conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a description for a book titled Scent of Butterflies about Soraya, Iran, Sorayas with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: After Soraya finds out that her husband had been cheating on her with one of her closest friends, she leaves her home, family, and friends in Iran to make a new life for herself in Los Angeles. Constantly confronted with the contrasts between traditional Muslim culture and the ways of urban America, Soraya struggles to find a comfortable identity among so many conflicting ideals. It isnt until she uncovers a terrifying, amazing secret that she realizes how clear her future has suddenly become. In her latest, the author (The Last Romanov, 2012) examines what happens when one womans predictable routine, treasured relationships, and sense of self have all been shattered. Sorayas enduring love of the natural world lets the author sprinkle the scientific names of many plants and insects throughout the text, which mix appealingly with the often dreamy and lyrical narration. Fans of Elizabeth Gilbert and Kristin Hannah will appreciate Sorayas story as Scent of Butterflies sets betrayal, forgiveness, identity, and obsession against the tumultuous landscapes of post-shah Iran and Southern California. --Stephanie Turza
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Scent of Butterflies
  Dry flower on grates placed in a warm, shady area. Grind dried petals in a clean mortar. Store in sealed jars. Steep a teaspoon of dehydrated petals in slow-boiling water when needed. A thin layer of oil, distillate of the toxin, will float on top. Use a half teaspoon to alleviate chronic dysentery, ailments of the gut, abnormal heart palpitation, and internal bleeding. Fatal in large doses.
  Gardening shears in hand, I return to the atrium, walk back and forth and around to gauge which part of the Amorphophallus to behead so as to cause the least damage. If severed from the base, I muse, the heart might suffer and that will certainly cause the plant to wither and die. Then again, the plant's heart must be the reservoir in which most of its precious poison resides.
  A flock of ravens darkens the sky outside. A rat scurries away. A squirrel scampers up the climbing jasmine. My owl's talons click on the glass dome overhead.
  Khodaya! I hear Mamabozorg in the deepest chambers of my heart: What in God's name are you doing, Soraya?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Did the confession afford me some level of catharsis? Did it help me unburden? I'm not certain. What I know is that the mullah's calm reaction that day, which I recollect with chilling vividness, and his matter-of-fact pronouncement—"It happens more often than you think, sister"—was an explosive fuse that sent me hurtling deeper down the path I am on.
  The mullah raises Butterfly's glass and hands it to her. She touches her lips to the rim of the glass and puckers her face. I observe her closely, the slight lift of one eyebrow, the subtle flare of her nostrils reacting to the smell of alcohol, the hesitant grip of her fingers as she raises the glass and takes a dainty sip. She puts the glass back on the table. She seems fascinated by a man of God who, in the span of fifteen minutes, has shattered every image she has had of mullahs. Never before has she found herself in such close proximity to a mullah, let alone in a bar, and with one who drinks the forbidden alcohol as if it were rosewater sherbet.
  I latch my gaze on her, willing her to redirect her attention toward me. And she does. The two of us are masters in the art of silent communication. I wink, smile, nod my encouragement, raise my glass to her health and to what the night might have in store. I shut my eyes, throw my head back, and sip my drink, hot and burning like an insult. I am here, my friend, behind you all the way. Don't you worry your pretty little head. Expose your hidden self, the woman who puts the red-district whores to shame.
  Aziz calls the waiter back and, without uttering a word, takes the mullah's credit card and hands the waiter his own. He plants the credit card in front of him. "I'll take care of my own."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Every step of the way, from inception to publication—I've lost count of the years, fifteen or sixteen in all—I depended on the encouragement and support of my family, friends, and colleagues, who helped bring this most personal of all my novels to life.
  A million thanks to my husband, Nader, who is always there to listen, calm, cheer on, and encourage, as well as lend his support in a million loving and much appreciated ways. Carolyn, Negin, David, Leila, Adam, Hannah, and Macabee, words cannot describe my love for you. You continue to provide me with a much-needed and appreciated sanctuary, a place to regain my spiritual and emotional balance when the need arises. Thank you.
  My deep gratitude goes to my mother, Parvin, the unwavering matriarch of our clan, and to Ora, Nora, David, Solomon, and Laura, my biggest fans, who enrich every aspect of my life. My sister, Laura Merage, an incomparable artist in her own right, supplied me with invaluable details about the process of photography. Any errors that might have persisted, despite careful attention, are purely mine.
  Dora Levy Mossanen was born in Israel and moved to Iran when she was nine. At the onset of the Islamic revolution, she and her family were forced to leave Iran and settle in Los Angeles. She has a bachelor's degree in English Literature from the University of California–Los Angeles and a master's in professional writing from the University of Southern California.
  She blogs for the Huffington Post and reviews fiction for the Jewish Journal. She is working on The Visionary, her fifth novel.