The Blind Owl and Other Stories Read online

  The Blind Owl

  and Other Stories

  Sadeq Hedayat

  Translated by D.P. Costello

  and Deborah Miller Mostaghel

  calder publications

  an imprint of

  Alma BOOKS Ltd

  3 Castle Yard

  Richmond

  Surrey TW10 6TF

  United Kingdom

  www.almaclassics.com

  The Blind Owl first published as Buf-e Kur in 1937

  Translated by D.P. Costello

  First published by John Calder (Publishers) Limited in 1957

  Translation © John Calder (Publishers) Limited, 1957

  First published by Alma Classics in 2008. Repr. 2010, 2012

  The other stories in this volume first published in Buried Alive (1930); Three Drops of Blood (1932); The Stray Dog (1942)

  Translated by Deborah Miller Mostaghel, and edited by Nushin Arbabzadah

  A translation of these stories first published by Alma Classics in the volume Three Drops of Blood in 2008. Reprinted 2010, 2012, 2017

  This new edition of The Blind Owl and Other Stories first published by Calder Publications in 2017

  Printed in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

  isbn: 978-0-7145-4458-8

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the express prior consent of the publisher.

  Contents

  Sadeq Hedayat: His Life and Works

  Bibliography

  The Blind Owl

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  Hajji Morad

  Three Drops of Blood

  The Legalizer

  Whirlpool

  Fire-Worshipper

  Abji Khanom

  The Stray Dog

  The Broken Mirror

  Davoud the Hunchback

  Madeleine

  Dash Akol

  The Man Who Killed His Passions

  Buried Alive

  Acknowledgements

  Notes

  Sadeq Hedayat: His Life and Works

  Sadeq hedayat was born on 17th February 1903 and died on 9th April 1951. He was descended from Rezaqoli Khan Hedayat, a notable nine­teenth-century poet, historian of Persian literature and author of Majma’ al-Fosaha, Riyaz al-’Arefin and Rawza al-Safa-ye Naseri. Many members of his extended family were important state officials, political leaders and army generals, both in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

  Hedayat is the author of The Blind Owl, the most famous Persian novel both in Iran and in Europe and America. Many of his short stories are in a critical realist style and are regarded as some of the best written in twentieth-century Iran. But his most original contribution was the use of modernist, more often surrealist, techniques in Persian fiction. Thus, he was not only a great writer, but also the founder of modernism in Persian literature.

  Having studied at the exclusive St Louis French missionary school in Tehran, Hedayat went to Europe, supported by a state grant, spending a year in Belgium in 1926–27, a year and a half in Paris in 1928–29, two terms in Reims in 1929 and a year in Besançon in 1929–30. Having still not finished his studies, he surrendered his scholarship and returned home in the summer of 1930. This provides a clue to his personality in general, and his perfectionist outlook in particular, which sometimes resulted in nervous paralysis.

  Back in Tehran, Hedayat became the central figure among the Rab’eh, or Group of Four, which included Mojtaba Minovi, Bozorg Alavi and Mas’ud Farzad, but had an outer belt including Mohammad Moqaddam, Zabih Behruz and Shin Partaw. They were all modern-minded and critical of the literary establishment, both for its social traditionalism and intellectual classicism. They were also resentful of the literary establishment’s contemptuous attitude towards themselves, and its exclusive hold over academic posts and publications.

  In the early 1930s, Hedayat drifted between clerical jobs. In 1936 he went to Bombay at the invitation of Sheen Partaw, who was then an Iranian diplomat in that city. Predictably, he had run afoul of the official censors, and in 1935 was made to give a pledge not to publish again. That was why, when he later issued the first, limited edition of The Blind Owl in Bombay, he wrote on the title page that it was not for publication in Iran, predicting the possibility of a copy finding its way to Iran and falling into the hands of the censors.

  During the year in Bombay, he learnt the ancient Iranian language Pahlavi among the Parsee Zoroastrian community, wrote a number of short stories and published The Blind Owl in fifty duplicated copies, most of which he distributed among friends outside Iran.

  He was back in Tehran in September 1937, although he had returned with great reluctance and simply because he did not feel justified in continuing to depend on his friend’s hospitality in Bombay. In 1939, he joined the newly founded Office of Music as an editor of its jour­nal, Majelleh-ye Musiqi (The Music Magazine). It was literary work among a small group of relatively young and modern intellectuals, including Nima Yushij, the founder of modernist Persian poetry. He might well have regarded that as the most satisfactory post he ever had.

  It did not last long. After the Allied invasion of Iran and abdication of Reza Shah in 1941, the Office of Music and its journal were closed down, and Hedayat ended up as a translator at the College of Fine Arts, where he was to remain until the end of his life. He also became a member of the editorial board of Parviz Khanlari’s modern literary journal Sokhan, an unpaid but prestigious position. Even though the country had been occupied by foreign powers, there were high hopes and great optimism for democracy and freedom upon the collapse of the absolute and arbitrary government. The new freedom – indeed, licence – resulting from the Reza Shah’s abdication led to intense political, social and literary activities. The modern educated elite were centred on the newly organized Tudeh Party, which was then a broad democratic front led by Marxist intellectuals, although by the end of the ’40s it had turned into an orthodox communist party. Hedayat did not join the party even in the beginning, but had sympathy for it and had many friends among Tudeh intellectuals.

  But the party’s support for the Soviet-inspired Azerbaijan revolt in 1946, which led to intense conflicts within its ranks, and the sudden collapse of the revolt a year later, deeply upset and alienated Hedayat from the movement. He had always been a severe and open critic of established Iranian politics and cultural traditions, and his break with radical intellectuals made him a virtual émigré in his own land. This was a significant contribution to the depression he suffered

  in the late 1940s, which eventually led to his suicide in Paris in 1951.

  For some time his close friend Hasan Shahid-Nura’i, who was serving as a diplomat in France, had been encouraging him to go to Paris. There were signs that his depression was deepening day by day. He was extremely unhappy with his life in Tehran, not least among intellectuals, many of whom were regularly describing him as a “petty-bourgeois demoralizer”, and his work as “black literature”.

  Through his letters to friends one may observe, not far beneath the surface, his anger and despair, his acute sensitivity, his immeasurable suffering, his continuously darkening view of his own country and its people, and his co
ndemnation of life. Through them, perhaps more than his fiction, one may see the three aspects of his predicament: personal tragedy, social isolation and universal alienation.

  In a letter which he wrote in French to a friend in Paris four years before his last visit, he had said:

  The point is not for me to rebuild my life. When one has lived the life of animals which are constantly being chased, what is there to rebuild? I have taken my decision. One must struggle in this cataract of shit until disgust with living suffocates us. In Paradise Lost, Reverend Father Gabriel tells Adam “Despair and die”, or words to that effect. I am too disgusted with everything to make any effort; one must remain in the shit until the end.

  Ultimately, what he called “the cataract of shit” proved too unbearable for him to remain in it.

  Hedayat’s fiction, including novels, short stories, drama and satire, writ­ten between 1930 and 1946, comprises Parvin Dokhtar-e Sasan (Parvin the Sasanian Girl), Afsaneh-ye Afarinesh (The Legend of Crea­tion), Al-bi’tha(t) al-Islamiya ila’l-Bilad al-Afranjiya (Islamic Mission to European Cities), Zendeh beh Gur, (Buried Alive), Aniran (Non-Iranian), Maziyar, Seh Qatreh Khun (Three Drops of Blood), Alaviyeh Khanom (Mistress Alaviyeh), Sayeh Roshan (Chiaroscuro), Vagh-vagh Sahab (Mr Bow-Vow), Buf-e Kur (The Blind Owl), ‘Sampingé’ and ‘Lunatique’ (both in French), Sag-e Velgard (The Stray Dog), Hajji Aqa, Velengari (Mucking About) and Tup-e Morvari (The Morvari Cannon).

  I have classified Hedayat’s fiction into four analytically distinct categories, although there is some inevitable overlap between them: romantic nationalist fiction, critical realist stories, satire and psycho-fiction.

  First, the romantic nationalist fiction. The historical dramas – Parvin and Maziyar, and the short stories ‘The Shadow of the Mongol’ (‘Sayeh-ye Moghol’), and ‘The Last Smile’ (‘Akharin Labkhand’) – are on the whole simple in sentiment and raw in technique. They reflect sentiments arising from the Pan-Persianist ideology and cult which swept over the Iranian modernist elite after the First World War. ‘The Last Smile’ is the most mature work of this kind. Hedayat’s explicit drama is not highly developed, and he quickly abandoned the genre along with nationalist fiction. But many of his critical realist short stories could easily be adapted for the stage with good effect.

  The works in the second category of Hedayat’s fiction, his critical realist works, are numerous and often excellent, the best examples being ‘Alaviyeh Khanom’ (‘Mistress Alaviyeh’) which is a comedy in the classical sense of the term, ‘Talab-e Amorzesh’ (‘Seeking Absolution’), ‘Mohallel’ (‘The Legalizer’), and ‘Mordeh-khor-ha’ (‘The Ghouls’). To varying degrees, both satire and irony are used in these stories, though few of them could be accurately described as satirical fiction.

  They tend to reflect aspects of the lives and traditional beliefs of the contemporary urban lower-middle classes with ease and accuracy. But contrary to long-held views, they are neither “about the poor or downtrodden”, nor do they display sympathy for their types and characters. Wretchedness and superstition are combined with sadness, joy, hypocrisy and occasionally criminal behaviour. This was in the tradition set by Jamalzadeh (though he had more sympathy for his characters), enhanced by Hedayat and passed on to Chubak and Al-e Ahmad in their earlier works.

  Coming to the third category, Hedayat’s satirical fiction is rich and often highly effective. He was a master of wit, and wrote both verbal and dramatic satire. It takes the form of short stories and novels, as well as short and long anecdotes. They hit hard at their subjects, usual­ly with effective subtlety, though sometimes outright lampooning, denunciation and invective reveal the depth of the author’s personal involvement in his fictional satire.

  Hajji Aqa is the longest and most explicit of Hedayat’s satires on the political establishment. Superficial appearances and critical propaganda notwithstanding, it is much less a satire on the ways of the people of the bazaar and much more of a merciless attack on leading conservative politicians. Indeed, the real-life models for the Hajji of the title were supplied by two important old-school (and, as it happens, by no means the worst) politicians.

  Hedayat would already have held a lasting and prominent position in the annals of Persian literature on account of what I have mentioned so far. What has given him his unique place, however, is his psycho-fiction, of which The Blind Owl is the best and purest example. This work and the short story ‘Three Drops of Blood’ are modernist in style, using techniques from French symbolism and surrealism in literature, of surrealism in modern European art and of expressionism in the contemporary European films, including the deliberate confusion of time and space. But most of the other psycho-fictional stories – e.g. ‘Zendeh beh Gur’ (‘Buried Alive’), ‘Arusak-e Posht-e Pardeh’ (‘Puppet behind the Curtain’), ‘Bon-bast’ (‘Dead End’), ‘Tarik-khaneh’ (‘Dark Room’), ‘Davud-e Guzhposht’ (‘Davoud the Hunchback’) and ‘Sag-e Velgard’ (‘The Stray Dog’) – use realistic techniques in presenting psycho-fictional stories.

  The appellation “psycho-fictional”, coined by me in the mid-1970s to describe this particular genre in Hedayat’s literature, does not render the same sense as is usually conveyed by the well-worn concept and category of “the psychological novel”. Rather, it reflects the es­sen­tially subjective nature of the stories, which brings together the psychological, the ontological and the metaphysical in an indivisible whole.

  Hedayat’s psycho-fictional stories, such as ‘Three Drops of Blood’ and ‘Buried Alive’, are macabre and, at their conclusions, feature the deaths of both humans and animals. Most human beings are no better than rajjaleh (rabble), and the very few who are better fail miserably to rise up to reach perfection or redemption. Even the man who tries to “kill” his nafs – to mortify his flesh, or destroy his ego – in the short story ‘The Man Who Killed His Ego’, ends up by killing himself; that is, not by liberating but by annihilating his soul. Women are either lakkateh (harlots), or they are Fereshteh, that is, angelic apparitions who wilt and disintegrate upon appearance, though this is only true of women in the psycho-fictions, women of similar cultural background to the author, not those of lower classes in his critical realist stories.

  As a man born into an extended family of social and intellectual distinction, a modern as well as modernist intellectual, a gifted writer steeped in the most advanced Persian as well as European culture, and with a psyche which demanded the highest standards of moral and intellectual excellence, Hedayat was bound to carry, an enormous burden, which very few individuals could suffer with equanimity, especially as he bore the effects of the clash of the old and the new, and the Persian and the European, such as few Iranians have experienced. He lived an unhappy life, and died an unhappy death. It was perhaps the inevitable cost of the literature which he bequeathed to humanity.

  Homa Katouzian

  St Antony’s College and the Oriental Institute

  University of Oxford

  Bibliography

  Michael Beard, The Blind Owl as a Western Novel (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990)

  Nasser Pakdaman, ed., Sadeq Hedayat, Hashtad-o-daw Nameh beh Hasan Shahid-Nura’i (Sadeq Hedayat, Eighty-two Letters to Hasan Shahid-Nura’i) (Paris: Cheshmandaz, 2000)

  Ehsan Yarshater, ed., Sadeq Hedayat: An Anthology (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1979)

  By Homa Katouzian:

  Sadeq Hedayat, His Work and His Wondrous World, ed., (London and New York: Routledge, 2008)

  Sadeq Hedayat: The Life and Legend of an Iranian Writer, paperback edition, (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2002)

  Darbareh-ye Buf-e Kur-e Hedayat (Hedayat’s The Blind Owl, a Critical Monograph) (Tehran: Nashr-e Markaz, 5th impression, 2008)

  Sadeq Hedayat va Marg-e Nevisandeh (Sadeq Hedayat and the Death of the Author) (Tehran: Nashr-e Markaz, 4th impression, 2005)

  Tanz va Tanzineh-ye Hedayat, (Satire and Irony in Hedayat) (S
tockholm: Arash, 2003)

  The Blind Owl

  (translated by D.P. Costello)

  1

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

  It is impossible to convey a just idea of the agony which this disease can inflict. In general, people are apt to relegate such inconceivable sufferings to the category of the incredible. Any mention of them in conversation or in writing is considered in the light of current beliefs, the individual’s personal beliefs in particular, and tends to provoke a smile of incredulity and derision. The reason for this incomprehension is that mankind has not yet discovered a cure for this disease. Relief from it is to be found only in the oblivion brought about by wine and in the artificial sleep induced by opium and similar narcotics. Alas, the effects of such medicines are only temporary. After a certain point, instead of alleviating the pain, they only intensify it.

  Will anyone ever penetrate the secret of this disease which transcends ordinary experience, this reverberation of the shadow of the mind, which manifests itself in a state of coma like that between death and resurrection, when one is neither asleep nor awake?

  I propose to deal with only one case of this disease. It con­cerned me personally and it so shattered my entire being that I shall never be able to drive the thought of it out of my mind. The evil impression which it left has, to a degree that surpasses human understanding, poisoned my life for all time to come. I said “poisoned”: I should have said that I have ever since borne, and will bear for ever, the brand mark of that cautery.

  I shall try to set down what I can remember, what has remained in my mind of the sequence of events. I may perhaps be able to draw a general conclusion from it all – but no, that is too much to expect. I may hope to be believed by others or at least to convince myself; for, after all, it does not matter to me whether others believe me or not. My one fear is that tomorrow I may die without having come to know myself. In the course of my life I have discovered that a fearful abyss lies between me and other people and have realized that my best course is to remain silent and keep my thoughts to myself for as long as I can. If I have now made up my mind to write it is only in order to reveal myself to my shadow, that shadow which at this moment is stretched across the wall in the attitude of one devouring with insatiable appetite each word I write. It is for his sake that I wish to make the attempt. Who knows? We may perhaps come to know each other better. Ever since I broke the last ties which held me to the rest of mankind, my one desire has been to attain a better knowledge of myself.