The beauty of fiction is that you're free to read into it whatever you want. 'Meaning' is not something the author shrouds in sharp wit or dense allusion, there for the perceptive reader to discover; it's something that comes about quite erratically, depending on a host of factors that are not easily identified. A text only takes on significance as the reader engages with it, as it comes to life in his imagination. In other words, a work of fiction is as multifaceted as its readership. As such, it's the perfect antidote to fundamentalism. No wonder then that novels are among the first victims when a totalitarian regime sweeps to power.
Of course, I'm not telling you anything you didn't already know. It's just that this very notion lies at the heart of a Persian novella I happened to read (and reread) while traversing Iran: The Blind Owl (1937) by Sadeq Hedayat. A dark tale about a man who takes apart his soul piece by harrowing piece, the novella is centred on a limited set of images and scenes that mirror one another so maddeningly that it seems hard to make sense of it all. Something is expected of the reader, whether he likes it or not. His freedom comes not without a sense of obligation.
What follows is an excerpt. Upon reading it I couldn't help but think of the way many older Iranians speak of the years before and after the 1979 revolution. Something essential was lost. Something that stretched well beyond the political, touching on the personal, on the way people regard themselves. That this revolution took place 42 years after The Blind Owl was first published doesn't mean we can't use it as a prism or a point of reference or anything that suits us best. Like I said, no one is stopping us from distilling our own essence from a book. Except in Iran, of course, where The Blind Owl has been banned in its original form ever since the clergy assumed power. Which, true to the spirit of its people, didn't keep it from becoming the country's most cherished work of fiction.
For an uncensored translation of The Blind Owl, see here. A word of warning, though: it is said that the book has driven many readers to suicide. Hedayat himself didn't fare much better. Fourteen years after publication he gassed himself in his Paris apartment.
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| The Kaluts: sandcastles in the desert |
What follows is an excerpt. Upon reading it I couldn't help but think of the way many older Iranians speak of the years before and after the 1979 revolution. Something essential was lost. Something that stretched well beyond the political, touching on the personal, on the way people regard themselves. That this revolution took place 42 years after The Blind Owl was first published doesn't mean we can't use it as a prism or a point of reference or anything that suits us best. Like I said, no one is stopping us from distilling our own essence from a book. Except in Iran, of course, where The Blind Owl has been banned in its original form ever since the clergy assumed power. Which, true to the spirit of its people, didn't keep it from becoming the country's most cherished work of fiction.
The rising sun was burning hot. I reached some quiet and empty streets. On my way there were some grey houses designed in strange, singular, geometric shapes: cubic, prismatic and conic houses with low, dark windows; the windows did not have any shutters and the houses seemed to be temporary and abandoned. No living being, apparently, could live in those houses.
Like a golden knife, the sun sheared the edges of the shades and took them away. Everything was quiet and speechless, as though the elements of nature were obeying the sacred law of the quietude of the burning atmosphere, the law of silence. Every place harbored so much mystery that my lungs did not dare inhale the air.
Suddenly I realized that I had left the city gate behind. With a thousand sucking mouths, the heat of the sun was drawing sweat from my body. Under the blazing sun, the desert bushes had assumed the color of turmeric. From the depths of the sky, like a feverish eye, the sun bestowed its burning heat on the silent, lifeless scene. The soil and the plants of this area, however, had a special aroma, an aroma so strong that upon inhaling it I was reminded of my childhood. I clearly recalled not only the activities and the words but the whole time as if it had happened only yesterday. As though reborn in a lost world, I felt an agreeable giddiness. This feeling, which had the intoxicating quality of an ancient, sweet wine, penetrated my veins and sinews, reaching my very existence. I could identify with all the thorns, rocks, tree trunks and the tiny shrubs of wild thyme. I recognized the almost human-like scent of the vegetation. I began to think of my past—of my own far and distant days—but all those recollections, as if through some magic, sought distance from me; they were living together and had an independent life of their own. I was no more than a detached, helpless witness with the feeling that there existed a deep whirlpool between me and those recollections. Compared to those days, today my heart was empty, the shrubs had lost their magical fragrance, the distance between the cypress trees had increased and the hills were dryer. I was no longer the creature that I used to be, and if I could materialize that creature and speak to him, he would not hear me, nor would he understand my words. He would have the face of an acquaintance but he would not be mine nor part of me.
For an uncensored translation of The Blind Owl, see here. A word of warning, though: it is said that the book has driven many readers to suicide. Hedayat himself didn't fare much better. Fourteen years after publication he gassed himself in his Paris apartment.
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