summit, offers meters of altitude difference. This meter lift, that extends from the management office to the northeast of the resort, offers meters of altitude difference. Its meter ski run is approved by International Ski Federation for holding Slalom skiing, and Giant Slalom skiing races. This meter lift, that extends from the management office to the southwest of Chaman Restaurant, offers meters of altitude difference. During the National Races, a group of people go to Dizin Ski Resort to see the snowboarding and grass skiing races and fall in love with skiing. Hungry after a lot of snowy fun in Dizin? You can pick from its 5 different restaurants. Shaleh Restaurant is at a meter altitude and Chaman Restaurant is at a meter altitude. Dizin Ski Resort is not all about skiing. It also is host to an annual competition for making snowmen. The resort is open from around late November to mid-April. The rentals in the resort offer a good selection of carving skis Salomon, Fisher, Rossignol and a smaller selection of snowboards. There are even Rossignol skis with a 70 mm width. Plus, things like beanies, boots, poles, goggles, helmets, pants, jackets, and gloves are also available. You can get tickets to Dizin Ski Resort online. This tracking number will get you into the resort without wasting time on the long ticket lines. In summers, Dizin International Ski Resort is host to grass skiing races. The club also holds Archery competitions. Even if you are not into skiing or grass skiing, you can go hiking around the resort. The hiking trail is not very difficult and it leads to gorgeous villages where you can enjoy summer fruits and local dairy. All the villages including Fasham, Meygun, and Lavasan are green and beautiful. There are also many restaurants you could enjoy a good meal in. To get to Dizin from Tehran, find your way to Lashgarak and from there to Shemshak. Post Comment. WhatsApp us. Dizin Ski Resort Guide. Dizin Ski Resort Tour. Tags: Ski Tehran Ski Resort. Next post Gandom Beryan. Mark Taylor. I wonder why the other specialists of this sector do not notice this. Yuri Petrov. Good job! Can I use part of your post in my blog? I write about ski destinations around the world. Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment.

Buying snow online in Tehran