A review by dianapharah
The Blind Owl by Sadegh Hedayat

dark reflective tense medium-paced
  • Plot- or character-driven? Character
  • Strong character development? It's complicated
  • Loveable characters? No
  • Diverse cast of characters? N/A
  • Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes

4.0

"Will anyone ever penetrate the secret of this disease which transcends ordinary experience, this reverberation of the shadow of the mind, which manifests itself in a state of coma like that between death and resurrection, when one is neither asleep nor awake?"


If you enjoyed No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai, you will almost certainly like the The Blind Owl by Sadegh Hedayat; if you hated the former, the latter probably won't do much for you either. Both works share narrators who I can neither love nor hate, neither pity nor scorn, and nor should I. But mental illness is an ugly beast, no matter how one might try to repackage it into something more palatable, and both Dazai and Hedayat showcase the painful reality of existing in this poisonous state wherein you are both the parasite and the host. It is messy, it is non-linear, it is a blur between what is real and what isn't. You, the reader, bring to this story your own lived experiences, and, through that lens, you will distinguish the indistinguishable and decipher the indecipherable.

"It seemed to me that until now I had not known myself and that the world as I had conceived it hitherto had lost all significance and validity and had been replaced by the darkness of night. For I had not been taught to gaze at and to love the night."


Our narrator is his own self-fulfilling prophecy; doomed from the start to actualize the frightening thoughts long lurking in the recesses of his being, because it is that same fear of his own depths which propels him further away from the tangible world and further towards a fitful desperation, seeking both self-understanding and self-release. Afraid of the very shadow he casts, yet this shadow is more substantial than any other part of him, and it demands to know and to be known, to see and to be seen. This tale is never-ending as the final page bleeds back into the first few, for once he indulges in the shadows within himself—the self given room to breathe in the shadows—he does not find resolution, only that the maze of his mind goes deeper still.

"Am I a being separate and apart from the rest of creation? I do not know. But when I looked into the mirror a moment ago I did not recognize myself. No, the old 'I' has died and rotted away, but no barrier, no gulf, exists between it and the new one."


Paranoia and hallucinations, anxiety and fear—these are byproducts of the narrator's gradual decomposition, which carry on to hasten the process; it is cyclical, it is apoptosis on a grand scale. Tainting nearly everything in his life, priming said life for its ultimate elimination.

"What comforted me was the prospect of oblivion after death. The thought of an afterlife frightened and fatigued me. I had never been able to adapt myself to the world in which I was now living. Of what use would another world be to me?"


Suffering was woven into the threads of his fate since conception. At least, this is how it seems to us, the audience, because that is how it feels for him, the tormented. But while we can close the book and turn away from his madness, he is trapped with it; his mind, his property. The only option for him is thus to establish an understanding with the monster who shares his existence. And so comes The Blind Owl.

"I thought to myself, 'If it is true that everyone has his own star in the sky mine must be remote, dark and meaningless. Perhaps I have never had a star at all.'"