Sadeq Hedayat

Ṣādiq Hidāyat

A young man drifts into despair and madness after losing a mysterious lover.

The Blind Owl

THIS REMINDS ME OF LIGEIA BY EDGAR ALLAN LIKE DUDES ARE VIBING IN OPIUM HRRRRRAWRRR

summer june

I hoped by this means to expel the demon which had long been lacerating my vitals, to vent onto paper the horrors of my mind.

The only thing in this mean world which I desired was her love; if that were denied me I wanted the love of nobody. Was it possible that anyone other than she should make any impression upon my heart?

The radiance of her eyes, her complexion, her perfume, her movements, all appeared familiar to me, as though, in some previous existence in a world of dreams, my soul had lived side by side with hers.

akshita

Your pain is so profound that it has settled in the depths of your eyes... and, if you weep, the tears will come from the very depths of your eyes or they will not come at all. 

In her eyes, her black eyes, I found the everlasting night of impenetrable darkness for which I had been seeking and I sank into the awful, enchanted blackness of that abyss.

One glance from her would have been sufficient to make plain all the problems of philosophy and the riddles of theology. 

One glance from her and mysteries and secrets would no longer have existed for me.

There are sores which slowly erode the mind in solitude like a kind of canker.

maia

Your pain is so is so profound that it has settled in the depths of your eyes ... and, if you weep, the tears will come from the very depths of your eyes or they will not come at all. 

I thought to myself, “If it is true that everyone has his own star in the sky mine must be remote, dark and meaningless. Perhaps I have never had a star at all.”

No, the fear of death would not let me go. People who have not known suffering themselves will not understand me when I say that my attachment to life had grown so strong that compensated for long hours of palpitation and anguish. the least moment of ease 

I saw that pain and disease existed and at the same time that they were void of sense and meaning. 

I often used to recall the days of my childhood in order to forget the present, in order to escape from myself. I tried to feel as I did in the days before I fell ill. Then I would have the sensation that I was still a child and that inside me there was a second self which felt sorry for this child who was about to die. 

For that space of time I was severed from nature and the phenomenal world and was prepared to accept effacement and dissolution in the everlasting flux. I murmured again and again, Death, death ... where are you ? The thought of death soothed me and I fell asleep.

One thing I do know: my wife, the bitch, the sorceress, had poured into my soul some poison which not only made me want her but made every single atom in my body desire the atoms of hers and shriek aloud its desire. I yearned to be with her in some lost island where there would be nobody but us two. I wished that an earthquake, a great storm or a thunderbolt from the sky might blast all the rabble-humanity that was there breathing, bustling and enjoying life on the far side of the wall of my room and that only she and I might remain.

Am I a being separate and apart fron rest of creation ? I do not know. But when looked into the mirror a moment ago I did not recognise myself. No, the old T has died and rotted away, but no barrier, no gulf, exists between it and the new one.

In this mean world of wretchedness and misery I thought that for once a ray of sunlight had broken upon my life. Alas, it was not sunlight, but a passing gleam, a falling star, which flashed upon me, in the form of a woman-or of an angel. In its light, in the course of a second, of a single moment, I beheld all the wretchedness of my existence and apprehended the glory and splendour of the star. After, that brightness disappeared again in the whirlpool of darkness in which it was bound inevitably to disappear. I was unable to retain that passing gleam.

Sadegh Hedayat

Widely regarded as Sadegh Hedayat's masterpiece, the Blind Owl is the most important work of literature to come out of Iran in the past century. On the surface this work seems to be a tale of doomed love, but with the turning of each page basic facts become obscure and the reader soon realizes this book is much more than a love story. Although the Blind Owl has been compared to the works of the Kafka, Rilke and Poe, this work defies categorization. Lescot's French translation made the Blind Owl world-famous, while D.P. Costello's English translation made it largely accessible. Sadly, this work has yet to find its way into the English pantheon of Classics. This 75th anniversary edition, translated by award-winning writer Naveed Noori and published in conjunction with the Hedayat Foundation, aims to change this and is notable for a number of firsts: *The only translation endorsed by the Sadegh Hedayat Foundation *The first translation to use the definitive Bombay edition (Hedayat's handwritten text) *The only available English translation by a native Persian and English speaker *The preface includes a detailed textual analysis of the Blind Owl Finally, by largely preserving the spirit as well as the structure of Hedayat's writing, this edition brings the English reader into the world of the Hedayat's Blind Owl as never before. Extensive footnotes (explaining Persian words, phrases, and customs ignored in previous translations) provide deeper understanding of this work for both the causal reader and the serious student of literature. ...."There are indeed marked differences between Costello's and Noori's translations. As Noori indicates, his attempt to preserve the overabundance of dashes gives the reader a more immediate sense of the narrator's agitation...The first sentence flows on in Noori's translation, piling sensation upon sensation never allowing us to pause and catch our breath or separate out the images from the sensations. In his discussion of the relationship between his translation and Costello's, Noori also draws on translation theory and sees Costello's focus on the fluidity of the text in English as a "domestication" of Hedayat's original. Noori's new English translation and his preface are a welcome addition and will no doubt draw the attention of scholars interested in Hedayat's works. The close textual and comparative analysis of the type Noori offers marks a new and long-overdue critical approach to the translation of the most celebrated work of modern Persian prose." -Professor Nasrin Rahimieh in Middle Eastern Literatures

Blind Owl (Authorized by the Sadegh Hedayat Foundation - First Translation Into English Based on the Bombay Edition)

a book that was said to have caused many suicide in Iran after it was published. the author also commited suicide.

i was reluctant to read this because of this reputation, and the way everyone said it's hard to read. at first i don't get it cause in the first chapter, the first few pages, i was instantly hooked. the writing was so beautiful, and so natural; it justs flows. the writing makes you have this certain understanding and empathy to our narrator. these are some of my favorite from the book:

'The only thing that makes me write is the need, the overmastering need, at this moment more urgent than ever it was in the past, to create a channel between my thoughts and my unsubstantial self, my shadow, that sinister shadow which at this moment is stretched across the wall in the light of the oil lamp in the attitude of one studying attentively and devouring each word I write. This shadow surely understands better than I do. It is only to him that I can talk properly. It is he who compels me to talk. Only he is capable of knowing me.'

'I thought to myself, ‘If it is true that everyone has his own star in the sky mine must be remote, dark and meaningless. Perhaps I have never had a star at all.’

'The thought of an afterlife frightened and fatigued me. No, I had no desire to see all these loathsome worlds peopled with repulsive faces. Was God such a parvenu that He insisted on my looking over His collection of worlds? I must speak as I think. If I had to go through another life, then I hoped that my mind and senses would be numb. In that event I could exist without effort and weariness. I would live my life in the shadow of the columns of some lingam temple. I would retire into some corner where the light of the sun would never strike my eyes and the words of men and the noise of life never grate upon my ears.'

i initially thought actually that this was a book about realizing something about oneself, knowing you're true self, etc. that's why it has the reputation mentioned and others described it as disturbing so i thought it's like that way. but tbh i just honestly don't know what i've read. 

others described it as unreadable and i would agree. but not in terms of the language. the language is so simple, so beautiful, but the events? I DON'T EVEN KNOW. 

this honestly just feels like a fever dream, a nightmare. even right now that i just finished it, i forgot most of what i've read. 

most of the time i don't really know what i'm reading. when i was reading this, i was more focus on the thoughts of the narrator rather than what actually is happening. i read then reread cause i want to fully understand the emotions of our narrator. i haven't even noticed the first few repetitions because i was so engrossed with his thoughts. and i was so confused of the relationship of both parts AND i think it has this big reveal at the end which i don't even know what it is cause it was repeating and it's like you're catching your breath, especially in the last few pages and it was just soooo confusing. i'm still waiting for my irl to finish this so we can have a discussion. overall, idk what my rating is.

a book that was said to have caused many suicide in Iran after it was published. the author also commited suicide.

i was reluctant to read this because of this reputation, and the way everyone said it's hard to read. at first i don't get it cause in the first chapter, the first few pages, i was instantly hooked. the writing was so beautiful, and so natural; it justs flows. the writing makes you have this certain understanding and empathy to our narrator. these are some of my favorite from the book:

'The only thing that makes me write is the need, the overmastering need, at this moment more urgent than ever it was in the past, to create a channel between my thoughts and my unsubstantial self, my shadow, that sinister shadow which at this moment is stretched across the wall in the light of the oil lamp in the attitude of one studying attentively and devouring each word I write. This shadow surely understands better than I do. It is only to him that I can talk properly. It is he who compels me to talk. Only he is capable of knowing me.'

'I thought to myself, ‘If it is true that everyone has his own star in the sky mine must be remote, dark and meaningless. Perhaps I have never had a star at all.’

'The thought of an afterlife frightened and fatigued me. No, I had no desire to see all these loathsome worlds peopled with repulsive faces. Was God such a parvenu that He insisted on my looking over His collection of worlds? I must speak as I think. If I had to go through another life, then I hoped that my mind and senses would be numb. In that event I could exist without effort and weariness. I would live my life in the shadow of the columns of some lingam temple. I would retire into some corner where the light of the sun would never strike my eyes and the words of men and the noise of life never grate upon my ears.'

i initially thought actually that this was a book about realizing something about oneself, knowing you're true self, etc. that's why it has the reputation mentioned and others described it as disturbing so i thought it's like that way. but tbh i just honestly don't know what i've read. 

others described it as unreadable and i would agree. but not in terms of the language. the language is so simple, so beautiful, but the events? I DON'T EVEN KNOW. 

this honestly just feels like a fever dream, a nightmare. even right now that i just finished it, i forgot most of what i've read. 

most of the time i don't really know what i'm reading. when i was reading this, i was more focus on the thoughts of the narrator rather than what actually is happening. i read then reread cause i want to fully understand the emotions of our narrator. i haven't even noticed the first few repetitions because i was so engrossed with his thoughts. and i was so confused of the relationship of both parts AND i think it has this big reveal at the end which i don't even know what it is cause it was repeating and it's like you're catching your breath, especially in the last few pages and it was just soooo confusing. i'm still waiting for my irl to finish this so we can have a discussion. overall, idk what my rating is.

I honestly still can't wrap my head around this book. It's grim, unsettling, and full of dark, recursive imagery that pulls and disorients you into a psychological descent alongside the narrator. For now, all I can say is this book doesn't merely show, it also consumes.

“The presence of death annihilates all superstitions. We are the children of death and it is death that rescues us from the deceptions of life. In the midst of life he calls us and summons us to him. At an age when we have not yet learnt the language of men, if at times we pause in our play it is that we may listen to the voice of death…”

Ever read a book that plunges you into an unsettling psychotic and opium-like break that you have to take a deep breath, pace around your room for a few minutes, and question your life decisions on why you chose a book that seems like a portal to madness? Such is The Blind Owl by Sadegh Hedayat, a fever dream of a book dipped in despair and served with a side of existential dread.

Considered as an important work in modern Iranian literature, The Blind Owl is a work of profound psychological horror and existential exploration. The narrative unfolds in two distinct parts, each a descent into the unnamed narrator's fractured psyche. The first section, a feverish, opium-fueled vision, introduces us to the narrator's obsession with a mysterious woman, whose image is glimpsed through a hole in his wall. This figure is a symbol that becomes the focal point of his tormented existence. The second part, seemingly a continuation or perhaps a distorted reflection of the first, delves further into the narrator's past, revealing a cycle of violence, betrayal, and self-destruction. Hedayat masterfully manipulates time and space, blurring the lines between reality and hallucination.

“My heart had always been at odds not only with my body but with my mind, and there was absolutely no compatibility between them. I had always been in a state of decomposition and gradual disintegration.”

Hedayat crafts a narrative that mirrors the narrator's fragmented mental state. The story is told through a series of non-linear, often surreal passages, blurring the lines between dream and reality. We're plunged into the narrator's internal world, forced to grapple with his distorted perceptions and unsettling visions. I noticed that repetition is a key literary device used throughout the novel. Certain images, phrases, and motifs recur, creating a sense of obsessive fixation and reinforcing the narrator's descent into madness. The constant return to the image of the woman and the old man, the recurring descriptions of death and decay, and the cyclical nature of the narrative itself all contribute to a sense of inescapable torment. The repetition of phrases like "I saw..." or "I remember..." underscores the narrator's unreliable memory and his struggle to distinguish between reality and unreality. 

This book is not for casual consumption. And definitely not something one should read during the brink of emotional instability. Full of bleak and unrelenting prose, I did struggle to finish The Blind Owl. It was for me, too disorienting. Too claustrophobic. However, the narrator's psychological disintegration is both mesmerizing and deeply disturbing that I found myself constantly questioning the nature of reality and the human capacity for despair. I have no idea what draws me to books like this. Is it the satisfaction of witnessing a man's psyche unravel under the toils of isolation and self-destruction? Or is it the unflinching exploration of the dark recesses of the human mind that borders on madness and obsession? Anyhow, this book brings a different kind of horror, a horror of existential dread and psychological claustrophobia.

Rien

Full review soon?

I honestly still can't wrap my head around this book. It's grim, unsettling, and full of dark, recursive imagery that pulls and disorients you into a psychological descent alongside the narrator. For now, all I can say is this book doesn't merely show, it also consumes.

3.75 stars (rounded up)

“The presence of death annihilates all superstitions. We are the children of death and it is death that rescues us from the deceptions of life. In the midst of life he calls us and summons us to him. At an age when we have not yet learnt the language of men, if at times we pause in our play it is that we may listen to the voice of death…”

Ever read a book that plunges you into an unsettling psychotic and opium-like break that you have to take a deep breath, pace around your room for a few minutes, and question your life decisions on why you chose a book that seems like a portal to madness? Such is The Blind Owl by Sadegh Hedayat, a fever dream of a book dipped in despair and served with a side of existential dread.

Considered as an important work in modern Iranian literature, The Blind Owl is a work of profound psychological horror and existential exploration. The narrative unfolds in two distinct parts, each a descent into the unnamed narrator's fractured psyche. The first section, a feverish, opium-fueled vision, introduces us to the narrator's obsession with a mysterious woman, whose image is glimpsed through a hole in his wall. This figure is a symbol that becomes the focal point of his tormented existence. The second part, seemingly a continuation or perhaps a distorted reflection of the first, delves further into the narrator's past, revealing a cycle of violence, betrayal, and self-destruction. Hedayat masterfully manipulates time and space, blurring the lines between reality and hallucination.

“My heart had always been at odds not only with my body but with my mind, and there was absolutely no compatibility between them. I had always been in a state of decomposition and gradual disintegration.”

Hedayat crafts a narrative that mirrors the narrator's fragmented mental state. The story is told through a series of non-linear, often surreal passages, blurring the lines between dream and reality. We're plunged into the narrator's internal world, forced to grapple with his distorted perceptions and unsettling visions. I noticed that repetition is a key literary device used throughout the novel. Certain images, phrases, and motifs recur, creating a sense of obsessive fixation and reinforcing the narrator's descent into madness. The constant return to the image of the woman and the old man, the recurring descriptions of death and decay, and the cyclical nature of the narrative itself all contribute to a sense of inescapable torment. The repetition of phrases like "I saw..." or "I remember..." underscores the narrator's unreliable memory and his struggle to distinguish between reality and unreality. 

This book is not for casual consumption. And definitely not something one should read during the brink of emotional instability. Full of bleak and unrelenting prose, I did struggle to finish The Blind Owl. It was for me, too disorienting. Too claustrophobic. However, the narrator's psychological disintegration is both mesmerizing and deeply disturbing that I found myself constantly questioning the nature of reality and the human capacity for despair. I have no idea what draws me to books like this. Is it the satisfaction of witnessing a man's psyche unravel under the toils of isolation and self-destruction? Or is it the unflinching exploration of the dark recesses of the human mind that borders on madness and obsession? Anyhow, this book brings a different kind of horror, a horror of existential dread and psychological claustrophobia.

One of the most heartwrenching and surrealistic pieces of literature, the author's writing style is intimate and perverted. The pathological implications are described in a very unique way; breaking the writing conventions.

Anugerah

The whole book feels like a trance, like living in the present past and future at the same time, its one weird book, and a very unique one.

A story written almost in the rhythm of a poem, it just flows...

The whole book feels like a trance, like living in the present past and future at the same time, its one weird book, and a very unique one.

A story written almost in the rhythm of a poem, it just flows...

Fell off then came back. Strange tale indeed. But it’s why I love translated works, learned lots of lil tidbits about Persian culture. 

Jeremy Boyd

Do not simp for women who do not see your value, poisons you like a grating laugh, also drugs don't help.

Nota

Iris Emily

متن اصلى (بى کم و کاست)

بوف کور

Deniz Hasanzaadeh 

مثل یه کابوس طولانی. تاریک و سیاه و خفه

Alondra Ayon

Alithea

Tells the story of an unnamed pen case painter, the narrator, who sees in his macabre, feverish nightmares that "the presence of death annihilates all that is imaginary. We are the offspring of death and death delivers us from the tantalizing, fraudulent attractions of life; it is death that beckons us from the depths of life. If at times we come to a halt, we do so to hear the call of death... Throughout our lives, the finger of death points at us." The narrator addresses his murderous confessions to the shadow on his wall resembling an owl. His confessions do not follow a linear progression of events and often repeat and layer themselves thematically, thus lending to the open-ended nature of interpretation of the story.

The Blind Owl

Reviews

Highlights