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The Blind Owl
By: Sadeq Hedayat
Translated by: Iraj Bashiri
inally, I put my painting beside the painting on the jar. Then I went out of the room and prepared my own special pot of fire. When the charcoal turned red, I brought the pot of fire inside and placed it in front of the paintings. I gave several pulls to the opium pipe, and in a state of ecstasy I stared at the pictures; I was trying to concentrate, and only the ethereal smoke of opium could concentrate my thoughts and create a relief from them.
I smoked all my remaining opium so that this strange narcotic agent would dispel all the difficulties and would push aside the veils which covered my sight; could it dispel all these dense, distant, grey recollections? The state I was expecting appeared; it was beyond my expectations. Gradually my thoughts grew exact, large and enchanting, and I entered a state of half-sleep, half-coma.
Soon, I felt that the pressure and the weight on my chest were removed, as if the law of gravity no longer existed for me. I was flying freely in pursuit of my thoughts, which were now large, delicate and precise. A profound, indescribable pleasure filled my being from head to toe, and I was relieved from the burden of my binding body. I was in a world that was quiet but full of enchanting and delectable shapes and colors. Then the train of my thoughts was interrupted and the remainder was dissolved in these colors and shapes. I was drowning in waves,, waves which were caressing and ethereal. I could hear my heart beat, and I could feel the blood moving in my veins. This was a very meaningful and intoxicating moment for me.
From the bottom of my heart I wanted and wished to give myself up to the inactivity of oblivion. If such an oblivion were available; if it could be enduring; if when my eyes closed, beyond sleep, they would enter utter nothingness so that I could not feel my existence; if it were possible for my existence to become dissolved in a black stain, in a musical note, or in a colorful beam of light; if these colors and shapes would become larger and expand until they disappeared--then my wishes would be fulfilled.
Gradually, a state of sluggishness and numbness overtook me; it was like a pleasant fatigue or like delicate waves flowing from my body. I felt that my life was passing in reverse. Gradually, the stages and events of the past, and my own obliterated, forgotten childhood reminiscences, advanced before my eyes. I was not only observing, I was participating in these events; I could feel them. I was rapidly growing smaller and younger; then suddenly my thoughts grew dark and vague. It seemed as though all my existence hung at the end of a thin hook; I was suspended at the bottom of a deep, dark well. Then I was unhooked. I was sliding and falling down without encountering any obstacles. It was a never ending abyss in an eternal night. After that, some vague and obliterated veils took shape in front of my eyes, and I experienced a moment of utter oblivion. When I came to, suddenly, I found myself in a small room, in a special position, a position which seemed strange, yet at the same time, natural.
The new world to which I awoke, with its environs and its modes of life and activity, was thoroughly known and close to me. This world was so familiar that I could even say I felt more at home in it than I had in my previous life and its environs. In a way this was an echo, or a reflection, of my previous life. Although a different world, it was so near and relevant to me that I thought I had returned to my original environment. I was reborn in an ancient world which was both closer and more natural to me.
Dawn was breaking. A tallow burner was burning on the mantle in my room, and a quilt was spread in the corner. I was not asleep, however. I felt that my body was hot and that blood stains were stuck to my cloak and scarf. My hands, too, were stained with blood. But in spite of restlessness and excitement, a feeling stronger than the desire to obliterate the traces of blood, even stronger than the thought of being picked up by the magistrate, was generated in me. Besides, I had been waiting to be picked up by the magistrate for a long time now. I decided, however, to finish the poisonous wine from the cup in the niche with one gulp. The need to write had now become a compulsion. I wanted to drag out the fiend which tortured my soul. I wanted to record all that I had wanted to say but had refrained from saying. At last, after a moment of hesitation, I pulled the tallow burner closer and began to write as follows:
I always thought forbearance from speech was the best of things. I thought that one should, like a bittern, spread his wings on the shore of the sea and, sit alone there. But now I am no longer in control, because that which should not have happened has come to pass. Who knows? Perhaps immediately, or perhaps an hour from now, a group of drunken night watchmen will come to apprehend me. I have no desire whatsoever to save my carcass. Even if I obliterate the blood stains, there is little room left for denial. Before they lay their hands on me, however, I will drink a cup of the wine in that wine flask; a cup of my own inherited wine which I placed in the niche.
Now I want to press my entire life, as if it were a bunch of grapes, in my hands; and I want to pour its essence, no, its wine, drop by drop, like water containing the holy dust of Mecca, into the dry throat of my shadow. All I want to do before I go is to record on paper all the sufferings which have, like consumption or leprosy, eaten away at me in the corner of this room. In this way, I think, I will be able to arrange and organize my thoughts better. Do I intend to write a will? Never. I do not own any property that the government can confiscate, nor do I profess a faith which Satan can take away. Besides, what on earth is there that could have the least value for me? That which is usually referred to as "life" I have already lost; I allowed this, and I wanted it to be lost. And after my departure, what the hell, I don't give a damn if anyone does or does not read my tattered notes! I am writing only because this drive to write has become a necessity for me. I am in need--I am in need more than ever before to relate my thoughts to my imaginary creature, to my shadow: that same ominous shadow which is bending on the wall in front of the tallow burner and which seems to be reading, carefully swallowing whatever I write. This shadow definitely has a better sense of perception than I. Only with my shadow can I hold a meaningful conversation. He is the one who makes me talk. Only he can know me. I am certain that he understands... I want to pour, drop by drop, the essence, no, the bitter wine of my life into my shadow's dry throat and say to him, "This is my life!"
Whoever looked at me yesterday saw a distressed, ailing youth; but if he looked at me today, he would see a stooped old man with white hair, sore eyes and a leprous lip. I am afraid to look out of the window of my room or to look at myself in the mirror, because everywhere I see a multiplicity of my own reflections. To be able to describe my life for my stooped shadow, I must narrate a story. Oh, there are so many stories about childhood days, loves, acts of copulation, weddings and deaths and not a grain of truth in any of them. I am tired of telling stories and of fanciful phraseology.
I shall try to press this cluster, but whether there will be the slightest bit of truth in it, I do not know. I do not know where I am; I do not know whether the patch of sky above my head, or the few spans of ground on which I sit, belongs to Nishapur, to Balkh or to Benares. Anyway, I trust nothing.
In the past, I have seen so many contradictory things and have heard so many inconsistent speeches; my sight--this thin yet hard substance behind which the soul abides--has rubbed itself over so many surfaces that now I do not believe anything. I doubt the weight and the permanence of objects as well as the visible and manifest facts that relate to this very moment. For example, if I were to touch the stone mortar in the corner of our yard and ask it, "Are you stationary and firm?" and it were to respond in the affirmative, I am not sure whether I should believe it or not.
Am I a distinct, singular being? I don't know. However, when I looked into the mirror just now, I did not recognize myself. No, that "I" of previous times is dead; it has disintegrated. Between us, however, there exists no physical obstruction or obstacle. I know I should narrate my story, but I don't know where to begin. All of life is made up of stories and tales. I must press the cluster of grapes and pour its essence, spoon by spoon, down the dry throat of this old shadow.
It is difficult to know where to begin, because all my restless thoughts at this moment belong to this moment. They know no hour, minute or history. For me, something that happened yesterday might be more ancient, or less effectual, than an event which took place a thousand years ago.
Perhaps the reason for the appearance of all these reminiscences is the fact that all my relations with the world of the living are now severed--past, future, hour, day, month and year are all the same to me. These stages would be meaningful for the ordinary people, for the rabble--yes, that is exactly the word I was looking for--rabble with two b's. These stages apply to the rabble whose lives have recognized seasons and limits, such as the divisions of the year, and who live in the temperate zone of life. My life, on the other hand, my entire life, has had one season and one state. Even though a constant flame burns in the center of my body and melts me away like a candle, my life seems to have passed in a cold zone and in an eternal darkness.
My life is gradually melting away in the middle of the four walls that create my room, amid the strong fortification that is built around my life and thoughts. No, I am mistaken. My life is like a fresh stump of wood lying at the side of a tripod: it is scorched and charred by the fire of burning wood, but it neither burns thoroughly nor stays fresh and green--the smoke and the fumes suffocate it.
Like all other rooms, my room, made of sun-dried and baked bricks, is built on the ruins of thousands of ancient houses. It has a whitewashed interior with a strip of inscription. It is exactly like a grave. The smallest details of my room, like the spider in the corner, for instance, are sufficient to occupy my thoughts for many long hours. Since the time that I have become bedridden, they do not pay very much attention to me. The horse-shoe nail which is hammered into the wall is the supporting nail of my cradle and possibly the cradles of many other children. A short distance below this nail, a piece of the plaster has fallen off the wall. From this exposed crevice the smell of objects and creatures who previously occupied this room can be scented to such an extent that no current or breeze has been able to dispel the stink of these stagnant, lazy and dense odors: the smell of bodily sweat, the smell of past sicknesses, the smell of bad breath, the smell of rancid oil, of rotting mats, of burnt omlettes, the smell of mallow, the room-smell of a boy just beyond puberty, smells that have come in from the outside as well as dead smell or dying smells--all these smells are fresh and have retained their distinctive qualities. There are, however, many other smells which, although their sources are now unknown, have left their imprint on this room.
My room has one dark closet and two windows to the outside--to the world of the rabble. One of the windows opens onto our own courtyard, the other onto the street. Through this window and that street I am connected with the city of Ray, the city which they call the bride of the world and which has thousands of streets, alleys, unpretentious houses, madrasahs and caravanearies. This biggest city of the world breathes and lives behind my room. Here, in the corner of my room when I close my eyes, the scrambled shadows of the city, those which have affected me, including its mansions, mosques and gardens, all materialize before my eyes.
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