It is March already. As I promised myself in a journal, I finally pushed myself to finish the book today. Reading Lolita in Tehran, a memoir book that I am mentioning the third time here in my blog, was beautifully written by an Iranian literature professor, who came to the U.S in 1997, and later taught at John Hopkins University. The book was published in 2003, and was once the #1 New York Times Bestseller.  She recounts her life back in Iran mostly after the Iranian Revolution, a flashback of her teaching of American novels such as The Great Gatsby and Pride and Prejudice at college and at her private group study. Braided in the covers are her memories of her living and teaching in Iran, her encounter with her students and the magician, as well as her love, hatred, struggle and disenchantment towards her homeland. Putting aside all her political point of view, which I am in no position to comment at all, I adore her the ability to capture a moment and describe it with great delicacy and vividness. Of course, born into a rich and prestigious family, she was very well-educated in Switzerland and later in the U.S. But the fact that a non-native English speaker’s writing could by far surpass a native’s is an inspiring testimony that we are not defined by the territory we live, but the efforts we put. Or at least we can transcend. I only wish that in ten or twenty years, if I am still alive by then, I could write my version of life stories in English without much difficulty.