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Daniel Nayeri Biography

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“In any story the two hardest things to be are a widow or an orphan. Those are the bad cards to draw from the deck marked "life." Because those are the two moments the people you love the most die. It's heart break. Heart shatter. Heart starve. It's so much loss that it's easier if you just died and started the game over. But you can't. You have to wander. Part of it is losing your tribe and being homeless. Part of it is being alone in the dark. I won't lie to you. The deck marked "life" is stacked full of bum cards.”

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“In Iran, when a guest comes, you tell them they may be angels, they are welcome and the whole house is filled with the joy of their presence. And the person always apologizing is the host, that they might have more to offer. But here, it seems guests are supposed to apologize all the time that they're taking anything. It's like they think the host is burdened. I don't understand it. But I know I never want to go to the house of any of these grown-ups, who make you beg for so little. I don't want the cracker sandwiches they made with all the groaning in their hearts. I don't want to be poor. But if I can't have that, then I don't want them to know how hungry I am.”

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“Imagine you're evil. Not misunderstood. Not sad. But evil. Imagine you've got a heart that spends all day wanting more. Imagine your mind is a selfish room full of pride or pity. Imagine you're like Brandon Goff and you find poor kids in the halls and make fun of their clothes, and you flick their ears until they scream in pain and swing their arms, and so you pin them down and break their fingers. Or you spit in his food in the cafeteria. Or you just call him things like cockroach and sand monkey. Imagine you're evil and you don't do any of those things, but you're like Julie Jenkins and you laugh and you laugh at everything Brandon does, and you even help when a teacher comes and asks what's going on and you say nothing's going on, and he believes you because you get A-pluses in English. Or imagine you just watch all of this. And you act like you're disgusted, because you don't like meanness. But you don't do anything or tell anyone. Imagine how much you've got compared to all the kids in the world getting blown up or starved, and the good you could do if you spent half a second thinking about it. Suddenly evil isn't punching people or even hating them. Suddenly it's all that stuff you've left undone. All the kindness you could have given. All the excuses you gave instead. Imagine that for a minute. Imagine what it means.”

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“Here in Oklahoma, I understand why--why humans would sit behind a glass window and look in the faces of families running away from danger and dead sheep, and not feel anything. They think we're bad people who will come and take their stuff. Like when I won the tetherball tournament at recess against Trevor and I wouldn't have if I hadn't been there at all.”

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“In a refugee camp, it's the waiting that will kill you. The whole point of a refugee camp is that there are actual people trying to kill you. But really, it's the slow numbing death of hopelessness that does it. You have to imagine a room that's just a cement cube--nothing beautiful in it. If you're not careful, this is also what becomes of the parlor of your mind.”

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“My mom comes home exhausted every night. I have never seen her not exhausted. And also, I have never seen her not working. People in Oklahoma think this must be how refugees are--never sitting, never sleeping, like they have no knees and no dreams. Maybe people think that's just the way my mom talks, kinda panicky and chipper at the same time, like someone scared who doesn't want you to think she's scared--even maybe like you're the one she's scared of.”

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“Would you rather a god who listens or a god who speaks?” Be careful with the answer. It’s as important as every word from Scheherazade’s mouth that saved her life. And everybody’s got an answer. A god who listens is like your best friend, who lets you tell him about all the people you don’t like. A god who speaks is like your best teacher, who tells Brandon Goff he has to leave the room if he’s going to call people falafel monkeys. A god who listens is your mom who lets you sit in a kitchen and tell her stories about castles in the mountains. A god who speaks is your dad who calls on the phone with advice for your life in America. There are gods all over the world who just want you to express yourself. Look inside and find whatever you think you are and that’s all it takes to be good. And there are gods who are so alien to us, with minds so clear, the only thing to do would be to sit at their feet and wait for them to speak, to tell us what is good. A god who listens is love. A god who speaks is law. At their worst, the people who want a god who listens are self-centered. They just want to live in the land of do-as-you-please. And the ones who want a god who speaks are cruel. They just want laws and justice to crush everything. I don’t have an answer for you. This is the kind of thing you live your whole life thinking about probably. Love is empty without justice. Justice is cruel without love. Oh, and in case it wasn't obvious, the answer is both. God should be both. If a god isn't, that is no God.”

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“Imagine how much you’ve got compared to all the kids in the world getting blown up or starved, and the good you could do if you spent half a second thinking about it. Suddenly evil isn’t punching people or even hating them. Suddenly it’s all the stuff you’ve left undone. All the kindness you could’ve given. All the excuses you gave instead. Imagine that for a minute. Imagine what it means.”

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“But the truth is that no one is innocent in love, and nobody forced me to love Kelly J. I don’t want to stop just because she laughs at me. I want to stay in love with her until she realizes I am a person. It is a complicated thing that a little kid, or even a fifth grader, can’t understand, that we are always choosing situations that hurt us. We choose them so deeply that we don’t know we chose them. We think we had to. We think the world did it to us. And then we think, what a horrible world that makes a weapon out of love. That stabs you with it, even when you can't defend yourself and the other person hates you and wants to see you cry. It's a miracle that anyone would ever fall in love with someone else and--of all the people in the world--that person loves them back. Like if you fell off a building and landed in a pillow truck, somehow. It doesn't happen, basically. Which means we end up with someone and there's a lot of choosing to do. Choosing to forgive strange smells or choosing that Gadzooks is not the only place that boyfriends can shop. This is the work of love.”

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“Reading is the act of listening and speaking at the same time, with someone you've never met, but love. Even if you hate them, it's a loving thing to do. You speak someone else's words to yourself, and hear them for the first time. What you're doing now is listening to me, in the parlor of your mind, but also speaking to yourself, thinking about the parts of me you like or the parts that aren't funny enough. You evaluate, like Mrs. Miller says. You think and wrestle with every word.”

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“I squinted at every dappled leaf in the mulberry wood, hoping to see leopard eyes looking back. Imagine how unlikely it is for two creatures of any kind to see each other--through the shadows of the woods--eyes connecting, attention ready. For a moment like that all the universe would have to conspire to move all its pieces and line them up just so. I think a person gets seen, really looked at, looked into, seen the way a leopard would see into you, maybe ten times in their entire life. And even then, who knows what a leopard would be thinking.”

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“The lesson here is that if you watch the side characters in a love story, you might notice the lovers treating them like garbage, with the excuse that they're doing it for love. But another lesson might be that maybe you're not the hero of every story, and maybe Farhad was Shirin's true love, or maybe there isn't just one person designated for everybody. Maybe there's a lot more to it--maybe you choose and you practice and that's what makes the love true.”

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“Does writing poetry make you brave? It is a good question to ask. I think making anything is a brave thing to do. Not like fighting brave, obviously. But a kind that looks at a horrible situation and doesn’t crumble. Making anything assumes there’s a world worth making it for. That you’ll have someplace, like a clown’s pants, to hide it when people come to take it away. I guess I’m saying making something is a hopeful thing to do. And being hopeful in a world of pain is either brave or crazy.”

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