The summer vacation had begun. In the corridor of the boys’ grammar school in Le Havre, the boarders left the school whistling and cheering with their suitcases in their hands.
When Seyyed Ahmad entered the house, he cast a suspicious glance across the courtyard, then knocked with his stick on the brown door of the room above the cistern and
As the 48-year-old Iranian writer Sadeq Hedayat makes his way to his apartment in the 18th arrondissement at 37 Rue Championnet bis on a gloomy afternoon in Paris, he meets
The phone rang. It was Kashefi. “What’s the status of Mr. Vali’s retirement?” “It’s likely to be finalized today or tomorrow.” “I’ve been considering something for him.” “Thank you for
![Buried Alive [Zendeh Be Goor] By Sadeq Hedayat](https://alisalami.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/02/Sadeq-Hedayat-300x169.jpeg)
What a terrifying and awe-inspiring word that is! Hearing it evokes heart-rending emotions: it robs the lips of laughter, the hearts of joy, brings darkness and depression and causes a
How could I stay in my father’s house? It felt like the walls were squeezing my heart. This all started the day before yesterday. But could I have stayed there
In the afternoon, the final whistle of the mine sounded traditionally in the cold, misty valleys of Zirab. The sound meandered everywhere: it snaked through the branches of the barren
Hajji Murad stepped from the threshold of his store with a bold leap, smoothed the folds of his robe and fastened his silver belt before running his fingers through his
During our moonlit journey through Khonsar, we were joined by a man wrapped in his dark raincoat with his wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his forehead, apparently to shield himself
