رواية أفيونيةغريبه كمدى اغترابك عن الحياةوادي سحيق يقذف بك لقعر الهاويةجذابة بلغتها وماكرةالحياة ...فلسفية بعمق ظلم اللياليسوداوية طعمها مر كطعم آخر الخيار!!!خالية مليئة بالحقد والعدميةالموت...في اعماق الحياة هو من يناديكوفي وحدتك وانزوائك تسمع صوتك في حلقك فقط!! لا نهار لدي ولا حياة..لماذا اعيش واحيا ما الفائدة فيي (مفيش فيي فايدة)... صوت شخص غال عليي رحل منذ فترة رحمه الله كلما اشتكى ألماً رددها وزاد المي معه ومشاكستي ونقدي له ولافكارهوهذا صادق هدايت عجيب كيف حمل اسمه نصيباً من حياتهفلا صادق الحياة ولا الحياة صادقتهولا اهتدى لطريق ولا طريق وصلهولا في هدى بقلبه ولا قلبه هديومع ذلك لا بد ان يصل للانسان شيء ما من الحياةلا بد ان يصادق ويقتربوصادق كان حظه مع البومه هي من وصلته من كل موجودات الحياة!!اتراها انارت نفسه ام زادتها عتمةانها بومة!غريبة هي المسميات برموزها حينما تفرغ من معناهاولم يتبقى منها الا الاسم فارغا!!حديث صادق لبومته العميااء!!! منذ ان لاحت له الرؤيا سقط في عذابات غير منقطعهاذ اغرقت النفس في الافيون والسكر وانطوت بين اربعة جدران فصم نفسه عن مرأى الناس في سعي لمعرفة نفسهولكنه كان يتلاشى رويداً رويداًفالحس ميت والحياة عدميرفض حقيقته وخائف من ظلالهالصوت الذي سمعه في حلقه واختلط مع وهمه!! "في اعمق ظلمات الليالي كانت حياتي منذ الطفولة مثل ظل شريد كالظلال المرتعشة على حائط الحمام لا معنى ولا هدف وبلا مبالاة وعدم اكتراث وكانت معجزة انني لم أذب في حوض الحمام كذرة من ملح!! حياة غير طبيعية غير عقلانية ..حياة افيونية... حياة لا تصدقوفي انزاؤي وانطوائي ووحدتي وتوحدي احاول ان انصت لنفسي واغور فيهاوكلما ازددت توغلاً في نفسي كنت اسمع اصوات الاخرين في اذني واسمع صوت نفسي في حلقي!تعددت الليالي وتراكمت في مؤطرة رأسي,,, ليالي مقفرة ذات ظلمة لزجة غليظة ومعدية تنتظر ان تسقط في نفس خالية مجردة قاحلة فارغة من اي معنى وان حاولت ملئها امتلئت باحلام الكره والحقد والبغض من الحياة ومن الاخريناواجه صوت حلقي ولكن اصوات الاخرين مشوشه وطاغيةوان استمعت اليه كنت مجنوناً..!صوت الموتدائماً ما افكر بالموت واحاسيس ما بعد الموت! تنتابني تساؤلات عن الاحاسيس والافكار اين تذهب بعد توقف القلب ام انها تواصل الحياة؟وبعد التساؤلات يأخذني التفكير لتحليل وتجزئة عناصر جسدي.. تفكير ان كان مخيف لدى الناسفهو اعتيادي بالنسبة لي فكم رغبت في ان اعدم وافنى ولا امل فيي الا في العدم بعد الموتفكيف لمن لم يأنس في دنياه ان يطلب حياة اخرى ؟ما الفائدة!!صحيح ان حس الموت مخيف لكن من اين يأتي الاحساس نفسه ان كانوا يحسون انهم موتى؟!الموت وحده من لا يكذب ولا مزاح فيههو حضو الموت الذي يقضي على جميع الاوهام ويفنيهاهو المنقذ من صراعات الحياة هو الذي ينادينا منها وفي اعماره يسمعنا صوت الموتوطول العمر هو مؤشر الموتاخبروني:الم يحدث لاي شخص ان سقط فجأة في التفكير وظل غارقاً في فكره بحيث غاب عن زمانه ومكانهوهو لا يدري في اي شيء يفكر؟وحينذاك يجاهد لكي يتعرف على واقعه وعالمه المحسوس مرة ثانية ويعتاد عليههذا هو صوت الموت بعينه!!عينان للبومة عينان شاسعتان تصيبان بعمق وبصمتحادتا النظر بالليل معمية الالوانشكلها رصين ورقصها رزينليلية التحليق مختفية بالنهار ساكنة للخرابهادئة وصوتها صياح حزيننباح وصراخ وهريرالبكاء والتسول العاطفي مرفوض مرفوضحكمتها عمياء تضل نفسها قبل غيرهاعينا صادق كليلتان ملولتان متعبتان منذ صرخته الاولىذائبتان في كل الاشياء الارضية والثقيلة والانسانيةمتنكراتوفي اعماقهما يكمن الالم ..الم بعمق عينيه وظلمات نفسهمصابتان بعمى الالوان وبضبابية طغت على كل لمحة نور حاول ان يتسربل او ينقشع في نفسهالاصوات مختلطه ومتضاربه تقارعه في كل ارجاء جمجمتهلم يفهم نفسه لم يسمع صوته لم يدرك معنى كلماتهعن الروايةالمرة الاولى التي تحدثني نفسي وتقول ليتني لم اقرأها؟ليست لانها سيئة؟ولكن ان كانت الرواية اسلوب فاسلوبها جميل وشيقتداخل الحكايات وتواصلها بشكل سلس لا يلفت نظرك انك قدانفصلت من حكاية لاخرى فبشكل رئيسي تمت ثلاث حكايات متداخلةبدأها بوهمه وخياله ثم لحكايته ثم لحكاية امه مع والده وعمهذاك عدا عن الشخصياتوكانت المرأة في اغلب حكاياته هي المحور هي الشر وهي المومس وكأن كل الاحاسيس والعواطف معتمدة ومرتبط بالعنصر الانثوي الذي شكلهفهل كانت العاطفة الانثوية غير متوفرة وموجودة بشخصية صادق؟!اكره التشاؤم رغم كل شيء وفلسفته هنا عميقه ولغته ثريةوالحديث يجذبك لنفسكلذلك عليك ان تكون يقظ في قراءتكوربما لذلك تخاف ان توصي به احدهم خاصة من هو متشاءمولا تشجع على قراءتهاولا على افكارها ورؤيتها للحياةولكن ابقى اقول لكل تجربتهولكل طريقهمن عرف نفسه عرف ربهفطوبى لمن عرف وبذنبه اعترف
What started out to be a slow book found its pace and took off about a quarter of the way in. Normally this sluggish start would knock a star off my rating for the book, but the remainder was so fantastic it made up for the beginning. At first, I found the narration fairly clean and clear, somewhat akin to Calvino's prose, but with too much treacle and self-absorbed whining. Before long, however, I learned that Hedayat was merely setting a baseline that led into the narrator's more winding, abstruse voice and his even more surreal perceptions of the people around him.One is never quite sure if the narrator's opium dreams give him relief from his own unreality or whether it is because of his distorted perceptions and feelings about reality lead the narrator to escape into narcosis. Dreams, opiate-laden and "sober," are so interlaced with the narrator's version of reality that the work is phantasmagoric throughout.Hedayat captures these fever-dream meanderings and conveys their feeling to the reader by effectively using a sort of literary call-and-response that revisits events and insights with very slight variations that simultaneously move the reader along and tie the book together. Note that I did not say "move the plot along". "Plot," in The Blind Owl is a slippery thing. Events come and go and come again in slightly different form and with one character's visage projected onto another's to the point that there is little in the way of linear plot. If you're a stickler for clear beginning, middle, and end, this book is not for you. If, however, you want to become lost in another world, this definitely is for you.One example of this call-and-response is found in the narrator's journey in a horse-drawn hearse. As the driver sets off, the narrator reports:The whip whistled through the air; the horses set off, breathing hard. The vapour could be seen through the drizzling rain, rising from their nostrils like a stream of smoke. They moved with high, smooth paces. Their thin legs, which made me think of the arms of a thief whose fingers have been cut off in accordance with the law and the stumps plunged into boiling oil, rose and fell slowly and made no sound as they touched the ground. The bells around their necks played a strange tune in the damp air.After the hearse driver has dropped off his passenger, he leaves:With surprising nimbleness he sprang up and took his place on the driver's seat. The whip whistled through the air, the horses set off, breathing hard. The bells around their necks played a strange tune in the damp air. Gradually they disappeared into the dense mist.And again, a few pages later, he encounters the hearse driver again:The old man sprang up with surprising nimbleness and took his place on the driver's seat . . . The whip whistled through the air; the horses set off, breathing hard. They moved with high, smooth paces. Their hoofs touched the ground gently and silently. The bells around their necks played a strange tune in the damp air. In the gaps between the clouds the stars gazed down at the earth like gleaming eyes emerging from a mass of coagulated blood. A wonderful sense of tranquility pervaded my whole being.This layered referencing continues, in many guises, throughout the book, lending it that quality of dream that leaves one confused, upon waking, as to when certain events took place and in what context.Hedayat also portrays a back-and-forth emotional state within the narrator himself. In one paragraph, he experiences "a kind of agreeable giddiness," while in the next, his "heart was filled with trepidation," with no change in circumstance other than that of the narrator's emotional state of mind. One feeling that is consistent throughout, however, is the feeling of shame experienced by the narrator, along with a paranoid reaction to laughter, as if anyone who laughs is mocking him. In fact, one gets the sense that the narrator feels mocked by life, and death, itself. The Blind Owl is undergirded by a strange form of existentialism that embraces fear of, and hope for, the oblivion of death. Throughout our life death is beckoning us. Has it not happened to everyone suddenly, without reason, to be plunged into thought and to remain immersed so deeply in it as to lose consciousness of time and place and the working of his own mind? At such times one has to make an effort in order to perceive and recognise again the phenomenal world in which men live. One has been listening to the voice of death.Ten years after the serialized publication of the book, the author committed suicide. I am not privy to the author's internal struggles and am not familiar with his emotional landscape, but I can see the seed of his suicide in this work. In fact, the forward notes that many in Iran who read this work themselves committed suicide. Like so many other books, this is not for the emotionally unstable. This is not a happy book and, in fact, it might even be categorized as "horror" on par with Brian Evenson's dark literature. The seemingly unending river of nightmare sequences in The Blind Owl are reminiscent of scenes from a David Lynch or Brothers Quay film. Frankly, I'm surprised that they haven't tried to do a film version, as their style would be perfect for the dark ouvre of this book.So now you have fair warning. If you really enjoy the first 30 pages or so of the book, stop. Don't go any further. But if you are intrigued by the grim promise that this book holds, please don't start 30 pages in. Give yourself a chance to draw in your breath and hold it through the rest of this suffocating work. You're going to need it.
What do You think about The Blind Owl (1994)?
Where to begin to describe this tale of love, madness, possibly hallucinogenic ramblings that circle back and forth and in and out upon themselves. oddly repeating certain phrases until you may be able to quote them without the page in front of you. This is a tale mostly of musings on death, with occasion side thoughts of murder and hatred. The author later committed suicide. Some of the images presented in the book, especially the oddly geometric houses in which people can not live, seem almost schizophrenic to me, cut off from any reality. Of course, the entire book really has its own reality but what is it? Is it in any way related to the world Hedayat knew and lived in, the world I live in, the world opium users live in, the world madmen live in. I imagine there is no real answer for this. I had marked several passages for possible inclusion in my review but as I write I realize that each passage probably is of another reality and therefore shows nothing ultimately.I was somewhat caught on what to rate this very strange book. What in fact have I just read? But I decided that 4* reflects the degree to which it has made me think and react if not actually "like" it.Addendum 4/20/14-While reading this book, another thought that came to mind which I forgot to include above was the possibility of this story as metaphor---for life in general, for life in Iran, for life under the Shah. Somehow this book being banned in Iran because it led to suicides seems like a rather slim excuse. I can see blasphemy or religious reasons being cited perhaps. But I don't know the times --- it was the 1940s, not the days of the Ayatollahs and fundamentalism.
—Sue
متأسفانه و صد البته جاي افسوس دارد كه بر خلاف آنچه كه بر روي جلد كتاب نوشته شده است و همچنين در شناسهي كتاب: متن اصلي(بي كم و كاست)، اين كتاب متن اصلي نيست و يكي از چاپهاي جديد پر غلط از اين رمان كلاسيك زبان و ادب فارسي استهنوز بهترين نسخه و قابل استنادترين اين رمان چاپيست كه انتشارات اميركبير در دو قطع وزيري توسط خود و قطع جيبي توسط كتابهاي پرستو وابسته به انتشارات اميركبير) روانهي بازار كتاب كرددر اين سالها از نام صادق هدايت بسياري از نويسندگان سود بردند و كتاب (ساختند). همچنين ناشران بسياري بودند كه به نوايي رسيدند. (مصطفي فرزانه) در كتاب( آشنايي با صادق هدايت-چاپ فرانسه، دو جلد)، روايت بسيار تأثرانگيزي از آخرين روزهاي پر از آشفتگي و خستگي و نداري هدايت در پاريس به خواننده ميدهد. اين هم يكي از دريغ و افسوسهاي فرهنگ اين مرز و بوم است
—Saman Kashi
One of the most beautiful things about this book is how difficult it is to "categorize" it. Where in that mental shelf that I strive so hard to keep orderly can I place this? When I read it, it was like floating devoid of solid references, falling through literary space unable to hold on to anything I read before. The Blind Owl: this not knowing what peg to hang this book. It's scary while reading not knowing exactly what you are reading but only if you resist the urge to let go and let the book take you where it will take you. If you surrender and become part of this unusual vision you will see tiny glimpses of a place inside of you that also does not fit any category. Not even the category of good or bad or of real and imaginary. What the book does with its detailed, precise imagery and subtle repetition is to lead you to the place where the narrator lives, which is a mysterious place of spirit and mind and emotion. A place with no delineations or boundaries where a memory is in the future and an emotion is something you can touch. A place as mysterious as your own mind. I realize I'm not telling you very much about this book. I feel like I'm dishonoring the intention of the author by describing the book as being about this or that. I think Sadegh Hedayat wanted the book to be the experience and not a book about an experience. What more can I say?
—Francisco
