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Monday
May 19, 2001

Open Letter to Nooneh

Dear Nooneh,

Don't get me wrong. I'm not going to berate you for your stories -- the two that were published during the last couple of weeks in The Iranian ["Bahram", "Dariush"]. Let me begin by saying that I am not a prude -- at least the way I perceive prudity. In fact if anything, I've always been an iconoclast. Some have even called me (despite my years) a "revolutionary".

I want to tell you that I read (and enjoyed) your short story "Bahram". I sent it to some of my friends, wishfully proclaiming the discovery of a woman (I hope you are no "sibil koloft" masquerading as one) who is not afraid of expressing all aspects of her innermost sexual fantasies and baring her soul for all to see.

I hoped we were on the threshold of witnessing the development of a woman writer who would continue where Foroogh left off -- a writer who would stand up to the ubiquitous holier-than-thou prudes in our society and show us how the new generation of liberalized Iranian women was rising out of the ashes of millennia of suppression.

Your opening paragraphs in "Bahram" evoked ancient memories of Browning. Was this going to be a 21st century rendition of "The Last Ride Together"? I hoped so. It may sound pompous but as a student of cultural developments I have always been interested in witnessing the processes of decline and emergence of mores within our culture. Hence my sometimes nosy probings into the life of groups totally different from my own in age, background, etc. So, overt references to humid pants, or other similar innuendoes do not disturb me too much..

But reading your second piece, "Dariush" later on did disturb me. I have to admit I was shocked. Yes, I, the self-proclaimed ultra liberal, was shocked. Not so much at the language -- after all, the Supreme Court nomination Senate hearings had made us all more calloused and poost-koloft in getting exposed to coarser language and the flaunting of explicit sexual expressions by the current flock of wordmongers). What did stun me more was the content of those sexual fantasies. What, I bemoaned, was she doing, this woman who certainly had talent and shown promise? Was she out to outsicken Marquis de Sade, update "The 120 Days of Sodom"?

My unsolicited (and therefore useless) advice is this: consider if the abuse of a painter's artistic talent for a painstakingly realistic portrayal of a piece of excrement can artistically be justified?

Mansur Froozan

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