my kind uncle kafka

there is a pile on the low desk next to my bed. actually there are several -but the one i am talking about right now is not the pile of dvds, or of the plates with apricot seeds, or of printed pages. it is the pile of books.
and right now the pile includes karim soroush’s ‘the theoretical expansion and contraction of sharia قبض و بُسط تئوریکِ شریعت’ -a magnum opus of sorts that is about the epistimology of islamic thought, and a book about hannah arendt -i much prefer her own works but this one is written by someone else about her work, and currently the chapter about the nature of evil has me spellbound; and then there is susan leigh miller’s book on kierkegaard’s philosophy and his devastatingly sad and solitary life; and dr. sirus shamisa’s book on sepehri’s poetry ‘a glance at sepehri نگاهی به سپهری – سیروس شمیسا’ and the collected works of nima, and until it suddenly disappeared into a blackhole some days ago, marquez’s one hundred years of solitude, and lastly raza barahani’s ‘gold in copper طلا در مس’ -one of the most influencial books of literary criticism to whom a whole generation of afghan poets and literary types owe much -i personally read barahani for entertainment more than enlightenment; given his time and the false courtesies and formalities that must have been prevalent amid the literary ciclets, the man’s language is unforgivingly acerbic and especially when he talks about people like faridoon moshiri and others, i just get a kick out of it. (i hope by now it is clear that they are in both farsi and english languages.) oh, yes, there is also ashraf ghani and clare lockhart’s new book ‘fixing failed states’ -but in the company named above that one is really out of place. and often what happens is that i fall asleep while reading one of the books and this sometimes results in crampled pages or, worse, waking up at odd hours and then failing to fall asleep again, or occasionally, inexplicable dreams…
like last night, when i fell asleep while reading nima and this morning i had recollections of dreaming that kafka was my kind uncle and he took me fencing in a lush green place by a pond with many frogs where we proceeded to fence while dressed in giant cockroach bodysuits. thereafter we made a happy bonfire and retired to roasting the frogs we had captured from the pond, which i am loathe to say were quite delicious. the really messed up part is, the frogs had the faces of farsi poets of the modern school. i remember an anemic looking frog with sepehri’s face singing the entire lenght of ‘the footsteps of water.’ also i distinctly recall chewing on the crisp legs of nima and shamlou, while passing over moshiri and royayee’s white underbellies, which my kind uncle kafka seemed to relish.
the vision has troubled me throughout the morning. any interpreters out there?

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~ by safrang on July 14, 2008.

3 Responses to “my kind uncle kafka”

  1. dear hamesha,
    once, years ago, I expressed a similar view about Barahani. My commented infuriated all the so-called literary scholars present…
    glad to come across a rather critical view of Telaa dar Mes.

  2. my comments… sorry for mis-something.

  3. you mean mis-spelming…

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