The Blind Owl By Sadeq Hedayat (Translated by Iraj Bashiri), Chapter one

The Blind Owl

In life, there are certain wounds that, like leprosy, gnaw at the soul in solitude and whittle it down.

One cannot speak about these pains to others.

Because people are accustomed to attribute these incredible pains to rare and strange happenings,

If someone speaks or writes about them, in view of their own prevalent beliefs, people try to interpret

them with mocking and incredulous smiles.

Because human beings have not found a remedy for it and its only remedy is forgetfulness through wine and artificial sleep induced by opium or other drugs. But alas, the effect of these types of drugs is transitory and instead of soothing, after a while, they add to the intensity of the pain.

One day would someone reveal the secret behind these supernatural happenings, this reflection of the shadow of the soul that manifests itself in a coma-like limbo between sleep and wakefulness?-

I shall describe only one of these incidents that happened to myself and which was so shocking that I shall never forget it; its ominous scar will poison my life throughout--from the beginning to the end of eternity where no man's understanding can fathom.

Did I write poison?

But, I meant to say that I have carried, and will carry its scar with me for ever.

I will try to put down whatever I recall, whatever has remained in my memory about the relations among events.

 Perhaps I can make a universal judgement about it.

No!

I want merely to become certain, or else to become able to believe it for myself, because for me it does not matter whether other people believe it or not.

I only am afraid that I may die tomorrow but still not know myself, because in the course of life experiences I have realized what frightful chasm lies between others and me.

I also have realized that one should keep silent. I should keep my thoughts to myself as much as possible. If I have decided to write, it is only in order to introduce myself to my shadow. The shadow that rests in a stooped position on the wall, and which appears to voraciously swallow all that I write down. It is for him that I want to do an experiment to see if we can know each other better.

Because since the time that I have severed my relations with the others, I want to know myself

better.

 Absurd thoughts!

Fine, but they torture me more than any reality.

Are not these people who resemble me, who seemingly share my whims and desires--are they not here to deceive me?

Are they not a handful of shadows that have been brought into existence only to mock and deceive me?

Isn't that which I feel, see and measure imaginary throughout and quite different from reality?

I write only for my shadow that is cast on the wall in front of the light. I must introduce myself to it.