The Nights are Quiet in Tehran by Shida Bazyar

  Of the International Booker Prize shortlist for 2026, The Nights are Quiet in Tehran by Shida Bazyar is my penultimate read, with only the winner remaining. This year’s International Booker Prize seems to have much more of a theme than last, each book reflecting some level of arbitrary rule and tension between the individual and societal expectations. Bazyar explores these ideas through the sometimes confusing historical milieu of Iran, jumping through the narrative in decades across generations: Behzad in 1979, Nahid in 1989, Laleh in 1999, Mo in 2009, and Tara’s un-yeared epilogue.

Like other novels that have multiple narrators, I feel like each section took some acclimatizing. Every new decade was an adjustment period, and it took me probably fifteen pages or so to really get into the flow of the ‘new voice.’ By the end of each section, I felt generally invested; in particular, Behzad’s section involves a plan to transport leaflets and operate through cloak and dagger to contribute to a Marxist revolution. The plan involves a car tradeoff, secret passwords, and mysterious signals like a woman standing in a doorway. That political intrigue was one of the most compelling moments in the first half of the book for me; I also liked Behzad’s quiet, nearly invisible romance with Nahid and the way it developed through a few glances at revolutionary meetings.

Nahid’s section takes on a more domestic flavour—that is, on the surface. Below the surface, there’s a clear concern with the people who’ve been imprisoned, the people who’ve been lost, and the guilt that goes along with leaving them behind. One of my favourite scenes in Nahid’s part is when she and her husband receive a letter that offers a surface reading and a hidden one. The letter “spoke of a lightning strike, a crumbling in the backyard, and rats scuttering through the cracks and getting into her house” (82). It goes on to talk about a rat “hiding stubbornly in her kitchen” enjoying a “nice life of food and familial love” (82). The letters ends in italics: “Walls are crumbling everywhere, and they’ll never stop!” (82). I love the scene of Behzad and Nahid reading the letter together, agreeing, among other things, that the crumbling walls referenced a bomb hitting the prison where their friend was being held, implying that the rat in the house is a harboured former political prisoner. I appreciate the way The Nights are Quiet in Tehran shows how new networks of meaning form in response to censorship, to oppression.

Of all the sections, though, Laleh’s was by far my favourite. The section takes place after years in Germany and Laleh returns with her mother to Iran. Her experience as a teenage girl in Iran, alienated from her friends and relatives, is the most compelling and personal experience in the book. It gives the book a beautiful balance between the historico-political context and the more tangible everyday experiences that define us. Watching Laleh do something as simple as getting her eyebrows done or keeping a secret boyfriend is elevated to an epic status. It’s also around this time that I started reading the book aloud and really noticed the beautiful cadence of the phrases. There’s a beauty that is easy to gloss over if reading too quickly, but following the punctuation gives the sentences a warmly hypnotic quality.

For Mo’s part, the voice is very different. His priorities are very different from his sibling’s and I was pleasantly taken aback by the mention of Russian ska-punk in the opening pages. While Laleh grows into a politically engaged adult (like her parents), Mo is more concerned about his social bonds. He somewhat reluctantly gets involved with the student protests and stays up late watching Youtube videos about Iran when his friend’s girlfriend comes to sleep in his bed. Mo’s concerns are generally less political, and he distances himself from his family’s engagements—at least for the first stages of his journey.

All of the International Booker Prize short list have been good, even great, but Bazyar’s entry falls into the middle of the pack for me through no fault of her own. I think if I were more informed and educated about the history of Tehran and Iran in general, some of the more quiet resonances would land more meaningfully. Keeping track of the different allegiances and the symbolism of small actions would be a little easier.

That being said, I liked The Nights are Quiet in Tehran. While my interest in the sections fluctuates and I need to reset at each new decade, ultimately I found myself connecting with the characters and getting entranced by the pace and rhythms of the writing. There was a lot to like, and, while I have a lot of gaps in my own knowledge, it did make me feel like a more competent and worldly person. I hope that’s true, but it may be too utopian.

Oh, and one more thing: the epilogue offers a glimpse into the future (?). By virtue of the section not having a specific date listed, we might want to believe it’s 2019 to fit the pattern, but the lack of a year suggests that a resolution is both too far off and that it could happen at any moment. The epilogue is about the renewal following the death of an oppressive leader. It’s a moment of liberation, a moment of return for Behzad and Nahid. I hope I live to see that moment.

Happy reading!

The Book of Grief and Hamburgers by Stuart Ross

  Stuart Ross was a mentor to me in my undergrad and, at the time, I charged through several of his poetry collections (shout out to You Exist. Details Follow.). Strangely, I never branched out into any of his ‘novel-esque’ projects and much less his memoirs. Well, that ends today (technically last week when I finished it, but what even is time?)一here we are with The Book of Grief and Hamburgers.

The Book of Grief and Hamburgers exemplifies the masterful happy-sad tone of some of Ross’ best works. The central conceit is that when Ross writes poems that are getting too heavy, he throws in a hamburger. Hamburgers are delightful, they’re a surprise, they’re funny. They displace / replace feelings that are too difficult to deal with. Despite the apparent silliness of Ross’ poems sometimes, there’s also a tenderness and sadness that feels even more powerful precisely because of the apparent silliness. He walks the razor’s edge between whimsy and sorrow wonderfully.

The Book of Grief and Hamburgers in particular operates—somewhat—as a “research” exercise (Ross himself uses that term loosely). Ross scans through poems looking for references to hamburgers as a form of consolation and, often not finding them, instead writes hamburgers into famous poems, historical quotables, and novel lines. It’s a fun, silly surprise. Try it. “It was the best of hamburgers, it was the worst of hamburgers.” “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the hamburger.” “I saw the best hamburgers of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical bunless.” The motif of seeking hamburgers and creating hamburgers is a source of amusement, but again, reinforces the sadness at the core of the book.

Indeed, death permeates the pages of the memoir project. Ross recounts the loss of several of his family, his friends and fellow poets, his dog. There’s such a human approach to addressing the challenges of grief (what is grief, anyway?), including reconciling political tensions with estranged siblings briefly before their passing and doing the ‘death math’ of the proper sequence of death. Ross notes that, in his family, he is the only one that will die in the ‘right order.’ In a particularly moving section, Ross describes the passing of David W. McFadden, another notable poet that I had the privilege to see do a reading. Ross describes McFadden’s Alzheimer's, which is absolutely tragic, but also McFadden reading love haikus at Ross’ wedding, which is absolutely beautiful. After his passing, McFadden’s remains were buried in a Dilbert cookie jar, and the specificity of that image will resonate with me forever.

Many of Ross’ losses are described as vignettes, as short stories. In one, a poet friend rages against the dying of the hamburger—I mean, rages against the euphemisms we use for death. Not pushing daisies, not passing on, not succumbing to illness. He dies. When asked about arrangements for his death, he continually replies: “I don’t care, I’ll be dead.” Does he want his “collected works” to be published posthumously? He doesn’t care: “I’ll be dead.” There’s a bleakness in the repetition spread out throughout the vignette. After his gradual decline, he’s eventually asked again about having works published after his death and provides a slight nod. It’s a beautiful character study that, I hope, brings Ross some consolation.

This book-length essay on grief explores what grief is, how to feel it, what it means to grieve. A conclusive definition continues to elude us, but the exploration takes readers on an emotional journey where Ross demonstrates his deep appreciation and love of those he has lost. It’s quite an achievement in memorialization.

Add to this Ross’ voice. His tone, certainly, and that careful blend of sadness and extra pickles, but his literal voice, too. I listened to The Book of Grief and Hamburgers as an audiobook and it’s a delight to hear Ross’ reading voice. He has a distinct reading style, and it made the book feel all that much more personal to hear that reading voice again, probably for the first time since around 2012.

I really liked this longform essay. Even in its brevity, it captures the feeling, hard to describe, of mourning. It offers beautifully crafted narratives and moments replete with happiness and sadness, all while offering elegies to some of Ross’ loved ones. “Don’t ever tell any hamburgers anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.”

Happysad reading!

Console Wars: Sega, Nintendo, and the Battle That Defined a Generation

        I have a vague recollection of commercials when I was a kid that repeated the line “Sega does what Nintendon’t” and the frantic discordant shouts of “SEGA!”. Blake J. Harris’ Console Wars: Sega, Nintendo, and the Battle That Defined a Generation explores that moment in pop culture, approaching the story from the context of journalism and historical analysis. It’s a nice companion to Jason Schreier’s Blood, Sweat and Pixels or Press Reset: Ruin and Recovery in the Video Game Industry. The books collectively explore the ups and downs, the rivalries and tribulations of a burgeoning industry, recreating the drama of the era.

Console Wars in particular explores the key figures in the rivalry between Nintendo and Sega, documenting all the underhanded plays (mainly by Sega) to tackle the industry giant. Nintendo presented a more wholesome and family-fun image to Sega’s more irreverent and wildly juvenile approach. The tactics are pretty entertaining, and if you’re interested in advertising and marketing I imagine that the two of them present a case study replete with do’s and don’ts.

What is most surprising about Console Wars is how precisely it recounts the conversations for key figures. In that respect, the book is novelistic. For instance, the book opens with an account of Tom Kalinske on vacation at the beach with his family when Hayao Nakayama, the president of Sega Enterprises, approached him and asked him to fly back to Japan with him. Harris reproduces the conversation Tom had with his daughter and future colleague in its full tenderness and drama.

In fact, the book follows that approach consistently. It feels like every business meeting, sales pitch, public outburst, resignation, promotion, marriage proposals, etc. is provided with a word-for-word reproduction—so much so that at times it feels outright unbelievable. How would anyone possibly remember the exact words they shared in the heat of a conflict? Perhaps it speaks to the thoroughness of Harris’ research and creativity in style. Some details, I imagine, are recorded in official records—recorded speeches at E3, for example—while others would only be verifiable through multiple corroborative interviews. If a bit implausible, Harris’ approach is nonetheless compelling as a narrative.

In terms of the details, the ground Harris treads isn’t exactly new. A number of people have given their accounts of the famed console wars—it’s kind of amazing that the whole book spans only about 6 years in real life; a whole career seems to be crammed into a short half-decade. The strength of the work is in its depth. Harris covers a lot of detail, including specific campaigns and movements. The book documents the highlights of different generations of consoles and the public response. From Super Mario to Donkey Kong Country to Sonic the Hedgehog to Night Trap to Mortal Kombat, the book runs the gamut of gaming landmarks. Harris documents the drama of developing a Sonic sequel and the internal conflicts between Sega of America and Sega of Japan, with the latter sandbagging the marketing gimmicks to the frustration of poor Tom Kalinske.

The book uses the console wars as a jumping off point to examine broader industry movements, including the legalities of violence in games and the push to create the ESRB rating system. It also documents the formation of Nintendo Power and the inaugural E3 conference. It’s compelling to see how the strife of the time period led to creation and flourishing of an industry, despite these rivals essentially trying to ruin the market share of one another.

Overall, the book isn’t anything groundbreaking. It doesn’t revolutionize the way I think about gaming, exactly, but the colourful cast of characters and the novelistic approach is very engaging as a story. It’s light, fun, and pretty informative. It hits the nostalgia buttons but also pulls back the curtain on how cutthroat and wild these fun colourful pastimes really were amongst adults while kids picked up the controller and demanded another try.

Happy reading and happy gaming, whichever side of the console war you fought for.