* (restored/expanded)
‘My shadow on the wall was exactly like an owl; hunched over, it carefully read my writings… I wanted to draw those eyes, which were now closed forever, on a piece of paper, and keep them for myself. This sensation forced me to action, that is, I did not do this voluntarily — one does not when one is imprisoned with a corpse. This very thought filled me with a special feeling of joy.’ — Sadegh Hedayat
‘Perhaps no other modern Iranian writer has been claimed by his countrymen more than Sadegh Hedayat has. Born in Tehran in 1903 to an aristocratic family, Hedayat studied in Paris and went on to become one of the founders of modern fiction in Iran. And while he had a wide range—he wrote nationalist plays, satire, and both realist and surrealist fiction—he is most recognized for his novel The Blind Owl. Published in 1937 in a limited edition in India, where Hedayat was then living, the novel appeared in Iran in 1941 and went on to have a tumultuous existence in the hands of Iran’s ubiquitous censors. Translated into multiple languages, it has been reissued in the United States by Grove Press, with a 1957 translation by D. P. Costello and a poignant introduction by Porochista Khakpour.
‘A tale of one man’s isolation, the novel contains a maze of symbols, recurring images, social commentary, allusions to opium-induced states, contemplations of the human condition, interjections on art, and references to literary and religious texts—all of which have, for decades, made it fertile ground for critical interpretation. The most long-standing theory was espoused by the Iranian Communist Party (Tudeh), with which Hedayat for a time sympathized. The Tudeh’s claim was that the black mood in the book is an allusion to life under Reza Shah, who ruled Iran from 1925 until 1941. But as scholar Homa Katouzian points out in Sadeq Hedayat: The Life and Legend of an Iranian Writer, while Hedayat did oppose the shah’s tyrannical reign, the book is a far more universal statement about alienation. Often compared to the work of Franz Kafka (whom Hedayat admired), The Blind Owl also brings to mind Fernando Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet in its stark meditation on dejection.
‘“There are sores which slowly erode the mind in solitude like a kind of canker,” begins the book, and in the pages that ensue we glimpse this solitude, through the narrator’s room, which “stands upon the ruins of thousands of ancient houses… like a tomb”; through the landscape of “crouching, accursed trees,” between which there are “ash-grey houses” where “no living creature could ever have dwelt”; and through the narrator’s estrangement from the “rabble-men” who bear “an expression of greed on their faces, in pursuit of money and sexual satisfaction.”
‘An ethereal girl appearing throughout offers hope. She is the image the narrator paints on his pen cases, a vision he falls in love with, and the portrait on an ancient jar, inside “an almond-shaped panel” (perhaps a reference to a mandorla, an almond-shaped contour found around images of Mary—the almond representing virgin birth). But the girl has a “double nature,” resurfacing as the narrator’s cunning mother, and, later, as his promiscuous wife.
‘Any discussion of Hedayat would be incomplete without mention of his suicide, by gassing, in 1951 in Paris—an event that has overshadowed his work.
‘On April 9, 1951, Sadegh Hedayat entered his rented apartment in Paris, plugged all the doors and windows with cotton, and then turned on the gas valve to liberate himself from all the wounds that had been gnawing on him in seclusion. Two days later, his body was found by police, with a note left behind for his friends and companions that read: “I left and broke your heart. That is all.” The prominent Iranian writer and intellectual had torn up all his unpublished work a few days before his suicide.’ — Dalia Sofer
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Talking with a Shadow (2006)
‘Documentary about the life and works of Sadegh Hedayat. It follows a teacher, a researcher, and a journalist as they discuss some of Hedayat’s most famous works and their influences. The film intermixes the three conversing along with a narrated history of the author with images.’
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From No. 37 (2009)
‘From No. 37 is an Iranian documentary about Persian author Sadegh Hedayat. It was directed by Sam Kalantari and Mohsen Shahrnazdar. From No. 37 lasts 90 minutes and was filmed in France, Iran, Norway and the United Kingdom. From No. 37 explores the private life and works of Hedayat. The film includes interviews with Iranian authors, intellectuals and academics including Homa Katouzian, Nasser Pakdaman, Anvar Khamei, Ehsan Naraghi, and some of Hedayat’s relatives. The film’s dialogue is in Persian with English and French subtitles. It premiered at the Persian Artists Forum in Tehran and the British Academy in London.’
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Further
Sadegh Hedayat’s Corner
Sadegh Hedayat Tribute Page
‘This Book Will End Your Life’@ The Rumpus
Sadegh Hedayat @ Les éditions José Corti
‘Sadeq Hedayat’s Heritage’
Sadegh Hedayat’s ‘Davood the Hunchback’
Sadegh Hedayat Page (in Iranian)
‘The Symbolism of Women in The Blind Owl’
‘The Blind Owl’ @ Resistance is Futile
‘Poisons and Remedies in The Blind Owl’
‘What is left for me from Sadegh Hedayat?’
Buy ‘The Blind Owl’
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Media
Naked Solitude: Sadegh Hedayat
‘The Blind Owl’, an extract
Omar Khayyam-Sadegh Hedayat
Tomb of Sadegh Hedayat
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Adaptation
Raoul Ruiz La Chouette Aveugle (1987)
‘A projectionist falls in love with a dancer that he sees onscreen and finds echoes of his own life in the images he projects. Everything changes when fiction and reality merge… For Ruiz, La Chouette aveugle was not so much an adaptation as an adoption of the novel written by Sadegh Hedayat. Free composition in a labyrinthine narrative, this explosion of imagination and creation celebrates the fantastical power of cinema in a fictional continuity, mixing past and present, dream and reality. An existential work as well as gigantic hoax, this flamboyant, this baroque jewel is as enchanting as it is extravagant.’ — pariscinema.org
Excerpts
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Book
Sadegh Hedayat The Blind Owl
Grove Press
‘Plot summary: The narrator, a pen-case decorator, falls in love with a girl who is at once angelic and devilish. Later, the girl appears by his doorstep, enters his house, and lies on his bed, where she dies. He cuts up her body and buries her. The narrator, seemingly in a past life, recounts his mental and physical decline following his marriage to a woman who refuses to have sex with him but has countless lovers. He accidentally kills her; Main characters: the narrator (present and past), the girl/narrator’s mother/narrator’s wife, an old peddler/narrator’s father/narrator’s uncle, a butcher;? Representative sentence: “If I have now made up my mind to write it is only in order to reveal myself to my shadow.”’ — The Believer
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Excerpt
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.
Idle thoughts! Perhaps. Yet they torment me more savagely than any reality could do. Do not the rest of mankind who look like me, who appear to have the same needs and the same passion as I, exist only in order to cheat me? Are they not a mere handful of shadows which have come into existence only that they may mock and cheat me? Is not everything that I feel, see and think something entirely imaginary, something utterly different from reality?
I am writing only for my shadow, which is now stretched across the wall in the light of the lamp. I must make myself known to him.
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.
It is three months – no, it is two months and four days – since I lost her from sight but the memory of those magic eyes, of the fatal radiance of those eyes, has remained with me at all times. How can I forget her, who is so intimately bound up with my own existence?
No, I shall never utter her name. For now, with her slender, ethereal, misty form, her great, shining, wondering eyes, in the depths of which my life has slowly and painfully burned and melted away, she no longer belongs to this mean, cruel world. No, I must not defile her name by contact with earthly things.
After she had gone I withdrew from the company of man, from the company of the stupid and the successful and, in order to forget, took refuge in wine and opium. My life passed, and still passes, within the four walls of my room. All my life has passed within four walls.
I used to work through the day, decorating the covers of pen cases. Or, rather, I spent on my trade of pen-case decorator the time that I did not devote to wine and opium. I had chosen this ludicrous trade of pen-case decorator only in order to stupefy myself, in order somehow or other to kill time.
I am fortunate in that the house where I live is situated beyond the edge of the city in a quiet district far from the noise and bustle of life. It is completely isolated and around it lie ruins. Only on the far side of the gully one can see a number of squat mud-brick houses which mark the extreme limit of the city. They must have been built by some fool or madman heaven knows how long ago. When I shut my eyes not only can I see every detail of their structure but I seem to feel the weight of them pressing on my shoulders. They are the sort of houses which one finds depicted only on the covers of ancient pen cases.
I am obliged to set all this down on paper in order to disentangle the various threads of my story. I am obliged to explain it all for the benefit of my shadow on the wall. Yes, in the past only one consolation, and that a poor one, remained to me. Within the four walls of my room I painted my pictures on the pen cases and thereby, thanks to this ludicrous occupation of mine, managed to get through the day. But when once I had seen those two eyes, once I had seen her, activity of any sort lost all meaning, all content, all value for me.
I would mention a strange, an incredible thing. For some reason unknown to me the subject of all my painting was from the very beginning one and the same. It consisted always of a cypress tree at the foot of which was squatting a bent old man like an Indian fakir. He had a long cloak wrapped about him and wore a turban on his head. The index finger of his left hand was pressed to his lips in a gesture of surprise. Before him stood a girl in a long black dress, leaning towards him and offering him a flower of morning glory. Between them ran a little stream. Had I seen the subject of this picture at some time in the past or had it been revealed to me in a dream? I do not know. What I do know is that whenever I sat down to paint I reproduced the same design, the same subject. My hand independently of my will always depicted the same scene. Strangest of all, I found customers for these paintings of mine. I even dispatched some of my pen-case covers to India through the intermediary of my paternal uncle, who used to sell them and remit the money to me.
Somehow I always felt this subject to be remote and, at the same time, curiously familiar to me. I don’t remember very well… It occurs to me that I once said to myself that I must write down what I remember of all this – but that happened much later and has nothing to do with the subject of my painting. Moreover, one consequence of this experience was that I gave up painting altogether. That was two months, or, rather exactly, two months and four days ago.
*
p.s. Hey. ** adrian, Hi, adrian. I’m doing better, thanks, and, yeah, illness has been going around over here. Oh, sure, having coffee should be good. I guess hit me up with your schedule and availability, and we’ll sort it out. Nice. Safe trip to here. ** Daniel Warner, Hey, no big, I’ve been a bit disoriented myself. Mall Punk Magazine … wow, I don’t remember that. If I have a copy it must in storage somewhere. Huh. ‘The Plague’, no, I don’t know it, but I’ll look for it, for sure. Thanks! ** _Black_Acrylic, Definitely not a liqueur guy on this end either. When I did drink alcohol, I was a vodka guy. I’ll check that track, cool, thanks, B! ** Carsten, Hey. No words about the US horror of the weekend. Better a poet’s perspective than a voyeur’s thrill. Well, if the construction is illegal and you don’t mind the headache and, ugh, expense (?), you should win, no? ** Lucas, Hi! I repeated 8th grade way back when because I was a year younger than the other students due to me having skipped a grade caused by my supposed precocious intelligence, and, yeah, the repeat was nothing but a good thing. Plus I got to be actually good at school for that one year. Paris possibility: cool. 2026 first goal is finishing the new film script finally and setting up RT screenings. No, we’re not going for the next group of screenings, but we will for a few in March/April. So hopefully I’ll be jetlag free for a month or so. xo. ** Steeqhen, ‘Unsolved Mysteries’ had very memorable music. I can still hum it. Do UK libraries give card holders free access to the film streaming store Kanopy as in the US? That’s a really good resource, if so. Great stuff there including both of Zac’s and my previous films. ** Dustin, Hi. Yes, master as an apple and slave as gravity. That was novel. I was sick, but I’m better now, thanks. I don’t think I’ve specifically done a RPG games-centric post, if memory series. Good idea. And in the meantime I’ll see what ‘Yume Nikki’ and ‘LISA’ look like. Sounds like they’ll hit the spot. What’s keeping you busy? ** Florian S. Fauna, I will let you know once I’ve spun the album. Look forward to it. Thanks, and I hope you’re feeling very fit. ** darbz (⊙ _ ⊙ ), I do remember you’re from NC. I really want to get down there and check it out one of these years. When you find some great grotesque non-fiction, pass the titles on. I’m down. I think my sickness is all but kaput. Feels like it, but I’m not counting my chickens or whatever. That’s odd, my local market stopped carrying these falafels I always bought and ate religiously, and it’s a loss. The replacement product here is sadly inadequate, ** Steve, I peeked at that ‘UM’ reboot, and it was blah. My back is virtually normal again, with maybe one more day of being gingerly with it. All hail your return to liveliness. ** Laura, Hey. Verlaine wasn’t such a big schmuck, was he? He seemed self-destructive if anything. I try to stay away from second- and third-hand autobiography. The truth is very complicated, and people are very lazy. I’m doing better, yes, thanks. I’ve never joined Reddit, should I? I feel like peeking at it is probably enough? ** Hugo, Nice sounding visit. Nice artistic input. Enjoy hanging with James, he’s great (like you). I’m post-meds now, so I guess that means I’m as fixed as I’m going to be. Oh, um, well, most of my earlier poems were written when I was still working out how to write fiction, so it would make sense if I was experimenting with narrative in them, whereas the poems in ‘The Weaklings’ came after I’d primarily become a novelist, so it would make sense if I felt freer to tackle them starting from nowhere? Keep enjoying the big L. ** Jeff J, All thanks to you! I’m still in the early stages of listening, but when individual tracks start popping in particular I will feed you back. I should be around approx. the 12th. It’d be swell to Zoom and obviously to investigate an ‘RT’ screening. Where are you going? Or I guess you’re probably there already. A ‘Wanda’ vibe is only a plus to me. Cool, I’ll take the leap. ** Okay. You’ll be getting some restored posts for the next few days due to my recent sickness and consequent inability to come up with brand new posts, and let’s start by re-spotlighting Sadegh Hedayat’s great novel. See you tomorrow.
Now available in North America 
Hey Dennis! Another suicidal writer, haha. This looks amazing, it’s unfortunate that Proust has me snowed under for the forseeable future. Oh, and I’m starting work again today, which is nice! I’ve managed to get my own place, it’s not quite sunk in yet that I’m able to live on my own, haha. It’s such a great experience, I’m still sort of vibrating that it’s all worked out, I was kind of losing my mind after a month of living with my boyfriend over Christmas.
Good question about Expedition 33. I think it’s maybe because it’s got some of the things people like about Yoko Taro-ish games, like interesting music/story with supportive gameplay, but without any of the strange sexuality that makes his games interesting but a bit unpalatable/awkward to mention. I think it’s also got a kind of (heavy air quotes) “serious” story, so you can parade it around as high art to make your interest in videogames more legitimate in some way. It’s perfectly fine, it’s just absurd how venerated it is.
Anyway, Happy New Year, hope you’re doing well medically (and generally). See ya!
P.S., I really second Dustin’s Yume Nikke recommendation, that game is amazing.
Hi, do you know the korean novel Untold Night and Day by Bae Suah? It’s heavily inspired by The Blind Owl and the book itself plays a role in it.
oh this is so cool! *makes a note*
great! sent you an email about our schedule, but thought of also replying here in case you don’t see it/receive it!
Morning! That’s when im writing this haha sorts different normally its my end of day check in but here its the start of my day! Okay I’ve been thinking as per usual haha and hum I think out of all the room tempature characters I’m closest to the mom she’s down to clown in the best way and passively loving yet aware in a way I resonated with. its the hilarity of her knowing basically nothing about the vague horror house but she was 10 toes down going along with it like she saw the rollercoaster in her living room and the murder shocked her but she didn’t leave or tell hell she was the only one who addressed it haha! Her actress had a sort of levity and clarity and real mom qualities I loved haha and you would be the dad if I was the mom that cracked me up when I realized what life could be like! No real updates I wanna write these essays one on Magical thinking and how if our brains are forced to do it sometimes it must work and one on something else it’ll come to me also god what’s the point of have feelings for a cumdump seems illogical like you have a purpose but claim or ownership of such a public or community assets seems like madness. Like just pump and dump there’s no need to build anything which sounds rude cause the cum dump is still a person but it’s a man after all so like……yeah idk I think they only matter if your the one dumping in them otherwise who cares about sluts haha! Ill be back so tell me something good! TYYLXOXOBRB!
Re. your lack of brand new posts for the blog: I have two guest posts I’d be happy to supply. One on Dreams & Divination, kind of a small ethnopoetics spin-off showcasing two African divinatory traditions next to a dream journey practice in Borneo. I could whip that up in no time & I promise it wouldn’t be as massive as my last two contributions.
The other would be a day devoted to my late best friend Chauncey Brambach. A mix of his poems, video, photos & recollection. That would obviously be immensely personal for me, but objectively speaking he was just such a colorful SoCal character that I think your audience would appreciate the intro. Let me know what you think.
Re. the landlord business & possible 2nd pool construction: I don’t think it would get that far, meaning court & expenses. I think I have enough leverage to force them to postpone that project. Plus they’re first-time investment home buyers, & I think they’re beginning to learn how much upkeep & maintenance is necessary before they can even consider such an absurd upgrade. I mean just today one of the levers of the automated gate fell off: totally corroded by rust & now they’re scrambling to get that fixed. Plus plumbing, plus yard work etc etc. They’ll wake up to reality soon enough.
Are you familiar with Turtle Island Poetry? My poem “To an Old Ford Bought at Auction” will be published in their January issue. They do a publication reading on Jan. 24th at the Lamanda Park Branch Library in Pasadena. Don’t know if they’re new or not but I’m certainly happy to be a part & I love the live reading idea, even though I obviously can’t participate in person. The editor is Don Kingfisher Campbell.
oi congrats! ^_^
my first time seeing this post! something about the first paragraphs struck me, the mentions of disease. a lot of really beautiful words probably inspired by the simple act of laying in bed and being depressive. thats something thats always impressive to me. i mean i think it says a lot how widespread it is to personify mental suffering into things like illness, demons, etc. like its completely alienated and outside of ones control – it feels like that, sure, but its interesting. ‘If I have now made up my mind to write it is only in order to reveal myself to my shadow.’ – yr shadow is a part of yourself, and it only moves or disappears when you do, is i think my point.
id love to check this out since i know next to nothing about iranian literature but im reading robert glücks ‘about ed’ bit by bit when it doesnt make me too sad.
the bday party i was at yesterday was fun, outside the friend whos birthday we were celebrating i only rly clicked with one guy there but it was a new experience thats always good right?
if i do go to paris in april itll probably be for a few days during the second week of april. new film script: nice! can i get a teaser what its about haha? a great first 2026 goal tho! my best friend reminded me today i should quit smoking, eek. maybe soon. xo
Sadegh Hedayat is a new name to me and I find his life story quite a mind-exploder. I’m intrigued to see that adaptation.
We seem to have a definite cold snap coming our way right now. Was happy to rediscover a very snug and warming pink woollen scarf that will be adorning my upper body over the course of the coming days. Tis the season to accessorise.
Love The Blind Owl! It had a big influence on me when I was a teenager. Had no idea there was any kind of film adaptation.
Your films are on Kanopy? I’m gonna have to check them out! I have Kanopy but didn’t think to look for them on there.
School started back today and I’m gonna be taking Step 1 (first big medical certifying exam) in early April so it’s back to the grind for me.
Have you seen the Ruiz film?
My Wi-Fi has been very shaky today. As far as I can tell, the adapter that goes from my router to laptop has broken. I need to head to the repair shop tomorrow.
Oddly, the New York public library does not have access to Kanopy.
They are taking our falafels away! Aghh…..
Yes I am from NC, if you ever come down I can chauffeur you, joking not joking…
Hey friend
—so here’s a brief
I have to abstain from cocaine at this program so I can get back on my ADHD meds because you know my head is a constantly spinning spaceship resting on a manic grasshopper
^^^^This is all without being on coke, I’m just naturally very hyper
But I will say I will willing abstain from cocaine if it means getting back on the medication that literally helps me get through days without falling into chaos and it’s not dependency when you know how scattered and maladjusted I am.
People have a thing against Adderall and Vyvanse. Do u have thoughts?
What else…
Oh ive been working on poems for something I will probably finish before my book…I can go into that sometime
Ba bye
….
Hey Dennis,
I’m 99% sure that Irish libraries don’t have access to Kanopy as I tried years ago, though I’m not sure about UK libraries (I hope so though). Went to the city library today to have a quick look through the cds and I was pretty shocked at how vast and varied to collection was; either I take some out tomorrow to rip onto my mp3 player, or I do so after I come back from London (most likely the latter as I still have about 150 CDs of my own to rip). I need to get my hair cut tomorrow too for London, however I haven’t gone to a barbers in many years and I actually have an obsessive compulsive aversion to barbers, due to bad experiences and a superstitious belief that bad things will happen after my friend died whilst I was in one. I think I might just ask for a trim of about 2 inches max to dip my toes in and get over this fear.
Was chatting to Jack Skelley yesterday, a lovely guy! As much as I bemoan social media or the internet it’s being able to connect with so many people around the world that keeps me here. Been chatting to this one person who contacted me through Lastfm about this one Miley Cyrus album called Dead Petz (which I have a deep love for despite not caring for the rest of her discography); this person may be a catfish or a stalker, or they could just be a normal person with a lot of similar interests to me, and either way it’s fun to chat to them!
I ended up not watching that last season of Stranger Things, and instead just watched a summary on YouTube. I don’t think I would have been able to sit through all 10 hours of that MCU-esque season, and it all seemed a bit convoluted and contrived from what I have read and seen. I’m listening to Hounds of Love at the moment and it’s strange how that show turned Running Up That Hill from a pretty well known 80s song into one of the biggest songs on Spotify with 1.5billion streams and counting, a new UK peak of number 1 and US peak of 3 (compared to it’s no.30 peak) and genuinely being one of the most well known songs amongst my generation at this point… like it was inescapable on TikTok and Instagram in 2022 and it is still a background song on videos. I wonder what thing from the 2010s will get that treatment in 20 years time… probably nothing as the world will just be some sort of technofascist hellscape where we are all indentured servants to the 10 trillionaires.
Hey Dennis! I got medicated today. Sertraline, which is just an extra bump of serotonin, so nothing too heavy duty I don’t think. The doc was surprisingly understanding about my questions about being a writer and not wanting to be in a place where I dull all feeling, which I think was why he prescribed what he did. Apparently I might feel ‘strange’ the first week of taking it but very likely nothing I’m not used to. I am pretty worried about how it will all turn out though.
I’ve been reading the massive Garielle Lutz book ‘Backwardness’ and it’s totally incredible. A couple of months ago I devoured the collection of her complete works and became totally obsessed. Perhaps some of the greatest sentences I’ve ever read. The sentences in this book are less extravagant seeing as it’s an edited collection of diaries and letters but it’s still unmistakable Lutz and totally mind bending. A reviewer for The Nation put it well that ‘What Herman Melville did for the whaling ship, what Thomas Mann did for the sanitorium, Lutz has done for sitting alone in your shitty apartment and praying half-heartedly for death’.
This evening I watched Akerman’s brilliant ‘Portrait d’une jeune fille de la fin des années 60 à Bruxelles’ which you recommended once and I managed to find subtitled in 720p on YouTube here: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=mbTpv3qhmjU
hi Dennis!
Hedayat was great, feel you’ve got to have a certain SWANA sensitivity to get him, like, the big unapologetic emotions and that nation-defining, poetic Persian sadness. his name might literally mean ‘Friend of Guidance’ which is a bit poignant. also what is this thing with the Qajars going commie en masse in the Pahlavi era? maybe as a fuck you to the parvenu Shah etc, but so much of that, fr. ofc the SAVAK, which is to say the US, hated their guts but really the country was such a pressure cooker of horrid politics at the time that being normal must have made ppl feel like aliens. and then there’s the fact i don’t think anyone is worse suited to life in exile than Iranians, loads of suicides. they should just come to Spain, almost like home minus the bulk of repression. poor Sadegh. he makes an oblique appearance in my book lol. can’t believe he’s bigger than Pesheshkzad, tho, Dear Uncle Napoleon is so ubiquitously well loved it should probably be loved less so it could be loved better, if you get me.
Verlaine! ya 3ami, he really was terrible lol. like i think his baseline was megasweet but alcohol deformed his brain chemistry and he was always arseholed, so. he attacked his own mother, chased Lepelletier sword in hand, totally brutalised his wife, who was an interesting girl (her mum was Chopin’s student and then discovered and developed Debussy, so, like the Mautés weren’t massive squares or anything), he set her hair on fire and almost killed their baby son by ramming him into the bars of his own crib. And then he would have famously shot Rimbaud in the face had the latter not possessed the cat reflexes that come from PTSD and caught the bullet in his hand.
i think you like Vagabonds, yea? then you can tell how young Rimbaud really was in that poem and how little he knew about people. like, “J’avais en effet, en toute sincérité d’esprit, pris l’engagement de le rendre à son état primitif de fils du soleil, et nous errions, nourris du vin des cavernes et du biscuit de la route, moi pressé de trouver le lieu et la formule.” breaks your heart a tad! basically “i can change him, dunno why it’s not working”, i feel that poem is almost a diary entry about those last fucked up days. like, as messed up as he himself was, he’d fallen in love w this massive heart and then had to accept the rest as reality… actually i do think his failure to return Verlaine to son of the sun status or whatever must have played a part in his quitting writing. like he no longer believed in what love and art can do (he probably believed they could do too much anyway). aside from my own conjectures, the above brutality is quite cemented, was hugely scandalous at the time and it’s still canon lol, not too complicated a truth imo. poor guy destroyed everyone who ever loved him w the interesting exception of Rimbaud’s mum— they corresponded forever and seemed to get along like a house on fire, so there’s that! =)
gah you still have nothing for me mat-wise? oh well, at least i tried! dw, i’ll just have to brave Reddit in the end, i didn’t want to do that as Russian Reddit is just so gatekeepy of its swears, lol, they honestly believe we’ll be going to the doctor in Moscow and he’ll deadpan ‘well your bad cholesterol is high’ and we’ll just explode into ‘fucked in the face, bitch!’ it’s… yea. lol. anyway, i’ll come up with something. i honestly wouldn’t hugely recommend joining Reddit, everyone’s a bit touchy and often looking to start shit, tho it’s got its uses… maybe you they’d even glaze a bit and all, so who knows, might go ok. hmm…
it’s Reyes morning over here, meaning the biggest day of the holidays, when presents are exchanged etc. Unamuno actually wrote ‘Make the door bigger, Father, I can’t get through. You made it for the children and I’ve grown up, alas.’ i’m feeling so like that rn lol, like no presents for me unfortunately. that door, man.
hope you’re quite in the pink by now, Dennis! i avoided sending you anything while you were all poorly, that would have been like offensive. now idt…? say if you still want it. lol.
happy tuesday!
<3