![]() ![]() I am writing only for my shadow,” he says, reminding me of Jung’s archetype. “My one fear is that tomorrow I may die without having come to know myself. He tells us he is writing this story to capture what he remembers of a series of strange events. With the first line we are plunged into his maelstrom: “There are sores which slowly erode the mind in solitude like a kind of canker.” He goes on to talk of the agony of his disease, which I at first assumed to be depression or youthful alienation, but turns out to be much worse. The narrator is a Persian man living-if you can call it that-just outside the city of Rey. The cover unsettled me an interesting collage of Persian rugs, rather jumbled, with the title text pushing out of its box and just a corner of an owl’s head, it hinted at secrets and mysteries and dark things just outside your field of vision. However, once it jumped into my hand, I was intrigued. I don’t remember where it came from I’ve never heard of it, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t buy it. Rummaging around in my TBR mountain (books waiting To Be Read), I came across this slender novel. ![]()
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