Those who are close to us, when they die, divide our world. There is the world of the living, which we finally, in one way or another, succumb to, and then there is the domain of the dead that, like an imaginary friend (or foe) or a secret concubine, constantly beckons, reminding us of our loss. What is memory but a ghost that lurks at the corners of the mind, interrupting our normal course of life, disrupting our sleep in order to remind us of some acute pain or pleasure, something silenced or ignored? We miss not only their presence, or how they felt about us, but ultimately how they allowed us to feel about ourselves or them. (prologue)

soldier convicted of mistreating prisoners at Abu Ghraib: "To me there is no difference between Lynndie England and Azar Nafisi. In 1995 Azar Nafisi states that Azar Nafisi was no longer able to teach English literature properly without attracting the scrutiny of the faculty authorities so Azar Nafisi quit teaching at the university and instead invited seven of her female students to attend regular meetings at her house every Thursday morning. She publiAzar Nafisid an autobiography Things I've been silent about: memories of a prodigal daughter (2008) focusing on the impact on her throughout her life of her relations with her parents (her mother peevish and cold her father affectionate and companionate) and of decades of political upheaval in Iran including the father's incarceration under the Shah on trumped-up charges of financial irregularities.

Her field is English language literature. Nafisi's 2003 book Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books has been translated into 32 languages.