After reading The Blind Owl, consider reading:

"The Message of The Blind Owl" A Personal Note Analysis

The Blind Owl

In life there are certain sores that, like a canker, gnaw at the soul in solitude and diminish it.

Since generally it is the custom to relegate these incredible sufferings to the realm of rare and singular accidents and happenings, it is not possible to reveal them to anyone. If one does talk or write about them, people pretend to accept them with sarcastic remarks and dubious smiles, while adhering either to prevalent beliefs or to their own ideas about them. The reason is that as yet man has not found a remedy for these sores; the only remedy now is forgetfulness induced by wine or, artificial sleep induced by opium and other narcotics. It is a pity, however, that the effect of these drugs is transitory and that after a while, instead of soothing, they add to the pain.

Will it come to pass one day that someone will penetrate the secrets of these supernatural happenings and recognize this reflection of the shadow of the soul which manifests itself in a coma-like limbo between sleep and wakefulness?

I shall only describe one such incident which happened to me and which has shocked me so much 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 say poisoned? Well, I meant to say that I am scathed by it and will remain so for the rest of my mortal life.

I shall try to put down whatever I recall, whatever has remained in my memory of the relations that connect the events. Perhaps I can make a universal judgment about it. No. I want merely to become sure, or else to believe it myself, because it is immaterial to me whether other people believe me or not. Simply, I am afraid that I may die tomorrow but still not know myself, because in the course of life experiences I have realized that a frightful chasm lies between others and me. I also have realized that I should keep silent as much as possible and that I should keep my thoughts to myself. If I have decided that I should write, It is only because I should introduce myself to my shadow--a shadow which rests in a stooped position on the wall, and which appears to be voraciously swallowing 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 I severed my relations with the others, I have wanted to know myself better.

Absurd thoughts! It may be so, but they torture me more than any reality. Are not these people who resemble me, and who seemingly have the same needs, whims and desires as I do--are they not here to deceive me? Are they not shadows brought into existence merely to mock and beguile me? Isn't that which I feel, see and measure imaginary throughout and quite different from reality?

I write only for my shadow which is cast on the wall in front of the light. I must introduce myself to it.
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 In this base world, full of poverty and misery, for the first time I thought a ray of sunshine had shone on my life. But alas, it was not a sunbeam, rather it was only a transient beam, a shooting star, which appeared to me in the likeness of a woman or an angel. And in the light of that moment, lasting only about a second, I witnessed all my life's misfortunes, and I discovered their magnitude and grandeur. Then this beam of light disappeared again into the dark abyss into which it was destined to disappear. No. I could not keep this transient beam for myself.

It was three months, no, it was two months and four days since I had lost her, but the memory of her enchanting eyes, no, the attractive malice of her eyes, remained in my life forever. How can I forget one who is so pertinent to my life?

No, I will not call her by name, because she, with that ethereal body, slim and misty, with those two large, wonder stricken, sparkling eyes behind which my life was gradually and painfully burning and melting away, she no longer belongs to this base, fierce world. No, I should not disgrace her name with earthly things.

After seeing her I withdrew from the circle of people. I withdrew completely from the circle of the fools and the fortunate; and, for forgetfulness, I took refuge in wine and opium. I passed, and still pass, my life daily within the four walls of my room. My whole life has passed within the confines of four walls.

My daily occupation was the painting of pencase covers; my entire time was dedicated to the painting of pencase covers and to the consumption of alcohol and opium. I had chosen the ridiculous profession of pencase-cover painting to kill the time.

By a lucky chance my house is located outside the city, in a quiet and restful spot, away from the hustle and bustle of people's lives. Its boundaries are well defined and around it there are some ruins. From beyond the ditch, however, some low mud-brick houses are visible and the city begins there. I do not know which madman or which ill-disposed architect built this house in forgotten times, but when I close my eyes, not only all its nooks and crannies materialize before my eyes but I feel its pressure on my shoulders. It is a house that could have been painted only on ancient pencases.

I must write about all these events to assure myself that they are not figments of my imagination. I must explain them to my shadow which is cast on the wall. To begin with, before this incident there had remained for me only one source of cheerfulness or of content. I used to paint on pencase covers within the confines of the four walls of my room, and I used to pass the time with this ridiculous amusement; but after I saw those two eyes, and after I saw her, every work, every movement lost its inherent value and meaning entirely. What is strange, however, and what is incredible is that, for some reason, the subjects of all my painted scenes have been of the same type and shape. I always used to draw a cypress tree under which an old man, wrapped in a cloak, hunching his shoulders in the manner of the Indian yogis, sat in a squatting position. He wore a shalma around his head, and he put the index finger of his left hand on his lips as a sign of astonishment. Opposite him a girl, wearing a long, black dress, was bending to offer him a lily. She was bending because a brook intervened between them. Had I seen this image before, or was it inspired in a dream? I do not know. I only know that whatever I painted revolved around this scene and this same subject; my hand drew this scene involuntarily. And still more incredible than this is the fact that there were customers for this picture. I even used to send some of these pencase covers to India in care of my uncle, who used to sell them and return the money.

I do not recall it correctly, because this picture used to appear to me to be distant as well as close by at the same time. Now I recall an incident. I said that I must write down my recollections; but the writing of these notes occurred much later. It has no relevance to the subject at hand. Although it was to devote myself to writing that I abandoned pencase-cover painting. Two months ago, no two months and four days ago, was the thirteenth day of Farvardin. Everybody had rushed to the countryside. In order to paint undisturbed, I had shut the window of my room. Around sunset, when I was busy painting, the door suddenly opened and my uncle entered--that is to say, he said he was my uncle. I had never seen him before because from his early youth he had been on a distant journey. Perhaps he was a ship captain. I thought he had some mercantile business with me, because apparently he was a merchant as well. In any case, my uncle was a stooped old man who wore an Indian shalma around his head and a yellow torn cloak on his shoulders. He had covered his head and face with a scarf. His collar was open and his hairy chest could be seen. One could count the hairs of his thin beard as it protruded through his scarf. With his red, fistular eyelids and leprous lip, he bore a very distant and ridiculous resemblance to me, as if my reflection had fallen on a magic mirror. I had always imagined my father as looking something like that. Upon entering, he retired to the corner of the room and sat there in a squatting position. Thinking that I should prepare something and offer it to him, I lit a light and entered the closet of my room. I searched everywhere for something that would be suitable for an old man to eat. This I did though I knew there was nothing in the house. There was neither any opium nor any wine left for me. Suddenly the built-in niche below the ceiling caught my eye. As if inspired, I recalled an ancient wine flask that I had inherited. I think they had made the wine on the occasion of my birth. The wine flask was In the niche. I had never thought of this wine before. In fact I had forgotten that such a thing existed in the house. To reach the niche, I put a nearby stool under my feet. But as soon as I tried to pick up the wine flask, I was distracted by the following scene through the air inlet in the niche: In the field behind my room a bent, stooped old man was squatting under a cypress tree, and a young girl, no, a heavenly angel was standing in front of him, bending to give him a black lily with her right hand. The old man was chewing on the index finger of his left hand.

Although the girl was located exactly opposite me, it seemed that she did not pay attention to what was happening around her. She was looking without seeing anything, and an unconscious, involuntary smile had dried to the corner of her lips; it seemed as though she was thinking of an absent person. It was from the stool that I saw her dreadful charming eyes, eyes which were enchanting and reproachful at the same time. It was to the shining and dreadful balls of those worried, threatening and inviting eyes that my single beam of life was attracted, and it was to the depth of those same eyes that my life was drawn and in them annihilated. This attractive mirror drew my whole being to itself in a way unthinkable to any human being. Her curved Turkmen eyes with their intoxicating supernatural beam frightened as well as attracted. She seemed to have witnessed, with those eyes, supernatural happenings beyond those any mortal could witness. Her cheeks were high, her forehead wide, her eyebrows thin and connected and her lips meaty and half open. Her lips seemed to have just finished a long, warm kiss with which they were not yet satisfied. A tress of her disheveled, uncontrolled black hair which framed her silvery face was stuck on her temple. The tenderness of her limbs and the heedlessness of her ethereal movements bespoke her transient nature. Only a dancing girl at an Indian temple could have her harmonious gait.

Her placid form and her sorrowful happiness distinguished her from normal human beings. Her beauty was not normal at all. She appeared to me like an image in an opium hallucination. She induced the heated love of the mandrake in me. She had a slim, tall body with a line symmetrically dividing her shoulders, arms, breasts, buttocks and shins--it was as though she was separated from her mate.

She wore a wrinkled, black dress which, fitting her well, stuck to her body. When I saw her, she was about to jump over the brook which separated her from the old man. She failed. The old man laughed hysterically. He had a dry and repulsive laughter, a hybrid mocking laughter, which made one's hair stand on end. His facial expression did not change. It was the resonance of a laughter emerging from the depth of a hollow.

With the wine flask in my hand, I jumped off the stool out of fright. For some reason I was shaking: a shiver in which fright and enjoyment were intermingled. I felt as if I had jumped up from a pleasantly nightmarish dream. I rested the wine flask on the ground and held my head between my hands. How many minutes--hours? I don't know. When I came to, I took the wine flask and reentered the room. My uncle had gone and the door of my room, like the open mouth of a corpse, was left ajar. The ring of the old man's laughter still echoed in my ears.

Even though it was getting dark, and the lamp was smoking, the effect of the pleasant and frightful shiver that I had felt was not wearing off. From this moment my life's direction changed. One glance was enough to bring about the change, because that heavenly angel, that ethereal girl, touched me more deeply than any human being would be able to comprehend.

I was not in full control of myself, and it seemed that I knew her name from before. The evil in her eyes, her color, her scent and her movements were all familiar to me. It was as though my souls, in the life before this, in the world of imagination, had bordered on her soul and that both souls, of the same essence and substance, were destined for union. I must have lived this life very close to her. I had no desire to touch her; the invisible beams that emanated from our bodies and mingled were sufficient for me. Isn't this terrifying experience which seemed so familiar to met quite the same as the feelings of two lovers who feel that they have known each other before and that a mysterious relationship has previously existed between them? Was it possible that someone else could affect me? The dry, repulsive and ominous laughter of the old man, however, tore our bonds asunder.

I thought about this throughout the night. Several times I wanted to go to the hole in the wall and look, but I was afraid of the old man's laughter. The next day I was still thinking of the same thing. Was it possible for we to give up seeing her entirely? The day after that, eventually, with such fear and trepidation I decided to put the wine flask back in its place. But when I pushed aside the curtain which covered the entrance to the closet, and looked in front of me, I saw a dark, black wall, as dark as the darkness which shrouds my whole life. I could not see any opening, crevice or hole to the outside. The square hole in the wall was completely closed and it had become part of the wall, as if it had never existed. I pulled the stool to me, but no matter how hard I struck my fists against the wall and listened, or how hard I looked at the wall in the light of the lamp, there was no trace of a hole in the wall. My blows had little effect on the thick, massive wall, now like a wall of lead.

Could I give all this up permanently? Yes, but everything was out of my control. Like a soul under torture, no matter how much I waited, guarded, or searched for her, it was all to no avail. Like the murderer who returns to the scene of his crime, or like a chicken with its head cut off, I walked all around outside our house, not for one day, but for two months and four days. I walked around our house so much that I could recognize every rock and pebble around there. I did not, however, find even a trace of the cypress tree, the stream of water, or of the people I had seen there. For nights on end I knelt on the ground in the moonlight, I wept and sought redress from the trees, from the stones and from the moon which she may have looked at, but I did not see any sign of her. On the contrary, I realized that all these activities were useless, because she could not be related to the substance of this world. For instance, the water with which she washed her hair must have come from a unique and unknown spring, or from a magical cave. Her dress was not made of the warp and woof of ordinary wool and cotton, or sewn by hands made of natural elements, like ordinary human hands. She was a distinguished creature. I realized that the lilies also were not ordinary lilies. I became certain that if she were to wash her face in ordinary water, her face would wither and if she were to pluck ordinary lilies with her long and delicate fingers, like flower petals, her fingers would wither as well.

I learned all these things. I found this girl, not this angel, to be a source of astonishment and indescribable inspiration for me. Her substance was delicate and intangible. It was she who created the sense of worship in me. I was certain that the gaze of a stranger, or of an ordinary person, would make her look shabby and withered.

Since the time when I lost her, since the time when a heavy wall, a solid, moist dam as heavy as lead, was created between her and me, I have felt that my life has become useless and confounded. Although her kind look, and the deep pleasure that I drew from seeing her, were universal--she would have no answers for me because she did not see me--nevertheless, I needed those eyes, and only one glance from her was sufficient to solve all philosophical difficulties and theological enigmas for me. After one glance from her, there would remain no mystery or secret for me.

From this time on, I increased my drinking, I smoked more opium. But alas, despite these remedies for hopelessness, which were meant to paralyze and numb my thoughts, making me forget the thought of her, her figure and her face materialized in front of me more strongly daily, hourly, by the minute.

How could I forget? When my eyes were open, or when I closed them, in sleep and wakefulness, she was in front of me. Through the hole in the closet of my room--as through a hole in the night that enshrouds people's thought and logic--through the square hole which opened to the outside, she was constantly in front of me.

I was not allowed to rest; how could I rest? I formed the habit of taking promenades quite late--at sunset. For some reason I wanted, I felt I had to find the stream of water, the cypress tree and the lily plant. In the same way that I had become addicted to opium, I became accustomed to these promenades; it was as though some force compelled me to them. All along the way, all the time, I was thinking of her, recalling my initial glimpse of her. I wanted to find the place where I saw her on the thirteenth day of Farvardin. Were I to find that place, and if I could sit under that cypress tree, surely some tranquility would appear in my life. But, alas, there was nothing there but refuse, hot sand, the ribcage of a horse, and a dog sniffing the top of the trash. Had I really met her? Never. I only saw her stealthily, while hidden, through a hole, through an ill-fated hole in the closet of my room. I was like a hungry dog who sniffs the garbage, who searches, but who, as soon as people appear with more trash, runs away and hides himself out of fear. Later he returns to seek his favorite pieces in the new trash. I was in a similar situation, but for me the hole had been blocked up. To me she was a fresh and tender bouquet of flowers thrown on top of a trash pile.

The last evening that, like other evenings, I went on a walk, it was dark and it felt like rain, A thick mist covered everything. In the rainy weather which decreases the sharpness of colors, and diminishes the rudeness of the lines of objects, I felt free and relaxed, as though the raindrops were washing my black thoughts away. During this night, that which should not have happened came to pass. During these lonesome hours, during those minutes the duration of which I cannot recall exactly, I walked about involuntarily. In spite of the fog, her vague and shocking face--like the picture on pencase covers emerging from behind the clouds and smoke--her motionless, expressionless face continued to materialize before my eyes much more powerfully than ever before.

It was quite late at night when I returned. A dense fog was hanging in the air, and I could not see the way clearly. But out of habit, and through a special sense which was awakened in me, I arrived at my doorstep, where I perceived that a black-clad figure, the figure of a woman, was sitting on the platform of my house.

I struck a match to find the keyhole, but for some reason my eyes involuntarily caught sight of the black-clad figure, and I recognized the two oblique eyes--two large, black eyes amid a silvery thin face--the same eyes which stared at a man's face without actually seeing. And I would have recognized her, even if I had not seen her before. No. I was not deceived. This black-clad figure was she. I stood there. I was petrified and felt like someone who is dreaming, and who knows that he is asleep, but who cannot wake up when he wants to. The match burnt itself, and then my fingers. Suddenly I returned to reality, turned the key, opened the door, and drew myself aside. Like someone familiar with the way, she got off the platform and crossed the dark corridor. She opened the door of my room and entered. I, following her, entered my room. Hurriedly I lit the lamp and saw that she had retired to my bed and was now lying on it. Her face was in the shade. I did not know whether she could see me or hear me. Her outward appearance showed no trace of fear or of desire to resist me. It seemed as though she had come here involuntarily.

Was she sick? Had she lost her way? She had come here unconsciously, quite in the same way that a sleep-walker would. No living creature can imagine the mental state I experienced at this moment. I felt a pleasant, yet indescribable, pain. No. I was not deceived. That lady was this same girl who had entered my room without being astonished, without uttering a word. I had always imagined our first meeting to be like this. This state was like a deep sleep, endless sleep for me; one has to be in a very deep sleep to have such a dream. The silence was like an eternal life for me, because one cannot speak at the beginning, or at the end of eternity.

To me she was a woman, and she had something supernatural about her. Her face reminded me of the confounding oblivion of other people's faces so strongly that upon seeing her my whole body began to shake, and my knees gave way. At this moment, I saw the whole painful story of my life behind her large eyes, her extremely large eyes, wet and glistening eyes, like black diamond balls thrown into tears. In her eyes, in her black eyes, I found the eternal night, the dense darkness I had been searching for, and I plunged into its awesome, enchanting darkness. I felt as though some force was being extracted from my being; the ground was shaking underneath my feet. Had I fallen to the ground at that moment, I would have drawn an indescribable pleasure from that fall.

My heart stopped. Fearing that my breath might make her disappear, as if she were a piece of cloud or a puff of smoke, I restrained myself from breathing. Her silence was like a miracle. It was as though a glass wall intervened between us. This Moment, this hour, this eternity was choking me. Her weary eyes, as if witnessing something extraordinary which others cannot see--as if seeing death--were gradually closing. Eventually, her eyelids closed. The intensity of the moment shook me as if I were a drowning man coming to the surface for air. I wiped the perspiration from my forehead with the edge of my sleeve.

Her face had the same calm and motionless expression but it looked smaller and thinner. As she reclined she was chewing on the index finger of her left hand. Her face was the color of silver, and through her thin, black garment which fit her tightly one could see the outline of her legs, arms, the two breasts, and all the rest of her body.

Since her eyes were closed, I bent in order to see her better. But no matter how closely I observed her, it seemed that she was quite distant from me. Suddenly I felt that I had no information whatsoever about the secrets of her heart, and that there existed no relationship between the two of us.

I wanted to say something, but I was afraid that her ears, accustomed to some distant, heavenly and soft music, might become hateful because of my voice.

It occurred to me that she might be hungry or thirsty. I entered the closet of my room in order to find something for her, although I knew that there was nothing to be found in the house. But then, as If inspired, I recalled that above, in the niche, I had a flask of old wine which I had inherited from my father. I used the stool and brought the flask down. Tiptoeing carefully, I went to the side of the bed. She was sleeping like a tired, exhausted child. She was in a deep sleep and her long eyelashes, like velvet, were closed. I took the cap off the flask and through her locked teeth, gently poured a cup of wine down her throat.

For the first time in my life a feeling of sudden tranquillity had appeared, because those eyes were closed. It seemed that the canker that tortured me, and the nightmare that pressed my insides with its iron claws, had somewhat subsided. I brought my own chair, placed it beside the bed and stared at her face. What a childish face, and what a strange disposition! Was it possible that this woman, this girl, or this angel of torture (because otherwise, I didn't know what to call her), was it possible that she could have a double life? To be so quiet, and to be so unceremonious?

Now I could feel the warmth of her body, and I could smell the damp scent that rose from the heavy, black locks. My hand was not under my control, but yet I raised it and caressed a lock of her hair with it, the lock that was always stuck to her temple. Then I sank my fingers in her locks. Her hair was cold and damp, cold, absolutely cold. It was as though she had died several days ago. And I was not mistaken she was dead. I passed my hand in front of her chest and placed it on her breast and her heart. There was no sign of a heartbeat. Then I brought the mirror and held that in front of her nose. There was not even a trace of life in her...

Intending to make her warm with the heat of my own body, to give her my warmth and receive the coldness of death from her, hoping that in this way I could possibly blow my own soul into her body, I took off my clothes, climbed onto the bed and lay down beside her. We became stuck like the male and female mandrake. To be exact, her body was like the body of the female mandrake severed from its mate, and it had the same burning love of the mandrake. Her mouth, acrid and bitterish tasted like the bitter end of a cucumber. Her whole body had become cold, as cold as hailstones. I felt my blood freezing in my veins, and the cold penetrating to the depths of my heart. All my efforts being useless, I climbed off the bed and put my clothes back on. Not it was not a lie. She had come here to my room, to my bed and surrendered her body to me. She gave me her body, and she gave me her soul--both!

While she was still alive, while her eyes were brimful with life, only the memory of her eyes tortured me, but now, devoid of feeling and motionless and cold, with eyes already closed, she came and surrendered herself to me. With closed eyes!

This was the same creature that had poisoned my entire life; or maybe my life was originally susceptible to being poisoned, and I could not have had any life beside a poisoned life. Now here in my room she gave me her body and her shadow. Her brittle, transient soul, which had no relation to the world of earthly beings, slowly came out of her black, wrinkled dress--the body that tortured her--and went away to the world of wandering shadows. Perhaps it took my shadow with it as well. Her body, however, devoid of any feeling or motion, was lying there. Her soft, lax muscles, her veins, tendons and bones were waiting to rot. A delicious feast was prepared for the worms and rats who dwell under the ground. In this adversity-stricken, miserable room itself a grave, amidst the darkness of the eternal night which was surrounding me, and which was sinking into the walls. I had to pass an endless, long, dark and cold night beside a corpse--beside her corpse. It occurred to me that from the beginning to the end of eternity, since the beginning of my creation, a dead body, a cold, feelingless, motionless corpse had shared my dark room with me.

At this moment my thoughts froze. A unique, singular life was created in me, because my life was bound to all the existences that surrounded me, all the shadows that trembled around me. I felt an inseparable, deep relation with the world, with the movement of all creatures and with nature. All the elements of myself and of nature were related by the invisible streams of some mind-disturbing, agitating current. No thought or image was unnatural for me. I could understand the secrets of the ancient paintings, the mysteries of difficult, philosophical treatises, and the eternal foolishness of forms and norms, because at this moment I was participating in the revolution of the earth and the planets, in the growth of the plants, and in the activities of the animal world. The past and the future, far and near, shared my sentient life and were at one with me.

At such times everyone takes refuge in a strong habit, or in a scruple that he has developed in his life: the drunkard becomes drunk, the writer writes, the stone-cutter cuts stones, each giving vent to his anxiety and anger by escaping into the strong stimulant of his own life. And it is in moments like these that a real artist can create a masterpiece. But I, I who was devoid of talent and who was poor, a painter of pencase covers, what could I do? With these dry, glistening and lifeless pictures, all of which were the same, as models, what could I paint that would become a masterpiece? But in my whole being I felt an excessive upsurge of talent and warmth; it was a special agitation and stimulus. 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 realize my wish, that is, I did not do this voluntarily--one does not when one is imprisoned with a corpse. The thought of being imprisoned with a corpse filled me with a special joy.

Eventually, I extinguished the lamp which was giving off smoke, brought two candlesticks and lit them over her head. Against the flickering light of the candle, her face assumed more repose, and in the interplay of the light and darkness in the room, it acquired a mysterious, ethereal air. I took some paper along with my working tools and went to the side of her bed--this was her bed now. I wanted to copy this form, which was condemned to a slow and very gradual disintegration, this form which seemed to be devoid of motion and expression, without being disturbed. I wanted to record its fundamental lines on paper. I wanted to choose from this face those lines which would affect me. No matter how sketchy and simple a painting may be, it must have an impact, and it must have soul. But I, who was accustomed to printed paintings on pencase covers, now had to begin to think: I had to materialize in front of me my own fancy, that is, that aspect of her face which had influence upon me. I wanted to look at her face once, close my eyes, and then draw on the paper those lines of her face that I would choose. In this way, perhaps, using my own intellect, I could find a respite for my tortured soul. In short, I took refuge in the world of lines and shapes.

This subject was quite relevant to my lifeless method of painting--painting with a corpse as a model. I was a painter of corpses. But her eyes, her closed eyes--did I need to see them again? Was their imprint on my thought and mind tangible enough?

I do not recall exactly how many times I copied her face, but none of my reproductions was satisfactory. I tore them up as I finished painting them. I neither felt tired because of doing this, nor did I feel the passage of time.

It was about daybreak. A dull light had entered my room through the windowpanes. I was busy working on a picture which, in my own opinion, was better than the rest. But the eyes? The eyes, which had assumed a reproachful expression as if I had committed unforgivable sins--I could not put those eyes down on paper. Then suddenly, all the life and the memory of those eyes disappeared from my mind. My efforts were useless. No matter how intensely I looked at her face, I still could not recall its expression. At this same time, I suddenly saw that her cheeks were reddening; they were a liver-red color like the color of the meat in front of a butcher shop. She came to life. Her exceedingly wide and astonished eyes, eyes in which all the brightness of life was gathered and glimmering in a sickly light, her sick, reproachful eyes very slowly opened and looked at my face. This was the first time that she was aware of my presence. She looked at me and then, once again, her eyes gradually closed. This event did not take more than perhaps a moment, but it was enough time for me to capture the expression of her eyes and put it on paper. I drew this expression with the sharp point of the brush, and this time I did not tear up the picture.

Then I got up from where I was painting, walked slowly to her and stood near her. I thought she was alive, that she had come back to life, and that my love had invested my spirit with her body; but as I drew near, I sensed the smell of a dead body--the smell of a decomposed, dead body. Small worms were wiggling on her body, and two flies, the color of golden bees, were circling her in the light of the candle. If she were completely dead, then how did her eyes open? I don't know if I had seen this in a dream, or if this was happening in real life.

I do not wish anyone to ask why, but my main concern was her face, no, it was her eyes, and now these eyes were in my possession. I had the essence of her eyes on paper. Her body, a body that was condemned to destruction, to nourishing the worms and rats that dwell under the ground, was no longer of any use to me. From now on she was under my control; I was no longer her vassal. Every minute that I so desired, I could look at her eyes. I took the painting with the utmost care, and put it into my own tin can, where I keep my profits, then I hid the tin can in the closet of my room,

The night was moving on, tiptoeing stealthily. It seemed that it had sufficiently recovered from its weariness. Soft, distant sounds, like the sound of a fowl or a passing bird's dream or perhaps the whisper of the growth of the plants, could be sensed. The pale stars were disappearing behind the mass of clouds. I felt the gentle breath of the morning on my face, at the same time I heard the crow of a rooster from afar.

What could I do with her body? It had already started to disintegrate First it occurred to me to bury her in my room; then I thought of taking her out and throwing her in a certain well around which black lilies have grown. But all these plots, to prevent other people from seeing, entailed much thought, labor and dexterity. Furthermore, since I did not wish any stranger to look at her, I had to do all this alone and with my own hands. I was not thinking of myself, because, after her, what else was there in living? But as far as she was concerned, no ordinary human being, no one except myself, should ever glance at her body. She came to my room, and she surrendered her cold body and her shadow to me, in order to prevent others from seeing her; in order not to become defiled by the looks of strangers. At last a thought crossed my mind: if I were to chop her body up and put it in a suitcase--my very own old suitcase--then I could take the suitcase out with me to a distant place, far away from people's eyes, and bury it there.

This time I no longer hesitated. I fetched a bone-handled knife which I had in the closet of my room and, very carefully, I first tore the thin black dress which, like a spider's web, had imprisoned her within itself; or should I say, I tore the only thing that covered her body. It seemed to me that she had grown taller. Then I severed her head. Drops of cold, coagulated blood poured out of her throat. I cut off her arms and legs, then I arranged her whole body, torso and limbs, in the suitcase. As for her dress, I covered her body with the same black dress. Finally, I locked the suitcase and put the key in my pocket. When the job was complete, I felt relieved. I picked up the suitcase and weighed it: it was heavy. Never before had I felt so fatigued. Definitely no. I would never be able to carry that suitcase out by myself.

It was cloudy once again, and a light rain was falling. I left the room to look for someone who would help me carry the suitcase away. Not a soul was to be seen anywhere near. When I paid more attention, a little farther away from where I was, through the fog, I saw an old man who had hunched his shoulders and who was sitting under a cypress tree. His face, over which he had wrapped a wide scarf, could not be seen. Slowly I approached him, but before I could utter a word, a hybrid, dry and repulsive laughter which made my hair stand on end issued from the old man; then he said, "If you are looking for a porter, I can help you. Were you looking for a porter? I also own a carriage that I use as a hearse. Everyday I carry corpses to Shah Abdul Azim and bury them there. I also make coffins. I have coffins for every person's perfect measurements, not a hair off. I am ready myself--right now!..."

He laughed so hysterically that his shoulders shook. With my hand, I pointed in the direction of my house. Without giving me an opportunity to utter a word, he said, "It's not necessary. I know where you live. Right now. Shall we go?"

He got up from where he was sitting, and I started to walk towards my house. I entered my room and, with great difficulty, brought the "dead" suitcase to the front of the door. There, I saw a ramshackle old hearse to which a pair of thin, black, skeleton-like horses were hitched. The old man, shoulders hunched, was sitting up there on the driver's seat. He had a long whip in his hand, and he did not turn to look at me. With difficulty I placed the suitcase in the carriage, in the middle of which there was a special place for putting coffins. Then I climbed into the carriage and laid myself down in the middle of the place intended for coffins. I placed my head on the edge of this place so that I could see the surrounding scenery. Finally I slid the suitcase towards me, rested it on my chest, and held it tightly with both hands.

The whip whistled through the air, and the horses, whose labored breath issued through their nostrils like columns of smoke in rainy weathers began to move with long but gentle leaps. Their slim forelegs, like the hand of a thief severed of its fingers by law and plunged into hot oil, struck the ground gently and noiselessly. In the damp air, the sound of the bells on their necks had a special ring. An indescribable relief, the cause of which I did not know, had filled me from head to toe so thoroughly that I could barely feel the movement of the hearse. The only thing that I felt was the weight of the suitcase on my chest.

Her dead body, her corpse. It seemed as though this weight had always been pressing on my chest. A thick fog covered the scenery on the sides of the road. The hearse was passing mountains plains and rivers with a special speed and comfort. Around me now a new and unique scene, one that I had seen neither in a dream nor in wakefulness, came to view. On both sides of the road there were mountains with serrated, jagged tops and strange, suppressed, cursed trees. From among the trees grey, triangular, cubic and prismatic houses with dark, low windows lacking any panes, were visible. These windows resembled the giddy eyes of one who is experiencing a delirious fever. I don't know what these walls had in them which enabled them to transfer their coldness and chill into a man's heart. Since no living being could ever dwell in those houses, they could only have been built to accommodate the shadows of ethereal beings.

Apparently either the carriage driver was taking me along a special road or he was taking a by-road. In some places the road was surrounded only by hacked tree trunks and crooked, bent trees. Behind the trees there were high and low geometrical houses--some conic, others in the shape of truncated cones. All the houses had narrow, crooked windows--from within which black lilies grew, clinging to the doors and walls. Then, suddenly, the whole scene disappeared under a thick fog. Pregnant, heavy clouds were hugging and pressing the mountain peaks, and drops of rain, like wandering particles of dust, were floating in the atmosphere. After traveling for quite some time, the hearse stopped near a high, arid mountain. I slid the suitcase away from my chest and got up.

Behind the mountain there was a secluded, quiet and pleasant spot, a place that even though I had not seen or recognized it, seemed to be quite familiar--it was not beyond my imagination. The surface of the ground was covered with scentless black lily plants as if until now no mortal had set foot on that ground. I put the suitcase down. The old carriage driver, turning his face away from me, said, 'This place is near Shah Abdul Azim. There is no place better for you than here. Not even a bird can be found here. Isn't that right!..."

I put my hand into my pocket to pay the carriage driver, but all the money I had in my pocket was two qerans and one 'abbasi. The carriage drivers, uttering a disgusting laugh, said, 'Forget it. Pay me later. I know where you live. Anything else I can do for you? Let me tell you--as far as digging graves is concerned, I am quite experienced, you understand? Don't be shy! Let's go right over there near the river, by that cypress tree. I shall dig a ditch the size of the suitcase for you, and then I will leave.'

The old man, with an agility the like of which I could not imagine, jumped down from his seat. I picked up the suitcase and together we walked to a tree trunk, on the edge of the dry riverbed. Then he said, 'Is this place good?'

Without waiting for an answer, he began digging the ground with his pick and shovel. I put the suitcase on the ground and watched him with astonishment. The old man was going about his job with the agility and dexterity of an expert. While digging, he found something resembling a glazed jar. He wrapped the jar In a dirty handkerchief then he got up and said, 'And here is the ditch. It is exactly the size of the suitcase, not a hair off!'

I put my hand in my pocket to pay him. All I had was two qerans and one 'abbasi. The old man uttered a ghastly laugh and said, 'Don't bother. Forget it. I know where you live. Besides--for my wages I found a jar. It is a Raq jar from the ancient city of Ray.'

Then he laughed so hard that the hunched shoulders of his doubled-up body shook. He put the jar, wrapped up in a dirty handkerchief, under his arm, walked towards the hearse, and with a special agility climbed up onto the seat. The whip sounded through the air, the panting horses began to walk. In the damp air, the sound of their bells had a special ring. The carriage gradually disappeared into a dense fog.

Once alone, I felt relieved, as though a heavy burden had been removed from my chest. A pleasant tranquility enveloped me from head to toe. I looked around. I was in a small area, confined by pitch black hills and mountains. On one mountain range there were some ruins and ancient buildings made of thick bricks. A dry riverbed could also be seen in that vicinity. It was a cozy, secluded and quiet place. I was extremely happy, and I thought that when those large eyes woke from their earthly slumber, they would find this place suitable to their structure and mood. Besides, this girl had to be away from other people's dead, in the same way that she lived her life away from other people.

I picked up the suitcase carefully and put it in the middle of the ditch. The ditch was exactly the size of the suitcase, not a hair off. Then, for the last time, I wanted to look into it--into the suitcase--one more time. I looked around. Not a soul could be seen. I took the key out of my pocket and opened the suitcase. But when eventually I pushed the edge of her black dress aside, there, amid the coagulated blood and wiggling worms, I saw two large black eyes, two expressionless eyes, fixed on me. My life had sank to the depths of those eyes. Hastily, I closed the suitcase and covered it with dirt; then I walked on the dirt until it was well packed. Next, I fetched some of those scentless black lilies and placed them on her grave. Then I fetched some rocks and sand and strewed them on the grave to obliterate all traces completely so that no one could distinguish it. I accomplished this task so well that even I could not distinguish her grave from the rest of the ground.

When my work was finished, I looked at myself. To my clothes, which were soiled and torn, a black piece of coagulated blood was stuck. Two flies, the color of golden bees, were flying around me, and small worms, wiggling among themselves, were stuck to me. Then I tried to clean the bloodstain off the tail of my garment. The more I wetted my sleeve with saliva and rubbed it onto the stain, the more the bloodstain expanded assuming a darker color. Soon the stain covered my whole body, and I felt the chill of the coagulating blood on me.

It was near sunset. A light rain was falling. Involuntarily, I began to walk, following the tracks of the hearse; but as soon as it grew dark I lost trace of the carriage tracks. Aimlessly, thoughtlessly and involuntarily I walked slowly in a thick, tangible darkness towards an unknown destination. I had lost her, I had seen those large eyes amid the coagulated blood, and, I was walking in a dark night, in the deep darkness that had shrouded my entire life, because the two eyes that had served as my life's beacon were extinguished forever. It was thus immaterial whether I would arrive at a place or an abode; perhaps I would never arrive at any destination.

An absolute hush covered everything. I felt that everyone had abandoned me. I took refuge in the lifeless universe. Among the cycle of nature, the deep darkness which had descended on my soul, and me, a relationship was established. This silence was a language incomprehensible to mortals. The intensity of the intoxication made me dizzy; I felt like vomiting. My feet began to give out and I felt extremely weary. I walked into the graveyard which was on the side of the road and sat on a tombstone there. I took my head in my hands, puzzled about my own situation. Suddenly the echo of a dry, repulsive laughter jolted me back into reality. When I turned in the direction of the sound and looked, I saw a figure whose head and face were wrapped in a scarf. The figure, who was sitting beside me, was carrying an object wrapped in a handkerchief under his arm. He turned his face toward me and said, 'I bet you were going to town, and you lost your way, huh? Perhaps you are asking yourself what I am doing in the graveyard this late at night! But rest assured, my calling is dealing with the dead. I am a gravedigger by profession, huh? I know every inch of this place. For instance, right today I went to dig a grave, and I uncovered this jar. Do you realize that this is a Raq jar, that it is from the ancient city of Ray, huh? Let's assume it's a useless jar. I give it to you to keep as a souvenir from me, o.k.?

I put my hand in my pockets took out two qerans and one 'abbasi to offer him. The old man, with a repulsive, dry laugh, said, 'No, forget it! I know you. I know where you live. Look, I have a hearse right around the corner. Let me take you home, Huh? It's only a couple of steps away.'

He placed the jar in my lap and rose. He laughed so violently that his shoulders shook. I picked up the jar and began to follow that old man's doubled-up figure. At the turn in the road, a ramshackle hearse with two meager black horses was standing. With amazing agility, the old man climbed up the hearse and sat down on the seat. As for me, I entered the carriage and lay down in the special place made for coffins. I placed my head on the high edge so that I could see the scenery. I put the jar on my chest and held it tightly.

The whip whistled through the air, and the horses, panting, began to move with long and gentle leaps. Their hooves touched the ground softly and noiselessly. In the damp air, the sound of the bells on their necks had a special ring. From behind the clouds, the stars, like the balls of some glistening eyes emerging from amid clotted blood, watched over the earth. A pleasant relief filled me; only the jar, like the weight of a corpse, pressed on my chest. In the darkness, fearing that they might slide and fall, the intertwined trees with their twisted branches seemed to be holding each other by the hand. Along the side of the road, there were some strange houses with distorted geometrical shapes and a few black windows. An evil, dull radiance like the light from a glowworm, emanated from the walls of these houses. In an awe-inspiring scene, the trees were passing by in groups and clumps, escaping one after the other. It seemed, however, that the lily stalks became tangled in their legs and feet and made them fall to the ground. The smell of dead bodies, the smell of decomposed flesh, had filled my soul as if that smell had always been penetrating my body and as if I had passed all my life lying in a black coffin, being carried about amid mist and hovering shadows by a stooped, old man whose face I could not see,

The hearse came to a halt. I picked up the jar and jumped down. I was in front of my house. I hurried into my room, put the jar on the table, picked up the tin can, the same can which served as my piggy bank and which I had hidden in the closet of my room. I came to the door to give the tin can to the old carriage driver instead of a reward. But he had disappeared. There was no sign of either him or his carriage. Disappointed, I returned to my room, lit the lamp, took the jar out of the handkerchief and, using my sleeve, cleaned the dust off of it. The jar had an ancient, transparent purple glaze which had been transformed into the color of a crushed bee; on one side of its body, in the form of a diamond, there was a border of black lilies, and in the middle of it her face was in the middle of the diamond frame. It was the face of a woman whose eyes were black and large, eyes larger than normal; her eyes reproached me as if I had committed some unforgivable crime of which I was not aware. She had spell-binding eyes which were simultaneously worried, perplexed, threatening and hope-inspiring. Her eyes were timid, yet attractive; an intoxicating, supernatural light shone from their depths. She had prominent cheeks, a wide forehead, slender and connected eyebrows, full, half-open lips, and disheveled hair, a strand of which was stuck to her temple.

I took the picture that I had painted of her the previous night out of the tin can and compared the two; my picture was not even slightly different from the picture on the jar --they were pictures of each other, you could say. They were identical and they were both painted by an unfortunate painter of pencase covers. Perhaps, at the time of the painting, the spirit of the painter of the jar had entered my body and taken possession of my hand. The paintings were not distinguishable; however, my picture was on a piece of paper, while the painting on the jar had a transparent ancient glaze which imparted a mysterious air, an unusual, strange soul, to that picture. In the depths of her eyes, the flames of an evil soul were glowing. No, it was incredible. She had the same large, thoughtless eyes, the same secretive disposition; she, however, was free! No one could comprehend my feelings at this moment. I wanted to run away from myself. Could such a thing really happen? Once more all of my life's misfortunes materialized in front of my eyes. Weren't the eyes of one person enough in my life? Now two people were looking at me. Two people were looking at me through her eyes. No, this was absolutely unbearable. The eyes which were buried near the mountain, by the trunk of the cypress tree on the edge of the dry riverbed the eyes which were underneath black lilies, amid thick blood, in the middle of the feast of the beasts and insects; the eyes which before long, plant roots would penetrate and suck; these same eyes, brimful of vigorous life, were looking at me!

I had never imagined myself to be so unfortunate and damned. Nevertheless, at the same time, because of a latent guilt, I felt an unjustifiable, strange sense of pleasure, for I realized that I had an ancient fellow-sufferer. Wasn't this painter of ancient times, who hundreds or perhaps thousands of years ago had painted this picture on this jar, wasn't he a fellow-sufferer of mine? Had he not passed these same stages that I am passing? Until this moment I had thought myself to be the most wretched of all creatures, but now I realized that at some time on those mountains, in those ruined houses and habitations built of heavy brick, among those people whose bones have rotted and whose limbs have turned into particles of living black lily plants--I realized that among them there had lived an afflicted painter, a damned painter; perhaps among them an unfortunate painter of pencase covers had lived--one exactly like me. I realized this. Only I could understand that he, too, had been burning and dissolving amidst two large, black eyes, exactly like me. This realization comforted me.

Finally, 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.

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