Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

If The Persians were a perfume, it would be called Eau de Entitled Dysfunction—an overpowering blend of narcissism, cocaine, and generational trauma with absolutely no self-awareness. I gave this book 40% of my time and patience before I tapped out, and honestly, that was a Herculean effort.

Let’s be clear: I don’t mind reading about morally questionable, messy characters. In fact, I usually love it. But there’s a difference between "complex and compelling" and "bratty and insufferable." These characters fall squarely into the latter category. They are extravagantly wealthy, self-absorbed, and treat each other with the warmth of an Arctic windstorm. Trauma is piled on trauma, but rather than exploring it with any real depth, the book just marinates in its characters' bad behaviour like a reality show where no one gets a redemption arc.

The narrative swings between generations and locations—Tehran, Texas, California—but instead of providing insight into identity, displacement, or Iranian history, it reads more like Gossip Girl with Persian couture. The family’s exile from Iran is glossed over in favour of detailing their Louis Vuitton luggage, and their approach to relationships is just as transactional as their approach to luxury goods. There’s scandal, there are secrets, but mostly, there’s just a lot of rich people being awful to each other.

Look, I wanted to love this book. I really did. But after 200 pages of egos clashing, designer handbags, and cocaine binges, I had to ask myself: Why am I suffering when I could be reading something else? So I made the only sane decision—I left these people to their melodrama and moved on.