(1/54) “We begin in darkness. A siren screams. The invaders come from the desert in a cloud of dust. The king gathers his army at a mountain castle. A single battle decides our fate. The battle burns, the din of drums, the clash of axes, the spark of swords. The dirt turns clay with blood. The sun goes down on a fallen flag. The day is lost. The king is gone. Our people are left defenseless. The only weapon we have left is our voice. So they come for our words. Scholars are murdered, books are burned, entire libraries are turned to dust. Until nothing remains. Not even memories of who we were. Silence. The sun comes up on a knight galloping across the land. He summons the teachers, the scholars, the authors, the thinkers. He tells them to gather the words that remain: the books, the scrolls, the letters, the verses. Everything that escaped the burning pits. Then he summons the sages. The keepers of our oldest myths, from before the written word. He copies their stories onto the page. Then when all has been gathered, all of the words, only then does he summon a poet. It had to be a poet. Because poetry is music. It sinks into the memory. And in this land of endless war, the only safe library is the memory of the people. It is said that at any given time there are one hundred thousand poets in Iran, but only one is chosen. A single poet, for a sacred mission. Put it all in a poem. Everything they’re trying to destroy. The entire story of our people. Our kings. Our queens. Our castles. Our banquets. Our songs and celebrations. Our goblets filled with wine. Our roasted kebabs. Our moonlit gardens. Our caravans of riches: silken carpets, amber, musk, goblets filled with diamonds, goblets filled with rubies, goblets filled with pearls. Our mountains. Our rivers. Our soil. Our borders. Our battles. Our crumbled castles. Our fallen flags. Our blood. Who we were. Who we were! Our culture. Our wisdom. Our choices. And our words. All of our words. Three thousand years of words, a castle of words! That no wind or rain will destroy! However long it takes, put it all in a poem. All of Iran, in a single poem. A torch to rage against the night! A voice to echo in the dark.”

(۱) "در تاریکی آغاز می‌کنیم. بانگ آژیری برمی‌خیزد. غارتگران بیابانی در هاله‌ای از گرد و غبار فرا می‌رسند. شاهنشاه سپاهیانش را پیرامون کاخی کوهستانی گرد می‌آورد. تک‌نبردی سرنوشت‌ساز است. سوزندگی‌های نبرد، بانگ کوس و درا‌ها، چکاچاک تبرها، درخشش شمشیرها. خاکِ آغشته به خون گِل می‌شود. خورشید درفش افتاده‌‌ را به شب می‌سپارد. نبرد از دست رفته است. پادشاه نیز رفته است. و مردمان بی‌دفاع مانده‌اند. اینک سخن، تنها جنگ‌افزار ماست. زین روست که بر واژگان‌مان می‌تازند. دانشمندان را می‌کشند، کتاب‌ها را می‌سوزانند، کتابخانه‌ها را با خاک یکسان می‌کنند آنچنان که هیچ نمانَد. حتا یادمانی از آن که بوده‌ایم. خاموشی. خورشید بر سواری که در سرتاسر زمین می‌تازد ‌پرتوافشان است. اوست که آموزگاران را فرا می‌خواند، دانشمندان را، نویسندگان را، اندیشمندان را. و از آنان می‌خواهد تا همه‌ی واژگانِ بازمانده را فراهم آورند. کتاب‌ها، طومارها، نامه‌ها، سروده‌‌ها. و هر آنچه از شراره‌های سوزان آتش دور مانده است. آنگاه فرزانگان را فرا می‌خواند. نگهبانان اسطوره‌های کهن، از پیشین زمان. داستان‌هاشان را بر برگ‌ها می‌نویسند. با فراهم آمدن این همه، هنگام آن رسیده است تا سراینده‌ای توانا بالا برافرازد، نیزه‌ی قلم برگیرد، سروده‌های آهنگینش را چنان بر دل‌ها نشاند که در یادها بمانند. در این سرزمینِ جنگ‌های بی‌پایان، تنها کتابخانه‌ی امن، خاطره‌ی مردمان است. گویند سدهزار شاعر همزمان در ایران می‌زیند ولی تنها یکی‌ست که از پس این کار سترگ برمی‌آید. تک‌شاعری، برای کوششی سپنتا. کسی که همه‌ی واژگان را در شعرش بگنجاند! گنجینه‌ای دور از دستبُرد آنان که در پی نابودی‌اش هستند. دربرگیرنده‌ی داستان مردمان‌مان. پادشاهان‌مان. شهبانوان‌مان. کاخ‌هامان. سرودها و بزم‌هایمان. جام‌های پر از باده‌مان. کباب‌های بریان‌مان. باغ‌های مهتابی‌مان.  کاروان‌های کالاهای گرانبها: فرش‌های ابریشمین‌, عنبر، مُشک، پیمانه‌های پر از الماس، پیمانه‌های پر از یاقوت، پیمانه‌های پر از مروارید. کوهستان‌مان. رود‌هامان. خاک‌مان. مرزهامان. نبردهامان. باروهای ویران‌مان. درفش‌های بر خاک‌افتاده‌مان. خون‌مان. که بوده‌ایم. که بوده‌ایم! فرهنگمان. خِرَدمان. گزینه‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌هامان. و واژگان‌مان. همه‌ی واژگان‌مان. هزاران سال واژه، کاخی از واژگان که از باد و باران نیابد گزند! هر اندازه زمان ببرد.همه را در شعرش بگنجاند. همه‌ی ایران را، در سُرودی یگانه. مشعلی خروشنده در سیاهی شب! پژواک بلند و پرطنین آوایی در تاریکی."
(2/54) “I couldn’t find it anywhere. Even on the streets of Tehran—it was nowhere to be seen. The Iran I knew was gone. Everywhere I turned it was nothing but black: black cloaks, black shrouds. The universities were closed, the libraries were closed. Our poets, our singers, our authors, our teachers: one-by-one they were silenced. Until Iran only survived inside our homes. I never planned to leave. I didn’t even have a passport. Twenty years earlier I’d sworn an oath to The Siren: every choice I made, I’d make for Iran. But The Siren was dead. They shredded his heart with bullets. And there was only one choice left: leave and live, or stay and die. It was an eight-hour drive to the Turkish border. Mitra came with me. We rode in silence the entire way. I’ve always wondered how things would have turned out differently if we’d been more aligned. She wanted our lives to be a love story. A surreal romantic journey. She wanted a life of togetherness, surrounded by beauty. For me life was meant to be lived in the pursuit of ideals: truth, justice, freedom. Even if that meant the ultimate sacrifice. We kissed goodbye in the border town of Salmas. In the main square stood a statue of Iran’s greatest poet: Abolqasem Ferdowsi. On that day it was still standing. Soon the regime would tear it down. I spent the night in the house of a powerful family who was known to oppose the regime. Their servants stood around the house with machine guns on their shoulders. Six months later they’d all be dead. On my final morning in Iran I woke with the sun. I knelt on the floor and prayed. The final journey was made on foot. It was six miles to the border, the road climbed through the mountains. It was a closed border; so the road was empty. Every step felt like death. I’ve never cried so many tears. Ferdowsi once wrote: ‘A man cannot escape what is written.’ I’ve always hated that quote. I hate the idea of destiny. There is always a role for us to play. There is always a choice to be made. But on that day it felt like destiny, a river flowing in one direction. And I was a leaf, floating on top. Away from where I wanted to go.”

آن را نمی‌یافتم. حتا در خیابان‌های تهران - در هیچ‌ جای دیگر هم نبود. ایرانی که من می‌شناختم، رفته بود. به هر سو نگاه می‌کردم تنها سیاهی بود: عباهای سیاه، چادرهای سیاه. دانشگاه‌ها را بسته بودند، کتابخانه‌ها بسته بودند. شاعران‌مان، هنرمندان‌مان، نویسندگانمان، آموزگاران‌مان - همه را یک به یک خاموش کرده بودند. ایران تنها درون خانه‌هامان زندگی می‌کرد. من هرگز قصد رفتن نداشتم. من حتا گذرنامه هم نداشتم. بیش از بیست سال پیش در نیروی آژیر سوگند یاد کرده بودم: همه‌ی اندیشه و توانم، برای ایران خواهد بود. ولی آژیر را کشته بودند. قلبی را که هر تپشش برای ایران بود با گلوله‌ سوراخ کرده بودند. و تنها یک گزینه مانده بود: رفتن و زنده ماندن، یا ماندن و مردن. تا مرز ترکیه نزدیک به هشت ساعت رانندگی بود. میترا با من همراه شد. سراسر راه را در خاموشی گذراندیم. همواره کنجکاو بوده‌ام که سرنوشت ما چگونه می‌شد اگر ما هم‌آهنگ‌تر می‌بودیم. او همواره می‌خواست که زندگی‌مان سفری رؤیایی و عاشقانه باشد. همراهی در زیبایی. ولی زندگی برای من مسئولیتی جدی بود. می‌بایستی آرمانخواهانه برای رسیدن به راستی، داد و آزادی زندگی کرد. در شهر سلماس با بوسه‌ای همدیگر را بدرود گفتیم. در میدان اصلی شهر تندیسی از بزرگترین شاعر ایران بر پا بود: ابوالقاسم فردوسی، پیر پردیسی من. آن روز تندیس هنوز برپا بود. دیری نپایید که رژیم آن را ویران کرد. شب را در خانه‌ی خانواده‌ای پرنفوذ که به مخالفت با رژیم شناخته می‌شد، سپری کردم. خدمتکاران آنها مسلسل بر دوش خانه را پاسبانی می‌کردند. شش ماه پس از آن دیدار بسیاری از آنها را نیز کشتند. در واپسین بامدادم در ایران با سپیده‌دم بیدار شدم و نماز خواندم. واپسین بخش راه را پیاده رفتم. تا مرز دو فرسنگ راه بود. راه از میان کوهستان می‌گذشت. مرز بسته بود، گذرگاه هم تهی بود. هر گامی سخت بود و اشکم جاری. فردوسی چنین می‌گوید:
بکوشیم و از کوشش ما چه سود
کز آغاز بود آن چه بایست بود
همواره از این گفته بیزار بوده‌ام. از مفهوم سرنوشت بیزارم. هرگز نپذیرفته‌ام که سرنوشت از پیش نوشته شده باشد. همیشه گزینش و انتخابی هست. ولی آن روز سرنوشت من چون رودخانه‌ای به یک سو روان بود. و من چون برگی شناور بر آب. دور از جایی که آهنگ رفتنم بود

(1/15) “It’s a magic trick, a dupe. Nothing but an illusion. And it starts the moment you walk in the door. Biggest store in the world. Eight full floors of shopping. And Santaland is at the very top. You can take the elevators. Or you can do what I did when I was a kid..." (2/15) “Christmas, 1983. The year I learned it was all a dupe. I was twelve years old. And the holiday season began like any other. With my mother sitting me in front of the TV to watch the Thanksgiving Day parade. Every five minutes I’d run into the kitchen with updates..."

(1/13) “It’s time for the show. When those doors open at 5 o’clock, it’s showtime. I tell that to every member of my staff, it doesn’t matter how you feel: you could be hungover, you could be facing eviction, your girlfriend could be home in bed with the neighbor..." (2/13) “My life of crime came to an end in Room 911 of the Philadelphia Lowes Hotel. Room 911. That was the Feds fucking with me. I hadn’t been in the room for 5 minutes when there was a knock on the door. A voice said: ‘Housekeeping.’ But I knew..."

(1/15) “I wasn’t the first preacher’s wife to run away. There had been three more. One met a man on the internet. Another went into a life of drinking; she posted pictures on Facebook. And the third was Mary Anne. One Sunday morning Mary Anne was singing..." (2/15) “When I was a little girl there were two records in our house that weren’t church music. One was a single of a kid named Jimmy singing ‘I saw Mommy kissing Santa Clause.’ And the other was Nat King Cole. We weren’t allowed to dance. So I’d put on Nat King Cole..."

(1/12) “There wasn’t no plan really. I’m walking down the street with my best friend Koreh, and we see this house. And Koreh’s like: ‘Yo. Let’s break in.’ And I’m a stupid eighth grader—so I agreed. We climbed in a window and started grabbing whatever we could. The police were.." (2/12) “I tried to stay friends with Koreh when he came out of prison, but he was full blown. He didn’t seem like a kid anymore. There weren’t as many jokes. It was always: ‘What’s the next move? What’s the next play?’ He started saying crazy stuff, like..."

(1/13) “We went on a cruise for our ten-year anniversary. There was this dance competition. They came out on the floor and tapped four couples, and they tapped us. Tripp was towering above everyone. He’s 6’3”, 6’4”, dancing in the middle of the crowd. He’s so stinking cute..." (2/13) “My first memory is watching my mother’s fingernails. My stepfather would make me sit beside the couch, and watch her fingernails. If they turned blue I was supposed to call 911. She’d be in bed when I left for school. In bed when I came home. There was nobody..."

(1/12) “It’s one of the most painful things you can imagine. It would feel like she was being stabbed in the joints with needles. On days when she was too sick to go to school, I’d stay home with her. I’d lie next to her on the floor, and she’d be in so much pain..." (2/12) “My father arranged for me to stay with a family in Atlanta while I attended high school. They were distant acquaintances. And they must have thought my family had means, because they kept asking my father for money. When he couldn’t send it, they treated me horribly..."

(1/5) “On the morning of my ninth birthday, my mom told me I could have a party. She said: ‘Invite all your friends.’ But there weren’t any friends. I went around the block, looking for kids to invite. It’s like: ‘How do I get these kids to like me?’ I didn’t look like anyone..." (2/5) “In my early teens I’d search through the newspaper for local piano competitions. I’d go to them alone. At the registration table I would lie and say my parents were waiting outside. Then I’d get up on stage in my cheap polyester suit, and I’d begin to play..."

(1/4) “He’d knock in the rain. He’d knock in the snow. He’d come home late on these dreadful winter nights, and my mother would have his slippers under the radiator and his bathrobe on top. In the 1960’s Fuller Brush was the dominant name in door-to-door sales..." (2/4) “It was an article announcing a new gallery show by the painter Alice Neel. Only one of her paintings was shown in the article. It was titled: ‘Fuller Brush Man.’ And it was Dad. Physically there were some exaggerations—because that was Neel’s style. The hands were..."

(1/11) “I wasn’t going to do a half-ass ceremony. You know: drive-by, no hugging, ten feet apart kinda thing. Not for my sister. Even if that meant waiting until this COVID bullshit was solid. I chose the anniversary of her death: August 29th. There had been so much love..." (2/11) “I still have the stub for the first Knicks game I ever went to. I was ten years old. We blew out the Miami Heat that night, and I was hooked. I decided then that I was going to be the biggest Knicks fan in the entire world. Not the second biggest. The biggest..."

(1/12) “We were summoned to the house of my girlfriend to discuss the situation. The atmosphere was very tense. Her family on one side of the living room. Mine on the other. Her grandfather was the first to speak: ‘You should be ashamed,’ he told me. ‘For what you’ve done..." (2/12) “My daughter was born three weeks early. I wasn’t there for the birth; I was working in another town. And that still hurts me today. When I arrived at the hospital I was almost too scared to hold her. She looked so fragile. And all I could think was..."

(1/7) “For my eighth birthday I received a Barbie dollhouse that I’d been dreaming about for months. Gene wanted to play with it too—because he loved all things make-believe. But after a few hours he sat down on the dollhouse and crushed it..." (2/7) “When Gene was in fifth grade, his teacher stood him up in the front of the class. I forget what he did. Maybe he’d forgotten his homework or something. But she stood him up in front of all the other kids, and said..."

(1/12) “We arrived here with $10,000. By the time we paid for the paperwork, and the lease, there was no money left to open a restaurant. But right away we were given hope—a potential investor. He was a friend of a friend..." (2/12) “My earliest memories are watching her cook. Our family owned a small grocery—and my mother was the baker. All the time she was in the kitchen, so it was my only way to be near her. I would sit by her feet..."

(1/11) “There is a moment I’ll never forget. My mother was teaching a class at our home, and my father hit her in front of the students. It was humiliating..." (2/11) “Suddenly the science and literature books disappeared from our home. They were replaced by Islamic books, all of which were written by men. The rules were tightened..."

(1/7) “Sometimes I’ll visit mediums. And almost always, the first thing they say is: ‘There’s a man here with long, gray hair.’ And I’ll smile. Because his hair was the first thing I noticed about him..." (2/7) “That night my parents drove up from Baton Rouge to bring me home, but Mickey talked them out of it. He knew that my parents were one of the reasons for my depression..."

(1/8) “Everyone I tell is like holy fucking shit. Because there’s an insane psychic angle to all of this. And I’m not a supernatural freak or anything..." (2/8) “My mom taught me to roll a joint when I was ten years old. Which is super fucked up, I know. But I’m only saying that so you’ll understand she’s a huge hippie freak..."

(1/32) “Tanqueray, Tanqueray, Tanqueray. When this photo was taken, ten thousand men in New York City knew that name. My signature meant something to them. They’d line up around the block whenever I was dancing in Times square..." #TattletalesFromTanqueray (2/32) “I grew up an hour outside of Albany. The neighborhood wasn’t too nice, but it was better than the black neighborhood on Hill Street. Right now the house looks like shit, but back then it was completely clean..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(1/11) “It was just a normal morning. Almost exactly five years ago. I was making tea in the kitchen..." (2/11) “Back in the day my name was Walter Miller. It was a pretty normal childhood. We grew up poor..."

(1/4) “I was sixteen. Right in the middle of puberty. And I couldn’t connect with the world..." (2/4) “During my first year in Ed’s class, I lost a good friend to suicide..."

(1/4) “I grew up in Russia. My mother was a severe alcoholic, so I spent my entire childhood in a home for troubled children..." (2/4) “I remember it perfectly. They walked into our classroom while taking a tour of the school..."

(1/4) “My wife had been pushing to expand our family for eight years—but I kept resisting. I kept saying: ‘What’s wrong with you? We’re almost done.’ We were nearly forty years old. It was the second marriage for both of us. Our teenagers were about to graduate from..." (2/4) “The application process was a nightmare. It’s like a messy divorce where they examine every little detail of your life. People try to scare the crap out of you about how emotionally damaged the kid will be. The agency made us sign a contract acknowledging fourteen..."