She described how one day she had been watching the trial of a secret-police agent on television when a familiar voice, Dr. A's, attracted her attention. He had come to testify in favor of his former student, whom he believed to be a compassionate individual, a man who often helped out his less fortunate classmates. Dr. A told the Revolutionary Court: 'I believe it is my duty as a human being to acquaint you with this aspect of the accused's personality.' Such an action, during those initial black-and-white days of the revolution, was unheard of and very dangerous.

The accused, who had been enrolled in the university's night classes, was a prison guard who had apparently been charged with beating and torturing political prisoners. It was said that mainly because of Dr. A's testimony in his favor, he got off easy, with only a two-year jail sentence. None of my friends and acquaintances knew what happened to him later.

Dr. A's student regrets in her account that she participated in his trial without voicing a protest. She goes on to conclude that Dr. A's action was a manifestation of the principles he had taught in his literature classes. 'Such an act,' she explains, 'can only be accomplished by someone who is engrossed in literature, has learned that every individual has different dimensions to his personality... Those who judge must take all aspects of an individual's personality into account. It is only through literature that one can put oneself in someone else's shoes and understand the other's different and contradictory sides and refrain from becoming too ruthless. Outside the sphere of literature only one aspect of individuals is revealed. But if you understand their different dimensions you cannot easily murder them... If we had learned this one lesson from Dr. A our society would have been in a much better shape today.'

I was startled by Zarrin's sudden question but appreciated this opportunity to focus on a point that had been central to my own discussions about fiction in general. 'If a critique of carelessness is a fault,' I said, somewhat self-consciously, 'then at least I'm in good company. This carelessness, a lack of empathy, appears in Jane Austen's negative characters: in Lady Catherine, in Mrs. Norris, in Mr. Collins or the Crawfords. The theme recurs in Henry James's stories and in Nabokov's monster heroes: Humbert, Kinbote, Van and Ada Veen. Imagination in these works is equated with empathy; we can't experience all that others have gone through, but we can understand even the most monstrous individuals in works of fiction. A good novel is one that shows the complexity of individuals, and creates enough space for all these characters to have a voice; in this way a novel is called democratic - not that it advocates democracy but that by nature it is so. Empathy lies at the heart of Gatsby, like so many other great novels-the biggest sin is to be blind to others' problems and pains. Not seeing them means denying their existence.' I said all this in one breath, rather astonished at my own fervor.

Just before the bell rang, Zarrin, who had been silent ever since the recess, suddenly got up. Although she spoke in a low voice, she appeared agitated. She said sometimes she wondered why people bothered to claim to be literature majors. Did it mean anything? she wondered. As for the book, she had nothing more to say in its defense. The novel was its own defense. Perhaps we had a few things to learn from it, from Mr. Fitzgerald. She had not learned from reading it that adultery was good or that we should all become shysters. Did people all go on strike or head west after reading Steinbeck? Did they go whaling after reading Melville? Are people not a little more complex than that? And are revolutionaries devoid of personal feelings and emotions? Do they never fall in love, or enjoy beauty? This is an amazing book, she said quietly. It teaches you to value your dreams but to be wary of them also, to look for integrity in unusual places. Anyway, she enjoyed reading it, and that counts too, can't you see?