[h1][i][b]"I am not a man of cliques"[/b][/i][/h1]



	[i]I recently met the acclaimed author Farrokh Mirza Ramjan to discuss his most recent novel, [u]Lower skies[/u], published earlier this year. Here is the edited and condensed transcript of our conversation. [/i]

[b]Ebrahim Arvindarian:[/b] [i]Your editor told me you didn't expect your novel to be this successful. [/i]

[b]Farrokh Mirza Ramjan:[/b] Certainly, I was very surprised when he told me the sales figures for the first month of publication. It's already on its second print, after less than six months. That's the first time that's happened to me. 

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]Your past efforts hadn't been overlooked by the public. It wasn't unreasonable to expect a breakout success someday. [/i]

[b]F. M. R.[/b]: That's true, but the subject matter is nothing special. It's the story of two siblings, Arvind and Miryam, in the early 20th century, whose life is rather unremarkable, coming to terms with the disillusions of growing up in the world. That's been done a thousand times. I immensely admire Flaubert's Madame Bovary, and consider my own work vastly inferior. 

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]Every reviewer has noted the musicality of your prose, and for my part, I loved the deftness with which you handled the descriptions. They very quickly capture the essential traits of characters, places and objects. But don't you think its greatest merit, as far as its current success is concerned, is that it perfectly captures the mood of the Persian public right now?[/i]

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: I suppose I can't be cleared of suspicions of contemporary afterthoughts. 

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]The Constitutional Revolution and its aftermath provides the backdrop for a significant part of the intrigue. This period of tremendous hope and even greater disappointment not only perfectly mirror the personal trajectory of the characters, but also the general arc of Persian history since the beginning of the century. The Constitution itself ultimately resulted in little change, just as the slow reconquest of sovereignty following the Great War did not produce many practical effects for the people. The current era is one of unmistakeable disappointment. I think your book really resonates with that.[/i]

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: I believe that's one of the clearest and most honest expressions of what has been going on in this country I've heard in a while. More than any particular event, what I really wanted to render was a certain mood, a tendency, an atmosphere. I spent a few years in Brazil a while back. People over there, despite all proofs to the contrary, have an unbreakable faith in the future of their country. They feel that all it can do is go up. Every time I returned to visit, I was struck by how different the disposition of our countrymen is. It's not that Persians today are exactly pessimistic. I'd say the best qualifier would be tepid. No one knows what the future holds, and no one truly wants to know. The country has been stable enough in the past few decades, and I've seen it develop noticeably, at least in Tehran where my family lives. But there is a diffuse anxiety, an ominous feeling. I do think cynicism and resignation are more common here than elsewhere. 

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]Why do you think that is the case?[/i]

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: I wouldn't want to get into trouble. [laughs] I think everyone knows that the current situation is unsustainable, but no one knows when or how it'll change, for the better or the worse. Hope was never my forte. My gut feeling is usually that things have to get much worse before they get better. [laughs]

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]Is that an adage you apply to your daily life as well?[/i]

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: Oh yes, undoubtedly. However, I don't take myself too seriously. I always find the amusing in unpleasant situations. For instance, a few weeks back, I was taking the train to Tabriz. A very rude sir kept insisting that my seat was legitimately his. I could show you my ticket; he was wrong. I ended up relenting, and had to stay standing, since it was a very busy day. My mood wasn't darkened by his antics, though, since his oddly squeaking voice and habit of twitching his waxed mustache almost had me bursting into laughter. 

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]Humor is very noticeable in your novel. It is not often spectacular, but subtle irony, sometimes complicit and tender, sometimes harsh, is something I think many readers appreciated in it. What is particularly rewarding is that if often unfolds over many pages, so that it really seems to pay off emotionally. One thing that particularly struck me were the evolutions of the siblings' father Ali's positions. At first, he is rather unsure about the demands for the Constitution. Then, after encouragement and discussion with other traders in the bazaar, he becomes convinced, and remains so, for a long time, even after the Shah has the Majlis bombed. But then, there is a great silence about this issue, and towards the end of the novel, he's completely changed his mind, and announces so clearly and unequivocally, as if the entire novel hadn't happened, in terms that distinctly echo the beginning. It's never clear whether he believes what he says, what he said earlier, if he's become disillusioned, but it's simultaneously terribly funny and poignant. [/i]

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: To me, humor works as an instrument of revelation. And contrarily to discourse, it has the merit of creating and revealing paradoxes and inconsistencies, but doesn't pretend to solve them. It says: "there is something here that is not as it should be". But it doesnt say what it is, nor where it should be. At least, that is how the best humor works. It's at its most efficient when it simultaneously hides and reveals melancholy. It's far more effective to underline the gap between successive personas without saying what nor how. Laughter, in a way, is the body's way of acknowledging the discrepancy between what it sees and what it thinks. It makes it more haunting. It makes you wonder: "What happened?" Someone changed, nothing changed. 

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]I think Ali is one of the more tragic figures in the novel. Ultimately, what makes his story so disheartening is the silence that surrounds him.[/i] 

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: Literature is at its most powerful when it suggests what cannot properly be said. It creates this space for the full expression of a feeling, and lets the reader inhabit it, without imposing anything. You know Ahmet Fulnani's famous closing words to [u][i]The Tortoise[/i][/u]: "Whereupon one cannot properly speak, one must remain silent." The buildup to this phrase is magnificent, but it is powerful enough that it retains much of its potency out of context. It's a radical act of humility. And humility makes the best literature. 

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]This attitude isn't one universally shared by Persian-language authors today.  You must've heard of Aqa Dariush Hossein Sanjad's recent claim that 'literature's main task is to give men the tools to change their world". Some might say that you diminish the importance of literature, and keep it in a corner.[/i]

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: I certainly believe self-aggrandizement is pointless. Literature is vital, but its position in society shouldn't be overstated. Hoping too much is the best way to be disappointed and turn your back on what can still deliver. If anything, that's the key takeaway from the novel. You have to have a realistic view of things. Some things literature can and should perform, and others it can't. Furthermore, recognizing the powers of art is one thing, and wielding them responsibly is another. 

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]What do you mean by that?[/i] 

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: Some authors today are celebrated for writing huge frescoes about the history of our nation, to – I quote- 'educate' the masses. It's all well and good, and often quite engrossing, but you have to be mindful of this: stories are always intrinsically a certain partial way of presenting the world. They put in shape the world, they don't imitate and copy it as if that were possible. Aristotle already knew that. Life isn't intelligible. It isn't. It's literature that puts it in order, organizes it, gives it something that ressembles meaning, or at least an explanatory principle. If you forget that, and present things as 'history itself', what you really are doing is reorganize the past with the schemes of thought that prevail in your time and seem natural, that is, those of the powerful. Even if you don't purposefully set out to justify the existing social order, by using the lens of today's powerful on the past, you do just that. 
	In my opinion, Persian literature today is thriving, but not where we think it is. The nearly official narratives that sell like hot cake are stale and sclerotic, propose nothing new, and are fundamentally reactionary in their effects if not their aims. Official recognition, especially [he pauses] in fact in general, is always something to be wary of. If you are recognized by power, you're captured by it, whether you want to or not. But where I really see promise is in authors such as Saddam Al-Jabari, Golshifteh Jepur, Ruhollah Reshdi, who are really exploring new ways of telling stories, or perceiving the world. What's the use in having different perspectives if everyone sees the same way? As Proust wrote, 'The pleasure that an author gives us, is the pleasure of discovering an additional universe." 

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]So if you were proposed an institutional award, would you accept it?[/i]

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: If I were a fledgling author, maybe I'd say yes. The money and recognition are vital when you're just starting. But at the point where I am today, I don't think it's necessary. I want to remain as separate as possible from the literary establishment, which is really just an extension of the regular establishment. 

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]It's interesting that you would say such a thing, because you yourself have stated before that you didn't consider yourself to be at the avant-garde. I'm sure some young authors, even among those you mentioned, would reject your endorsement. [/i]

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: Well, each generation grows up wanting to overthrow the previous one. We've all been there I suppose. I leave the formal innovations to others. I think there are many other things to discover from the sidelines. I am not a man of cliques, in a world where so much seems to depend on that. I don't want to be coerced into doing what upsets my writer's conscience.

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]What is your greatest fear as an author?[/i]

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: I've already said it, I believe. The greatest disappointment would be to be judged not based on my writings, but on preconceived notions of who I am, what I have done, who I have associated with. I want to be judged as a writer for my work, not as anything else. It seems obvious enough, yet it's a true fight to obtain it. John Hedgewood's plays are sublime, but they've been overshadowed by his involvement in the recent civil war. It's actually worse than that. He wasn't actively involved. He just happened to be friends with some of the separatist leaders. 

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]It's tremendously pleasant to discuss with you, Aqa, but my watch is telling me time is running fast. I'd like to mention this one last item before we part. One aspect of your novel that was universally commended was the treatment of youth. Arvind and Miryam's growth, their maturing,their doubts, hopes, enthusiasms and despairs are very tenderly rendered, in a way that feels perfectly organic. How did you manage that?[/i]

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: Having children of my own is a formidable ressource, I feel. There are many obstacles that all authors try to avoid, with more or less success: making children and youths either too adult-like, too mature, treating them as others with no internal psychology, or not taking them seriously and patronizing them as characters.  The key is really no different from the treatment of any other character: you have to take them seriously, and make an effort to understand them as full human beings, but also understand that they are not you, that they are distinct and unique. So you have to become them, but they also have to remain different from you. Being an author is always having to balance this act between self and other. One cannot avoid being divided.

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]What do you think of today's youth in Persia?[/i]

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: What I see is that their forebears, us, have left them little to be proud of, yet they retain a sense of optimism and energy. As seems to be the rule in this country, as soon as you get clear of anything official, possibilities and invention are bountiful. Some of these youths on the rise, such as the athlete Muhammad Elarbi or the actress Shirin Asmedyarov are doing fantastic things in their respective fields and for Persia in general. They seem to have a real desire to make this country better. Now will we let them? I don't know. But this generation might just be the one to achieve the promises of Persia.  

[b]E.A.[/b]: [i]One last question. Where does the title come from? It's never mentioned in the novel.[/i]

[b]F.M.R.[/b]: It's pretty simple, really. The siblings like to climb the mountains near Tehran, where it can get quite misty. When you climb a mountain on a cloudy day, it seems that the sky gets lower. You could say that with age, expectations and hopes flounder, as you face obstacles and see clearer that what you were aiming for wasn't all you hoped it would be. But on the other hand, you're higher than you started, right?

[b]E.A.[/b]:[i] I see. Thank you very much for your time, Aqa. [/i]

[h3][u][i]The Tehrani Courier[/i][/u], [i]June 25th, 1960[/i][/h3] (The main English-language newspaper in Iran, it caters mostly to expatriates. Government censorship is therefore much lighter than on Farsi papers.)