As long as blood flows through our veins, light graces our eyes, and the heart continues to beat, life courses through the stream of our souls, until death approaches us, quietly knocking at our doors. Life, this wondrous phenomenon, with all its grandeur, has, throughout history, been the muse of poets, the inquiry of philosophers, and the canvas of artists. Poets, in their diivaans, have composed millions of verses celebrating the majesty of life, philosophers have laboured for centuries to unearth its mysteries, and artists have devoted lifetimes to translating the meaning and hues of existence onto a thousand canvases. Life is desired, cherished, and revered by all who possess consciousness, for existence mirrors beauty and exudes joy. But what of death? The idea of death, for the majority of humanity, remains an abstruse and disquieting truth—one that, upon its mention, stirs exasperation and despair. It is therefore a harsh verity for the soul to come to terms with. The ordinary mind perceives death as the cessation of existence. On the contrary, life is an experience we understand intimately, for we live it, breathe it, feel its pulse, honour its rhythms, taste its moments, and pass it on. It is a realised, almost self-evident proof, deeply rooted in our consciousness.
But death remains a mystery: a realised inevitability, yet one we can never truly know in its entirety. It therefore remains forever beyond the limits of our comprehension, for it exists not in experience but in the absence of it. A silent, unknowable reality where sensation, thought, and meaning cease to be. Perhaps it is this enigma of death that places it at the heart of existential reflection and philosophical inquiry. Many, irresistibly drawn to the mysteries of death by pure instinct, have, with utmost vigour, sought to wrestle with it in their own distinct and often unparalleled ways—through contemplation and the written word. In doing so, they have meditated upon life, death, and the futility that lies between with great profundity and eloquence. To them, death is a reminder of life; it is a mode of being rather than an ultimate conclusion. Among these rare minds, stands Sadeq Hedayat, the literary genius of Iran, whose meditations on life, death, and the futility of existence—most notably in his novella Buf-e-kur (The Blind Owl), have left readers and interpreters in awe for nearly a century.
To fully comprehend and appreciate a masterpiece as complex as The Blind Owl, it is important to first examine the socio-political milieu that defined Sadeq Hedayat's era. Only through a comprehensive understanding of the prevailing conditions, as well as the intellectual and existential struggles that shaped his worldview, can the meanings buried beneath the dense layers of symbolism be truly fathomed. Well-versed in classic Persian literature, mythology and folklore, as well as ancient philosophies/religions such as Zoroastrianism and Buddhism, Hedayat was born in 1903 into a prominent aristocratic family in Tehran. This was a time when the Qajar dynasty (1785-1925) was nearing its end, just before the rise of the Pahlavi dynasty (1925-1979). He is widely recognised as one of the greatest Iranian writers of the 20th century, or, to put it more distinctly, as Iran’s first modern writer who introduced modernist techniques into Persian fiction through his contributions.
During his stay in Europe, Hedayat was exposed to world literature, especially European literature, and read the works of Franz Kafka, Edgar Allan Poe, Rainer Maria Rilke and Fyodor Dostoevsky. It was during this time that he became extremely introspective and self-conscious, dedicating a good part of his time to the resolution of the problem of life and death. In this pursuit, he turned to the works of Rainer Maria Rilke. In fact, Rilke's influence on him was significant, especially through The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. Rilke's profound meditation on death intrigued Hedayat to such an extent that in 1927, he wrote his own commentary, titled "Marg" (Death), in which he extolled death with an almost magnetic reverence. Similarly, Hedayat was esoterically interested in Franz Kafka’s work. The influence of Kafka on Hedayat’s literary imagination was so immense that some even draw parallels between Hedayat’s The Blind Owl and Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, particularly in terms of narration, content and existential themes.
A man with a warm smile, polite wit, and a vivacious disposition, Hedayat—as described by his Czech friend Jan Rypka—was at heart a romanticist. However, the harsh realities of life and the socio-political climate of his era gradually stripped him of his idealism, transforming him into a hardened realist, irresistibly drawn to death and fascinated by the glories of past. But is it not often the case that idealism, which takes roots in the fertile soil of immaculate hearts, shatters when confronted with the brutal realities of a world governed by the blind principles of realism, deeply steeped in injustice and inequality? And from the ruins of shattered idealism, the realist is born—disillusioned, embittered, transformed.
Iraj Bashiri, a professor of history at the University of Minnesota, writes in The Life of Sadeq Hedayat that the socio-political climate of Hedayat's era, particularly under Reza Shah's regime, was characterised by suppression, censorship, and the constant threat of incarceration. With a strict clampdown on dissent, any form of criticism, whether political or intellectual, was met with persecution and the looming threat of imprisonment. Hedayat, a progressive and anti-monarchical figure, found himself at odds with the regime. His involvement with the "Rab'a" (foursome), a group of writers, intellectuals, and artists further intensified his opposition to the regime's authoritarian stance, ultimately leading to its annihilation and disbandment in 1936 for purely political reasons. Some members of the group were jailed, while others went into hiding. To avoid imprisonment, Hedayat sought refuge in India, hoping to publish works that had been suppressed in Iran and to commit his long-suppressed thoughts to paper—thoughts he had long refrained from expressing for fear of government confiscation and search.
For Jalal al-Ahmad, Hedayat's Buf-e-Kur (The Blind Owl) is the revenge of a man—who has become conscious of his mortality—on mundane, meaningless life and his surroundings
In India, he completed his magnum opus, The Blind Owl, an eternal masterpiece that would secure his place in literary history. It was first circulated in a mimeographed form in 1937. On its first page, Hedayat famously wrote: “The printing and sale [of this work] in Iran is forbidden.” According to Iraj Bashiri, it was assumed at the time that Hedayat feared the repressive rule of Reza Shah; he feared especially that with the publication of this work he might have violated the established norms. Within this climate of fear and repression, intellectuals were silenced and their voices muted. Hamid Dabashi, Professor of Iranian Studies and Comparative Literature at Columbia University, in Iran: A People Interrupted, and Ali Mirsepassi, an Iranian-American sociologist and political scientist, in Intellectual Discourse and the Politics of Modernization: Negotiating Modernity in Iran, discuss how Reza Shah’s authoritarian policies led to the isolation and alienation of individuals like Hedayat. In this context, Hedayat's struggle as an intellectual in this repressive era mirrored the broader experience of being excluded from the socio-political transformations enforced by the regime.
Hedayat’s writings seek to mirror the harsh realities and misery of the human condition, focusing on themes such as justice, trust, change, and determinism. With literary finesse and philosophical understanding, he reflects on mankind's place in the cosmos, the plight of women within patriarchal societies like Iran, alienation and the existential anguish that plagues the modern soul. Through his mastery of symbolism, he brings these complex themes to life, providing a profound reflection on the struggles that define human existence. The major theme of The Blind Owl is the existential anguish: the descent of man into madness, the angst of being, the uncanny dread of death, extreme pessimism and despair, and the fracturing of identity in a world where humankind is consumed by loneliness, spiritual disenfranchisement, absurdity, and an absence of meaning. The inescapable alienation of the human soul in the seductive world. The Sisyphean search for meaning in a meaningless world. For Jalal al-Ahmad, an Iranian Muslim intellectual, Buf-e-Kur [The Blind Owl] is the revenge of a man—who has become conscious of his mortality—on mundane, meaningless life and his surroundings.
The Blind Owl was first translated into French, from which it was later rendered into English and other languages. The initial English translation was undertaken by DP Costello, who relied on the French versions. As someone proficient in the Persian language, I compared both Costello’s and Iraj Bashiri’s English translations, using the original Persian text as a reference. After careful analysis, I believe that Iraj Bashiri’s translation is more accurate and faithful to the original text. It captures the subtleties and complexities of the original in a manner that Costello’s translation, limited by its reliance on the French text, fails to achieve.
Sadeq Hedayat’s The Blind Owl is narrated in the first person and mostly in the form of interior monologue, a harrowing journey through the fractured mind of its alienated narrator. Haunted by disturbing dreams and hallucinations, he exists on the margins of a world he cannot connect with. In an effort to unburden the torment of his being, he speaks only to his shadow on the wall, which, over time, takes the form of an owl. The novel is structured into two parts, each mirroring the other, yet stand apart in their depiction of time, place, and identity.
In the first part, the narrator, a pen-case painter, resides in a small, dimly lit room on the outskirts of a ruined city. Here, he obsessively paints a recurring, surreal scene: under a cypress tree sits an old man, draped in a cloak and hunched in the manner of an Indian yogi. His left index finger rests on his lips in a gesture of astonishment. Opposite him, a woman of sublime beauty in a long black dress bends to offer him a black lily, poised to leap over a brook that separates them. However, she fails. The old man’s laughter—hybrid, hollow, and hysterical—intensifies the eerie quality of the moment.
The intensity of this scene left me momentarily breathless. The surreal quality of the image was so finely crafted that I found myself overwhelmingly lost within it. Hedayat’s mastery of symbolism—the old man, the girl, the black lily, and the brook—was spellbinding. Each is the reflection of the narrator's fractured self, his obsessions, and his despair. While many may find the scene haunting and unsettling, for me, the entire experience felt so otherworldly that I could not bring myself to skip even a single word, despite the narrator’s repetitive use of certain scenes, phrases, and expressions. Entranced by the "curved Turkmen eyes" of the girl, as the narrator describes them, the rest of Part I unfolds as an anxious, obsessive search for her, culminating in his finding her and, at last, burying her with his own hands, a gesture that marks the inexorable pull of his internal chaos and desires.
The mention of Iraj Bashiri feels particularly relevant here, as his analysis of the novella’s symbolism remains the most compelling and illuminating interpretation. Having dedicated years to solve the mystery surrounding the symbols in The Blind Owl, Bashiri ultimately finds resolution through his study of Buddhist rituals as explored in the renowned Bardo Thodol, or The Tibetan Book of the Dead.
Moving forward, in part II, the narrator awakens in the same room, but now the setting shifts to a crowded city. His role transforms from painter to writer, and the characters in this part mirror those of the first. As his health deteriorates due to tuberculosis, he becomes increasingly consumed by a profound existential crisis.
Convinced of the utter futility of his existence, the narrator develops a fervent longing for death, embracing it not as an end, but as a liberation. Capturing his descent into despair. He proclaims:
“Sometimes I thought that my observations were very similar to those of people in their death throes; the zeal for life, anxiety, awe, and fear had all abandoned me. The hope for nonexistence after death was the only thing that consoled me. The thought of a second life frightened me and made me tired. I was still not used to this world in which I was living; what good would another world do me?”
In his eyes, death becomes a salvation, a messianic force that frees him from the burdens of existence. He confesses:
“The presence of death annihilates all that is imaginary. We are the offspring of death, and death delivers us from the tantalising, fraudulent attractions of life; it is death that beckons us from the depths of life […] Throughout our lives, it is the finger of death that points at us.”
His disdain for the world he inhabits increases as he views it as a place created for those he describes as "pseudointellectuals," the shameless, diabolical, and servile, bowing to power and materialism. In contrast, he finds solace in the thought of annihilation, stating: “In comparison with death, I found creed, faith, and belief to be weak and childish, like a kind of entertainment for the healthy and fortunate.”
Nearly a century has passed, yet Hedayat remains entirely relevant, not merely for his literary brilliance but because the human condition he so powerfully portrayed remains unchanged. Humanity continues to live within the same oppressive social structures, under the weight of political injustices, and the suffocating grip of cultural and religious superstitions. If anything, time has only intensified these forces, with extremism and ignorance further tightening their hold on the collective consciousness of mankind. It is these very realities that crushed idealism and gave rise to disillusionment in Hedayat, becoming the crucible in which his timeless works were wrought. To read Hedayat is to engage in a confrontation with the eternal struggles of mankind—our profound loneliness, our despair, and the ceaseless search for meaning in a universe that offers both everything and nothing in equal measure. His work does not age because the questions it poses are not bound by the passing of years or the limitations of geography; they are questions that stand eternal, for they are questions of the soul.
Today, perhaps more than ever, we must return to Hedayat to understand not only the anguish of existence but also the forces that perpetuate it. His voice speaks to the core of our being, and in the solitude of his words, we may find the explanations for our existential struggles and questions.