Amor celestial y amor mundano

Ilustración de Endre Szász para la edición húngara de los Rubaiyat de Khayyam

Dos imágenes de aquella edición rusa de Omar Khayyam que comentamos hace tiempo no las incluimos en la correspondiente entrada del blog. En parte por ajustarnos a una tabla de cuatro por cuatro, pero también por reservarlas para otra ocasión. Ahora hablaremos de una de ellas.


Contiene la iconografía usual de Khayyam: el vino y la mujer, el deseo y la fugacidad. No es muy distinta, por cierto, de la imagen duodécima que veíamos en aquella tabla. La diferencia básica está en la vela, al fondo, que atrae hacia su llama a las mariposas nocturnas: un tópico tan presente en la imaginación literaria que parece haber arraigado en nuestra mente desde la oscuridad antropológica de la primera noche en que dominamos el fuego.

Y es también un motivo muy importante en la poesía persa clásica. Annemarie Schimmel, la mayor experta occidental en sufismo, escribe en su A Two-Colored Brocade. The Imagery of Persian Poetry (1992) que allí no hay animal poético más popular que este, aparte del ruiseñor (del que ya hemos tratado un par de veces pero aún hablaremos de su significado persa). Y no es por casualidad: ambos son símbolos del alma. El ruiseñor, del alma que anhela a Dios, mientras que la mariposa simboliza el alma que, aniquilada en la llama divina, se hace una con Dios alcanzando así la meta suprema del sufí.

Durante mil años varios miles de poetas persas han repetido este motivo desde India a Estambul, y desde el mártir sufí del siglo IX Hallaj hasta la poeta surrealista Forough Farrokhzad. Un bello ejemplo clásico es el ghazal de Hafez (con unas sutilezas difíciles de traducir):

آتش آن نیست که از شعله ی او خندد شمع
آتش آن است که در خرمن پروانه ردند

âtash ân nīst ke az sho‘le-ye ū khandad sham‘
âtash ân ast ke dar kharman parvâne zadand

El fuego verdadero no es el que danza en la llama del candil
El fuego verdadero es el que cosecha a la mariposa

La mariposa quemada en la llama nocturna recorre por igual la literatura clásica europea. Erasmo, en sus Adagia 1.9.51, Pyraustae exitus (muerte de la pirausta o insecto del fuego), cita un fragmento de Esquilo como su primera aparición, que ha sobrevivido justo por haberse convertido en proverbio ya en la Antigüedad e incluido en las colecciones de proverbios griegos: Δέδοικα μωρόν (correctamente μῶρον) κάρτα πυραύστου μόρον. Es decir, La mayor locura de todas las locuras es la muerte de la mariposa en la llama. Cuanto más denostadora es la sentencia, más revela la diferencia mencionada entre los puntos de vista griego y persa. Así, Erasmo interpreta el proverbio en el sentido de la precipitación y de la transitoriedad de las cosas. Y andando el tiempo Sebastián de Covarrubias llegará a decir, muy enfadado, que la mariposa «es un animalito... el más imbécil de todos los que puede haber».


En Occidente, este motivo no se conectó con el amor hasta después de dos mil años de su aparición. Petrarca lo lanzó definitivamente por esta vía sobre todo en su soneto 141, donde los ojos de Laura son la llama alrededor de la cual él gira y se abrasa (y ver también el soneto XIX). A partir de 1500 todo el petrarquismo (y antipetrarquismo) repitió, glosó y exageró hasta más no poder la imagen. Fue también justo a partir de 1500 cuando Europa entró en contacto con la cultura persa.

Una representación gráfica de la idea aparece pronto de la mano de Gabriele Simeoni, el alumno del obispo humanista Paolo Giovio, cuya principal obra, la Historia de Italia ya mencionamos a propósito del rinoceronte del Papa. Otra obra de Giovio, mucho menos voluminosa pero más influyente, fueron las Imprese militari et amorose, publicadas inicialmente en 1550, donde recogía los símbolos personales —imprese— de personajes ilustres del medio siglo anterior. Una edición ampliada salió luego en 1574, con la participación de Simeoni, que añadió unas cuarenta empresas propias. La número 15 es la que hemos reproducido arriba, a la que añade esta explicación (leemos primero la versión breve de la edición inglesa de 1585, luego la del original italiano de 1574 y abajo la traducción española de Alfonso de Ulloa, 1561).

Vnder the figure of the butter flie, who so much delighteth in the brightnes of the fire, that of her owne accord she casteth her selfe into the same, and so is burned: may be signified, how that a man who goeth about, or affecteth euerie thing without deliberation and choice, getteth many times to himself shame, reproch and destruction withall.

Vn Gentil’ huomo amico mio mi ricercò di ritrouargli vn’impresa d’amore, ond’ io gli feci disegnare vna Farfalla intorno à vna Candela accesa con queste parole, COSI TROPPO PIACER CONDVCE A MORTE. seguendo la natura di cosi semplice animale, che i Greci dall’amar naturalmente il fuoco han chiamato πυραυστὴν auuertendo che’l senso di questa impresa può essere inteso doppiamente, conciò sia che appropriandolo al corpo, ei non è dubbio alcuno (secondo Platone) che vno innamorato è morto in se stesso, viuendo il suo pensiero (che è la propria vita dell’anima) intorno alla cosa amata. Onde il detto Filosofo soleua dire quand’ ei trouaua vn’innamorato, COLVI VIVE IN VN’ ALTRO CORPO. Ma attribuendo moralmente quest’ amore all’anima, egli è certissimo che mentre che l’huom si deletta intorno à vna bellezza corporale (figurata quì da me per lo splendore della Candela) dimenticando bene spesso il Creator per la creatura, e cadendo in qualche scandolo, vengono finalmente à perdere il corpo e l’anima. Il che accade ordinariamente à certi ricchi sciocchi innamorati, che volendo parlar di amore non sanno in qual parte del corpo eglino s’habbian la testa.

Un Caballero amigo mío siendo él enamorado, rogóme de le dibujar una Divisa, y le hice pintar una mariposa alrededor de una candela encendida con estas palabras: COSÌ VIVO PIACER CONDVCE A MORTE. Siguiendo la natura de un animal tan simple que los Griegos llamaron πυραυστὴς, [pirausta] porque él ama naturalmente la claridad del fuego. La cual sentencia se puede entender en dos maneras: porque tomándolo por un cuerpo, es verdad según dice Platón, que un enamorado es muerto en sí, viviendo en su pensamiento (que es la vida del alma) alrededor de lo que él ama, por donde el sobredicho Filósofo viendo un enamorado solía decir, Aquel vive en otro cuerpo. Pero tomándolo por el alma, cierto es mientras tomamos placer con una hermosura corporal significada por la claridad de la candela, muchas veces olvidamos el Criador por la criatura, y cayendo en hartos inconvenientes en los cuales las mujeres nos ponen, perdemos a la fin deshonradamente el cuerpo y el alma, así como hacen algunos necios los cuales metiéndose en requiebros de amores no saben en qué parte de su cuerpo tienen su cabeza.

La invención de Simeoni hizo carrera en la floreciente literatura simbólica de los siglos XVI y XVII. En aquella refinada sociedad, la esencia de la práctica que hoy conocemos como el juego del emblema, y que nos dejó más de un millón de muestras (¡y cuántos otros millones se perdieron por su propio carácter efímero!), consistía en que los poetas y artistas tomaran sus metáforas centrales de un conjunto de símbolos bien conocidos y especialmente codificados y popularizados por los libros de emblemas. Luego modificaban sutilmente las alusiones y matices, provocando así un peculiar placer estético a los connoisseurs. Los equivalentes modernos de este juego intelectual puede reconocerlos cualquiera, hasta hoy en día, observando las características de su propio medio cultural.


Pero antes de Simeoni hubo algún otro intento de situar esta imagen en la tradición de la imaginación visual europea. Gilles Corrozet la incluyó en su libro de emblemas de 1543 con el mote La guerre doulce aux inexperimentez (la guerra [es] dulce a los inexpertos) —arriba a la izquierda— que refleja el célebre capítulo pacifista Dulce bellum inexpertis de Erasmo, al que dedica una sección especial Pierre Bayle en su gran Dictionnaire de 1695. Este intento de convertir capítulos de los Adagia erasmianos en «proverbios visuales» fue característico de la primera emblemática (recordemos que el género se estableció en 1530). En el caso de este motivo, sin embargo, la interpretación amorosa de Simeoni demostró mucho más éxito que la antibelicista de Corrozet. De hecho, el único seguidor de Corrozet que hemos encontrado es Juan de Borja, embajador en Praga (1581), cuyo emblema Fugienda peto (deseo lo que tendría que evitar —figura de arriba a la derecha, tomada de la edición de 1697—), se aplica a evitar los peligros de la guerra, aunque también contiene la deriva hacia la guerra interior entre razón y deseo.


La via amorosa de Simeoni fue continuada por el humanista holandés Hadrianus Junius en su emblema Amoris ingenuis tormentum (tormento del falso amor), donde compara la candela a la mujer que destruye a sus amantes; y mientras cita diligentemente todas las referencias clásicas de Erasmo, añade otra de Petrarca a las ya conocidas: Così de ben amar porto tormento (así del bien amar obtengo tormento —aquí puede leerse un interesante estudio de Ari Wesseling sobre los emblemas de Junius a la luz de los Adagia de Erasmo—). El doble mote conduce a un curioso equívoco. Gabriel Rollenhagen (imagen de arriba) incluye la imagen dos veces en su gran colección de emblemas (1611), copiando a Simeoni y a Junius, cada uno con su mote original. George Wither, que convirtió el libro de Rollenhagen en el texto fundador de la emblemática inglesa, A collection of emblemes (1635), encontró ciertamente sospechosa la duplicación, y en la segunda imagen (ver a la derecha) borró la llama y la mariposa y cambió el mote en Cui bono?, es decir, ¿qué hay de bueno en una candela apagada? Quizá fuera esta la reinterpretación más atrevida de la imagen que, no obstante, no encontró seguidores. La versión final del símbolo, publicada y dibujada en varias ediciones, versiones e idiomas, fue la de Otho Vaenius en sus Amorum emblemata (1608), donde su claro sentido se subraya aún más por la adición de un pequeño Cupido.


Así, la interpretación persa y la europea del símbolo muestra sus diferencias básicas. En Europa, heredera del juicio negativo de Esquilo —la mayor de todas las locuras— apunta al amante cautivo y luego víctima de un inmerecido —innoble, humillante, rechazado— amor. En la tradición persa, al contrario, representa la máxima expresión del amor, aspiración divina y anhelo de unión con Él. Como ya observara Hammer-Purgstall, el diplomático austríaco, aventurero y orientalista, uno de los primeros investigadores de la literatura persa, cuya traducción de Hafez inspiró el Divan de Oriente y Occidente de Goethe: «La mariposa es, para el pensamiento oriental, no como para Occidente un símbolo de la inestabilidad y del revoloteo de la mente, sino más bien un símbolo del amor más fiel, que se olvida de sí mismo y se sacrifica» (Geschichte der schönen Redekünste Persiens). Esta última interpretación también fue utilizada por Goethe en su poema Selige Sehnsucht.

Por tanto, la ilustración rusa que conecta el amor terrestre cantado por el escéptico Khayyam con las mariposas volando alrededor de la vela encendida contiene una interpretación equivocada de la tradición persa. Un persa jamás habría utilizado este símbolo en un poema o una miniatura sobre el amor mundano. El vería ahí una forma de amor y unión mucho más alta.

En la tradición occidental hemos encontrado una sola vez esta imagen como metáfora del amor divino. Santa Teresa de Ávila en el capítulo 17.7 del Libro de la Vida habla del tercer grado de la oración mística, donde voluntad y razón ya están sosegadas pero la memoria todavía aletea como una mariposa nocturna. Dice:

Algunas veces es Dios servido de haber lástima de verla tan perdida y consiéntela Su Majestad se queme en el fuego de aquella vela divina donde las otras potencias están ya hechas polvo, perdido su ser natural, estando sobrenatural gozando tan grandes bienes.

Aquí, sin embargo, el fondo no es en absoluto el mismo que en la mística sufí, es decir, la disolución de la persona en Dios, sino solo el apaciguamiento de las potentiae humanas para que la persona, preservando su personalidad propia, entre en contacto de la manera más íntima con Dios. Esta es la mayor diferencia entre la mística cristiana y el sufismo, el panteísmo o hasta el strib und werde de Goethe. El Dios cristiano, que incluye en sí tres personas distintas, no abole la personalidad de quien se une a él, sino que la perfecciona. Y la metáfora para este tipo de unión no es la mariposa aniquilada en el fuego, sino más bien otras dos imágenes bien conocidas por la tradición occidental y por la persa, pero que se usan con este sentido solo en Occidente: el renacimiento del Ave Fénix entre las brasas de su nido perfumado y la salamandra que encuentra entre las llamas su último hogar y perfección última.

* * *

Pensamos que puede ser de utilidad dar la breve bibliografía que hemos consultado sobre el tema de la mariposa y la llama, especialmente en la emblemática y en la literatura española.

· Trueblood, Alan S. «La mariposa y la llama: motivo poético del Siglo de Oro». En Actas del Quinto Congreso Internacional de Hispanistas, editado por Maxime Chevalier, François Lopez, Joseph Perez y Noël Salomon, Burdeos: Instituto de Estudios Ibéricos e Iberoamericanos - Université de Bordeaux III, 1977, 829-837.
· Cabello Porras, Gregorio. «"La mariposa en cenizas desatada": una imagen petrarquista en la lírica áurea, o el drama espiritual que se combate dentro de sí». Estudios Humanísticos (Universidad de León) 12 (1990): 255-277.
· Cabello Porras, Gregorio. «"La mariposa en cenizas desatada": una imagen petrarquista en la lírica áurea, o el drama espiritual que se combate dentro de sí (2a parte)». Estudios Humanísticos (Universidad de León) 13 (1991): 57-75.
· Pulido, Isabel. «Fuentes clásicas de dos motivos de la poesía española: la grulla y la mariposa». Exemplaria 3 (1999): 17-35.
· Pedrosa, José Manuel «La mariposa, el amor y el fuego: de Petrarca y Lope a Dostoievski y Argullol». Criticón 87-88-89 (2003): 649-660.
· Robledo Estaire, Luis. «Emblemas cantados en la España del Barroco». En Paisajes emblemáticos: La construcción de la imagen simbólica en Europa y América, editado por César Chaparro Gómez, José Julio García Arranz y Jesús Ureña Bracero, Mérida: Editora Regional de Extremadura, 2008, 375-394.

Este estudio localiza la imagen de la mariposa que se acerca y se quema en la llama en composiciones musicales del Siglo de Oro. Robledo menciona de pasada una curiosa derivación de la imagen, mencionada por el predicador fray Pedro de León y que le sirve para justificar la quema en la hoguera de los reos de sodomía: «Las mariposas... vuelan adelante y atrás, cada vez acercándose más al fuego... [La mariposa] revolotea cerca de las llamas de un fuego y sólo se quema un ala... Revolotea cada vez más cerca y se quema otra parte de sí hasta que al final se quema totalmente... [Los sodomitas] que no se enmiendan, llevados por el pecado acabarán por fin en el fuego como mariposas» [saca la cita de Federico Garza Carvajal, Quemando mariposas. Sodomía e imperio en Andalucía y México, siglos XVI-XVII, Barcelona: Laertes, 2002, 17-18]

· Rafael García Mahíques en su comentario de las Empresas sacras de Núñez de Cepeda (Madrid: Tuero, 1988, págs. 40-41) comenta la empresa que el jesuita dedica a esta imagen, Nescia necis.

Además de los emblemistas mencionados en el texto anterior, hemos encontrado el uso de la imagen de la mariposa y la llama en estos otros:

· S. Bargagli, Dell'imprese... 1578 (Venecia 1594, págs. 125-127).
· C. Camilli, Imprese illustri, 1586, III, págs. 27-28.
· W. Westhovius, Emblemata, 1640, págs. 62.
· H. Engelgrave, Lux evangelica... 1655, embl. XLI.
· P. Le Moyne, L'Art des devises, 1666, págs. 368-369.
· P. Rodríguez de Monforte, Descripción... honras Phelippe IV... 1666.
· J. Camerarius, Symbolorum et emblematum... 1668 IV, emb. XCVII, págs. 194-195.
· F. Picinelli, Mondo simbolico, 1694, págs. 390-392 (aplicada al martirio de San Lorenzo).
· J. Bornitz, Emblemata ethico-politica, 1699, p. 54.

Heavenly and earthly love

Illustration to Khayyam’s Hungarian edition by Endre Szász

I am in debt with two images that I had not published among the illustrations of the Russian edition of Omar Khayyam, partly in order not to destroy the beautiful arrangement of four times four, and partly because I wanted to write about them something more anyway.


The one of which I write today follows the usual iconography of Khayyam: wine and woman, desire and transience. It is not much different, let us say, from picture twelve on the four times four table. The only important difference is the candle in the background which attracts with its flame the night butterflies.

The image of the butterfly immolated in the light of the candle is one of the most important motifs of classical Persian poetry. Annemarie Schimmel, the greatest Western expert of Sufism writes in her A Two-Colored Brocade. The Imagery of Persian Poetry, 1992 that there is no more popular poetic animal than this, except for the nightingale (about which we have already written a couple of times, but still we are in debt with the presentation of its Persian meaning). It is no accident: both are soul symbols. The nightingale symbolizes the soul longing for God, while the butterfly the soul which, annihilated in God’s fire, becomes one with Him and thus reaches the supreme goal of all Sufi.

For a thousand years several thousand Persian poets have repeated this motif from India to Istambul and from the 9th-century Sufi martyr Hallaj to 20th-century Surrealist poetess Forough Farrokhzad. A beautiful classical example is the ghazel of Hafez:

آتش آن نیست که از شعله ی او خندد شمع
آتش آن است که در خرمن پروانه ردند

âtash ân nīst ke az sho‘le-ye ū khandad sham‘
âtash ân ast ke dar kharman parvâne zadand

true fire is not the one dancing in the flame of the candle
true fire is the one harvesting the butterfly

The image of the butterfly burnt in the flame of the candle was also known in European classical literature. Erasmus in Adagia 1.9.51, Pyraustae exitus – “Death of the fire-insect” – cites a fragment of Aeschylus as its earliest occurrence, which has survived just because it had been cited as a proverb already in the antiquity and included in Greek proverb collections: Δέδοικα μωρόν (correctly μῶρον) κάρτα πυραύστου μόρον, that is, among all follies the greatest folly is the death of the butterfly in the fire. The less flattering this opinion is, the more it renders palpable the already mentioned difference of the Greek and Persian world views. Accordingly, Erasmus interpreted the proverb as related to hastiness and ephemeral things. And Sebastián de Covarrubias emphasizes in his great encyclopedia that the butterfly is “the most stupid animal among all”.


In the West this motif was connected with love only two thousand years after its birth. It was Petrarch who in his 141st sonnett compared the eyes of the beloved lady to the flame, and himself to the butterfly circling around it. This metaphor was made popular in the Petrarchist poetry of the 1500s, exactly when Europe got into contact with Persian culture.

A pictorial form was given to the idea for the first time by polyhistor Gabriele Simeoni, the alumn of the humanist bishop Paolo Giovio whose main work, the History of Italy was already quoted by us a propos of the destruction of the Pope’s rhinoceros. The other, much slimmer but the more influential main work of Giovio was the Imprese militari et amorose, first published in 1550, in which he collected the personal symbols – imprese – of the most illustrious people of the previous half century. An enlarged edition was published in 1574 by Simeoni, who added forty or so imprese of his own invention. Number 15 was the above image, provided by him with the following explanation (first we quote the short version of the 1585 English edition, and then the original 1574 Italian version with our own translation):

Vnder the figure of the butter flie, who so much delighteth in the brightnes of the fire, that of her owne accord she casteth her selfe into the same, and so is burned: may be signified, how that a man who goeth about, or affecteth euerie thing without deliberation and choice, getteth many times to himself shame, reproch and destruction withall.

Vn Gentil’ huomo amico mio mi ricercò di ritrouargli vn’impresa d’amore, ond’ io gli feci disegnare vna Farfalla intorno à vna Candela accesa con queste parole, COSI TROPPO PIACER CONDVCE A MORTE. seguendo la natura di cosi semplice animale, che i Greci dall’amar naturalmente il fuoco han chiamato πυραυστὴν auuertendo che’l senso di questa impresa può essere inteso doppiamente, conciò sia che appropriandolo al corpo, ei non è dubbio alcuno (secondo Platone) che vno innamorato è morto in se stesso, viuendo il suo pensiero (che è la propria vita dell’anima) intorno alla cosa amata. Onde il detto Filosofo soleua dire quand’ ei trouaua vn’innamorato, COLVI VIVE IN VN’ ALTRO CORPO. Ma attribuendo moralmente quest’ amore all’anima, egli è certissimo che mentre che l’huom si deletta intorno à vna bellezza corporale (figurata quì da me per lo splendore della Candela) dimenticando bene spesso il Creator per la creatura, e cadendo in qualche scandolo, vengono finalmente à perdere il corpo e l’anima. Il che accade ordinariamente à certi ricchi sciocchi innamorati, che volendo parlar di amore non sanno in qual parte del corpo eglino s’habbian la testa.

A noble friend of mine asked me to prepare him an amorous impresa. I have designed a butterfly flying around the flame of a candle with these words: COSÌ TROPPO PIACER CONDUCE A MORTE (SO DOTH PLEASANT DELIGHTS LEADE TO DESTRUCTION [Petrarch]), thus displaying the nature of this animal which, as it loves fire so much, was called πυραυστὴς by the Greek. This impresa can be interpreted in two ways. First, applied to the body, there is no doubt that, as Plato says, he who is in love has died for himself, and in thought (which is the life of the soul) he lives in the object of his love. This is why this philosopher told when encountering someone in love: This lives in another body. However, if we attribute love in a moral sense to the soul, then we can often observe that one delighted by corporal beauty (represented here with the light of the candle) forgets the Creator for sake of the created, and falling into scandal he finally loses both his body and his soul. As it usually happens with some stupid rich young people who, speaking about love, do not clearly know in which part of their body their head is to be found.

The invention of Simeoni has made a nice carreer in the flourishing symbolic literature of the 16-17th century. The essence of this refined society play called the emblem game by modern literature, which has left more than a million emblems to us (and how many times more must have perished!) was that poets and artists took their central metaphors from a well-known stock of symbols popularized by emblem books, and changed just subtly their allusions which was perceived with a great delight by the connoisseurs. The modern equivalents of this cultural play can be recognized by everyone in his/her own subculture even today.


Even before Simeoni it was attempted to make this motif part of the European visual imagery. Gilles Corrozet included it in his emblem book of 1543 with the motto La guerre doulce aux inexperimentez, “sweet is war for the inexperimented” (above left), echoing the celebrated pacifist chapter Dulce bellum inexpertis by Erasmus, to which a special section was dedicated in Pierre Bayle’s great Dictionnaire of 1695. This attempt to convert the chapters of Erasmus’ great collection of ancient proverbs, the Adagia into “visual proverbs” was characteristic of the early emblematics (this genre has been established in the 1530’s). In the case of this motif, however, Simeoni’s amorous interpretation proved to be much more successful than Corrozet’s anti-war interpretation. This latter only found one single echo in Juan Borja, Embassador in Prague (1581) whose emblem with the motto Fugienda peto, “I wish what should be avoided” (above right, from the 1697 edition) calls the attention to the dangers of the war to be avoided, but right then he interprets them for the inner war between reason and desires.


Simeoni’s amorous interpretation was continued by the great Dutch humanist Hadrianus Junius, who in his emblem Amoris ingenuis tormentum, “torments of false love” compared the candle to the woman destroying her lovers, and while dutifully quoting all the classical references of Erasmus, he also added to the citation from Petrarch another from the same author: Così de ben amar porto tormento, “this is how I bear the torments of my true love”. The double motto led to a strange misunderstanding. Gabriel Rollenhagen (above) included the image twice in his great collection of emblems (1611), taking the one from Simeoni and the other from Junius, both with its matching motto. George Wither, who converted Rollenhagen’s volume into the founding work of English emblematics, A collection of emblemes (1635) in fact found suspicious the duplication, and on the second image (to the right) he deleted the flame and the butterfly and changed the motto into Cui bono? that is, what is the use of a candle without light? Perhaps this was the boldest reinterpretation of the image which, however, found no followers. The final version of the symbol, published and painted in several editions, versions and languages, was that of Otho Vaenius in the Amorum emblemata (1608) where its proper meaning was also underlined with a small Cupido added.


Thus the Persian and European interpretation of this symbol shows a basic difference. Its European interpretation, which has inherited the odium of Aeschylus’ negative judgment – the greatest among all follies – refers to the lover falling captive and then victim to an unworthy – ignoble, humiliating, refused – love. In the Persian tradition, on the contrary, it represents the love of the highest order, aspiring to God and longing for the union with Him. As it was already observed by Hammer-Purgstall, the adventurous Austrian diplomat and orientalist, a first researcher of Persian literature, whose translation of Hafez inspired Goethe’s East-Western Divan: “The butterfly is, for the Eastern understanding, not, as it is for the Western, a symbol of instability and fluttering mind but rather a symbol of the most faithful love, which is oblivious of itself and sacrifices itself.” (Geschichte der schönen Redekünste Persiens). This latter interpretation was also borrowed by Goethe in his poem Selige Sehnsucht.

Therefore the Russian illustration paralleling the earthly love praised by the sceptical Khayyam with the butterflies flying to the flame of the candle is a complete misunderstanding of the Persian tradition. A Persian would never use this latter symbol in a poem or miniature about earthly love, for it represents to him a much higher form of love and union.

In the Western tradition this image occurred one single time as a metaphor of divine love. Saint Teresa of Ávila in chapter 17.7 of the Libro de la Vida, describing the third degree of mystical prayer where will and reason have already settled, but memory still flutters around “like a night butterfly”, says this:

Algunas veces es Dios servido de haber lástima de verla tan perdida y consiéntela Su Majestad se queme en el fuego de aquella vela divina donde las otras potencias están ya hechas polvo, perdido su ser natural, estando sobrenatural gozando tan grandes bienes.

God, feeling pity on this lost condition of her, sometimes permits her to be burnt in the fire of that divine candle which had already reduced the other potencies to ashes, and she, by way of this great act of kindness losing her natural condition, becomes supernatural.

Here, however, the matter is absolutely not the same as in Sufi mystics, that is, the complete solution of the person in God, but only a temporary settling of a human potentia in order the person, preserving his or her own personality, gets into the most personal contact with God. This is the greatest difference between Christian mystics and Sufism, pantheism or ever the Goethean stirb und werde. The God of the Christians, who already includes three persons without melting them, does not abolish the personality of the person uniting with Him, but brings it to perfection. And the metaphor for this kind of union is not the butterfly annihilated in the fire, but rather two other images which are known both by the Western and the Persian tradition, but which were used in this sense only in the West: the phoenix reborn from the fire and the salamander which finds in the fire its final home and greatest perfection.

As strangers

Photo by Kave Kiani

Just some months ago there was published in Iran a new item of the vast CD production of the Kamkars, the CD Sâye-ye roshan-e mahtab, “Moon Shadow,” created by Bijan Kamkar in collaboration with the Mastan Ensemble.


The Kamkars are eight Kurdish brothers, I mean seven brothers and a sister. They form one of the most successful musical groups of Iran playing classical Kurdish music, the Kamkars (in Persian Kâmkârhâ, in Kurdish Kâmkârân). On their highly professional homepage you can find lots of good photos about them. You are advised to have a look at it, at least for a short glimpse into the fantastically colorful world of Iranian music.


In this CD, however, only Bijan Kamkar, the male soloist of the group features from them. He is accompanied by the Mastan Ensemble, which was only formed in 2005, but they already belong to the promising stars of Persian classical music. They perform the poems of Sufi poets like Hafez, Rumi or Attar. Even their name, meaning “drunkenness,” refers to that desired condition of the Sufi mystic when he can finally drink of the goblet offered to him by his divine Beloved.

The poems on the “Moon Shadow” are all from modern, 20th-century Sufi poets. We find among them the well-known and much recited poem “Gharibâne” (As strangers) by Hushang Ebtehaj (1928), by his pen name Sayeh, “Shadow,” which repeats and recomposes the images of the desire for God much used in Sufi poetry. It fits very well to the complex and forceful Kurdish music, which also has a long tradition of the ecstatic joy music of Sufi ceremonies, the shema’.

The popularity of the poem is indicated by the fact that here they only sing some verses of it, again and again returning to the first one, the basic idea of Sufi existence: that we are strangers in this world. Besides, instead of the original plural they sing it in singular: “seek for it”, “you are stranger” and so on, which renders more personal the message of the poem. In the following Romanized transcription I mark in gold the verses sung by Bijan Kamkar and in dark red those sung in the background by the male choir and the female soloist. Even the order of the strophes has been somewhat changed in the performance: after the 9th strophe, the song finishes with the 7th one, “seek for the house of silence” which is a really adequate end to a song.

In contrast to usual transcription, here I also indicate the long vowels with a horizontal dash, so that you could feel the pulsation of the poem already by reading it. The â which sounds like a long closed – “Hungarian” – a is of course always long, and perhaps this is the sound which contributes the most to the unique resonance of Persian poems. I recommend you to read aloud the transcription together with my litteral translation, because only the two together can convey something from the experience of the original poem.

In the translation of this very special text I had some uncertainties and therefore almost surely made some errors. I have sent it to three Persian friends for a revision, but after more than a month none of them has replied yet. It seems like this feature is also a companion of the wonderful Persian character, like the shadow is of the light. Therefore I decided to publish my translation as it is. I will be grateful for any eventual corrections of our Readers.


Bijan Kamkar (Iranian Kurdistan) & Mastan Ensemble (Teheran): Gharibâne (As Strangers) (3'19")

As Strangers

Gharibâne

غریبانه

seek out, seek out in this house seek out in this house you are strangers as strangers seek out	بگردید ، بگردید ، درین خانه بگردید دراین خانه غریبند ، غریبانه بگردید begardīd, begardīd, dar in khâne begardīd dar in khâne gharībīd, gharībâne begardīd
a bird walked here who was a consort of my soul this world is not his nest seek the traces of his nest	یکی مرغ چمن بود که جفت دل من بود جهان لانه ی او نیست پی لانه بگردید yekī morgh-e chaman būd ke joft-e del-e man būd jahân lâne-ye ū nīst pey-e lâne begardīd
a cup-bearer became drunken he sat down behind the curtain he has sent the cup ahead so that you could seek it drunken	یکی ساقی مست است پس پرده نشسته ست قدح پیش فرستاد که مستانه بگردید yekī sâghī-ye mast ast pas-e parde neshast ast ghadah pīsh ferestâd ke mastâne begardīd
if the joy comes from drunkenness whose is the soul behind the lips? from one hand into the other – why would you seek any contract?	یکی لذت مستی ست ، نهان زیر لب کیست ؟ ازین دست بدان دست چو پیمانه بگردید yekī lazzat-e mastī’st, nahân zīr-e lab kīst? azīn dast bedân dast cho peymâne begardīd
a stranger bird ate in the garden of my heart I have tamed it – seek the traces of the seeds	یکی مرغ غریب است که باغ دل من خورد به دامش نتوان یافت ، پی دانه بگردید yekī morgh-e gharīb ast ke bâgh-e del-e man khōrd be dâmash betân yâft, pey-e dâne begardīd
is the sweet breath of the dawn breeze the fragrance I feel? here is he, here is he seek him in the whole house	نسیم نفس دوست به من خورد و چه خوشبوست همین جاست ، همین جاست ، همه خانه بگردید nasīm-e nafas-e dūst be man khōrd o che khoshbūst haminjâst, haminjâst, hame khâne begardīd
a never heard tune is sounding that springs forth from itself don’t sing in the middle of rumor seek the house of silence	نوایی نشنیده ست که از خویش رمیده ست به غوغاش مخوانید ، خموشانه بگردید navâye nashenīd’ ast ke az khavīsh ramīd’ ast be ghughâsh nakhânid, khamushâne begardīd
like tears falling on the earth we squeeze out the juice of the vine song is born from its fermentation – seek it in the taverns	سرشکی که بر آن خاک فشاندیم بن تاک در این جوش خروش است ، به خمخانه بگردید sershekī ke bar ân khâk feshândīm bun-e tâk dar in jūsh khorūsh ast, be khamkhâne begardīd
what is this sweetnes and this fragrance as if I felt it in my dream? this rose full of nectar is, oh butterflies, you must seek	چه شیرین و چه خوشبوست ، کجا خوابگه اوست ؟ پی آن گل پر نوش چو پروانه بگردید che shīrīn o che khoshbū’st, kojâ khavâbge ū’st? pey-e ân gol por-e nūsh cho parvâne begardīd
just laugh at argumentation do not admire its love in its circle closed with chains oh you fools, what do you seek?	بر آن عقل بخندید که عشقش نپسندید در این حلقه ی زنجیر چو دیوانه بگردید bar ân 'aghal bekhandīd ke 'eshghash nepasandīd dar īn halghe-ye zanjīr chu divâne begardīd
in this corner of sadness you cannot see his signs if you long for treasures seek them among the ruins	درین کنج غم آباد نشانش نتوان دید اگر طالب گنجید به ویرانه بگردید darīn kanj-e gham âbâd neshânash netavân dīd agar zâleb-e genjīd be vīrâne begardīd
a key to the gate of hope if it exists, you are that on that old lock of stone why do you seek any keyhole?	کلید در امید اگر هست شمایید درین قفل کهن سنگ چو دندانه بگردید kelīd-e dar-e omīd agar hast shomayīd darīn ghofal-e kohan-e sang cho dandâne begardīd
does a shadow hide the face covered in dream by a spell? do not search it in the dreams seek it in the rapture	رخ از سایه نهفته ست ، به افسون که خفته ست ؟ به خوابش نتوان دید ، به افسانه بگردید rokh az sâye nehfat’ ast, be afsūn ke khoft’ ast? be khavânash netân dīd, be afsâne begardīd
his essence bite into mine he robbed me, he robbed me accept his open heat seek him with gratitude	تن او به تنم خورد ، مرا برد ، مرا برد گرم باز نیاورد ، به شکرانه بگردید tan-e ū be tanam khōrd, marâ bord, marâ bord garm-e bâz biâvard, be shokrâne begardīd

The image of the bird walking around and pecking seeds in the garden as a metaphor of God makes more acceptable to me what I had read with surprise in the Hassidic stories, that the Hassidic rabbi of Szatmár interpreted the verse In a green forest, in a green meadow a bird is walking of the well-known Hungarian folk song as the symbol of God.

“Bismillah-bird”, composed of the letters of the Quranic verse Bismillah al-rahman al-rahim, “In the name of God, the merciful, the passionate”

Hushang Ebtehaj is still living, since 1987 in Köln. He must be really happy. It is not enough that he received a poetic talent and that he can write his poems in one of the most beautiful languages of the world, but they are also set to tune by the greatest representatives of one of the most subtle musical culture of the world – besides Bijan Kamkar, also by Shajarian and his son Homayoun – and they are sung, quoted and read by a hundred million people. To whom we can already count our Readers as well.

Rumi and Bach

It is a strange experience to see that not only our Western world cherishes fantasies on other civilizations, but they also do on us. True, for most of them the culture of the West is already a reality built in their everyday lives that does not leave much room for fantasy. However, there are also some exceptions like for example Persia.

I do not know whether the story I heard as a teenager that Khomeini, when asked about his opinion on the music of Bach and Beethoven answered like “I do not know these gentlemen” is true or not. However, that much is sure that nowadays there is not much possibility to get familiar with them in Iran.

The furnishings of the CD shops in Tehran are elegant, their supply of CDs majestic, and their assistants are entrancingly friendly. They can compete with any Western shop. We willingly spent several hours in them, listening to Persian classical CDs, slurping tea – in the Siyah o Sefid (“Black and White,” because it shares his premises with a movie theater) there was no tea, so we received peach drink in paper box with straw – and talking about the musicians with the assistants who often play some Iranian instrument themselves. The only thing that struck us was the supply of European classical CDs. Not that there were none, because indeed there were some. But that their supply was just as casual as that of Chinese, Arabic or Persian classical music in most European CD shops. Good and bad ones mixed up, randomly selected, and displayed without any internal principle of organization – we are so much accustomed to these uniform principles of organization applied in every European CD shop that their lack surprises us. All this made us suspect that local public knew this music no better than ours knows Chinese, Arab or Persian music. And we suspected it well.

Still at home we had invented that we would take with us some Bach CDs as a gift. Those musics we love the most and we esteem the highest – the solo violin sonatas performed by Grumiaux and the Art of the Fugue by Sokolov – and through which we can show the very best of our culture to those people whose culture had given so much wonderful music to us in the past years. It was peculiar to watch the faces of the people presented with these CDs. Apart from the novelty that the European man gives – as far as we saw, this was surprising to everyone –, they reflected a deep, but reserved reverence, as if they received the works of a great philosopher in deluxe binding, in the original language. They knew that Bach is a great name for a great civilization, but they had no personal link to him. It happened just in the Siyah o Sefid that talking about what makes good music we put one of the CDs in the player, and while Sokolov was playing, we analyzed why the music he was playing was good. The CD was over the half when the assistant – who was by the way very well versed in Persian classical music – got it that this was also music and not just a cultural icon, and that it can be played and analyzed just like his own well known music. That he can have a personal relation to it.

Davood Azad has not yet got it. As a well known Persian lute player and singer and, not least, as a real Sufi, two years ago, in the Year of Rumi he published in honor of his master Rumi his CD The Divan of Rumi and Bach, on which he sings the poems of Rumi accompanying himself on tar, the typical Northern Iranian lute of the shape of a number 8, while the ground is given by some piano works of Bach. This could theoretically result in something interesting, although I have never heard any rearrangement of Bach that added something to the value of the original instead of decreasing it. But the result is unconvincing. The music has a grotesque, comic effect. It is split in a strange way. The singing and the tar are up to the standards of Persian music, although their quality is undoubtedly harmed by the fact that they have to give up the meditative rhythm of Persian music and have to adapt themselves to the bound European rhythm. The piece of Bach, however, sounds as mechanical and primitive as a hurdy-gurdy.


Rumi: Blessings unto you + Bach: Third English Suite, Gavotte I and II (7'40")

Jean Durand writes in his great introductory monograph The art of Persian music (Washington, 1991): “When we do not understand a kind of music, we tend to find it monotonous and repetitive. Western music, in fact, seems very monotonous to many Orientals.” If this is true, then on this CD we can hear with our own ears how it seems to them.

It is a strange feeling to hear Bach in the presentation of a musician who is technically qualified enough for the acoustic reproduction of the score, but does not possess the tradition that could lead him how to perform it. In Europe, by the time one learns to master the piano at this level, he has already acquired – to a great extent without being aware of it – this tradition as well. He knows what this music is about, what its inner dynamic – in Bach, the counterpoint – is that he has to unfold in the performance, and how large room it leaves to him to unfold his own personality. He will have a personal relation to it. This relation can be of many kind, from the subtle, signal-like decorations of Perahia through the rich tones of Schiff to the tensions of Glenn Gould. Even the extreme aloofness of Robert Levin is not identical with the mechanical sound of Azad’s hurdy-gurdy: aloofness is also a relation you can like or dislike. (Nevertheless, I find it peculiar that the Bachakademie of Stuttgart selected exactly his performance for the Complete Works of Bach by Hänssler.)


Murray Perahia, Gavotte I (1'32") and Gavotte II (1'38")

Glenn Gould, Gavotte I (0'50") and Gavotte II (1'09")

Robert Levin, Gavotte I and II (3'48")

András Schiff, Gavotte I and II (3'21")

Ivo Pogorelich, Gavotte I and II (4'31")

The question is why one performs a music he has no relation to. By reading the Persian and Western press of Azad I see that most probably for the same reason which encourages European and American groups to perform – completely misunderstood – Tibetan or Arabic music: because there is a demand for it on the market. Persian blogs write with awe about “our son” who was able to put even Western music into the service of Islam mysticism, while Western esoteric circles listen with awe to the shreds of Oriental music, extremely simplified and forced into the frames of Western rhythm and melody, and played with an etherealized expression by an an enchantingly guru-looking Iranian Sufi. How much simpler and more rewarding is this than what the greatest living tar player Majid Derakhshani does, for example, by establishing in Germany an institution for the dissemination of real Persian music in the Western world, and by performing with such musical accompaniment the poems of Rumi, as in the following recording where he performs together with the greatest living Persian singer Mohammad Reza Shajarian.

Rumi - Shajarian, Derakhshani: Ân jâm-e jân afzâi-râ bar-riz bar jân sâqia!
(Pour that soul-increasing goblet in my soul, cup-bearer!)

Hen panta einai. All Is One

“Sufi” – wrote an American student in the rubrics “Religion” of the statistical questionnaire distributed at the seminary of phenomenology of religion. “Sufi?” I asked her. “What do you do as a Sufi?” “Well, we perform Sufi dances and read the poems of Rumi.” “That is, you know Persian?” “No, why? Rumi has been translated in English!”

The philologically faithful translation of the great didactic poem Mathnawī of Jalaladdin Rumi in fact renders correctly the content of the work, but it does not convey anything of the beauty of the poem. And in the very free versions made on the basis of English prose translations quite often the original meaning is lost, as well as the wonderful word plays and associations. I breathed a sigh. “Do you also study the Quran?” I asked the Sufi girl. She looked incredulously at me. “Why? We are Sufis, not – how do they say it – Mohammedans!” I shaked my head. “But Sufis are Muslim mystics!” I answered. “Oh no, we love every religion. Love is the most important thing!” she said with shining face. I did a last attempt. “And what do you know about the prophet Mohamed?” As I had suspected, she did not know anything about him who for every Sufi is the starting and focal point of his own chain of masters and disciples, and who, in their eyes, was the first real Sufi. I gave it up.

But what can we do when a very popular author boldly asserts that Goethe, Saint Francis, Napoleon and many others were Sufis? On what basis can we expect of the public a deeper knowledge of the history and essence of Sufism? For it is not easy anyway to answer the question what Sufism is and what makes a Sufi.

(Annemarie Schimmel, Sufismus. Eine Einführung in die islamische Mystik, München: Beck, 2000)

Through a veil, darkly. Translations of a poem by Omar Khayyam

اسرار ازل را نه تو دانی و نه من
وين حرف معما نه تو خوانی و نه من
هست از پس پرده گفت‌وگوی من و تو
چون پرده برافتد نه تو مانی و نه من

Asrâr-e azal-râ na to dâni o na man
win harf-e mo'ammâ na to khâni o na man
hast az pas-e parde goftogu-ye man o to
chun parde baroftad na to mâni o na man

Recited by Ahmad Shamlou (1'03")

In my own literal translation:

The mysteries of eternity are known neither to you nor me the enigma can be read neither by you nor me behind the veil a discourse goes on about me and you when the veil disappears there remain neither you nor me

The untranslatable beauty of the Persian original comes in the first place from its refined musical structure. A solid frame is set by the rhymes dâni - khâni - mâni “[you] know – read – remain” alternating in the construction na to... o na man, “neither you... nor I” repeated in three lines. These lines are dominated by the vowels “a” and “â” (long closed ‘a’) and by the consonants “r, l, m, n” which give the poem a deep, resounding and fatal tone, as if we were listening to the lines of the One Ring (by the way it seems to me that Tolkien borrowed a lot from Persian to create the language of Mordor). The third line stands in sharp contrast to the other three, its vowels abruptly becoming high and sharp and its consonants hissing and pattering, and also the construction “neither you nor me” becomes the opposite “me and you” (man o to).

There are two problematic points in the interpretation of this poem. A minor problem is that in place of harf-e mo'ammâ (“enigmatic writing/word”), appearing in the second line, several versions have hall-e mo'ammâ (“the solution of the enigma”). This is how we hear it in Shamlou’s voice in the above recital. The verb that follows, khândan (“read” or “recite”) allows for both possibilities. Recent editions prefer harf, so I follow them. However, the translation of this expression is also ambiguous: it can mean both “reading the enigmatic script” and “reciting the secret word.” Francesco Gabrieli, Khayyam’s Italian translator (1944, in his edition, the poem is numbered 193), for example, opts for the latter:

I segreti dell’eternità né tu né io conosciamo Quella parola misteriosa né tu, né io sappiam profferire Di dietro un velo si svolge il tuo e mio parlare: quando cade il velame, né tu né io ci siam più. (The laws of eternity are not known either by you or me That mysterious word cannot be pronounced either by you or me From behind a veil goes our discourse: when the veil falls, there are neither you nor me any more.)

In the note appended to this expression he even explains that “that mysterious word” is „la chiave del mistero dell’universo”, that is, the key to the mystery of the universe. This idea is interesting, but entirely groundless. In the Sufi tradition no reference is made to such an all-powerful word. This is why I translated it rather as “reading the secret script,” but I have yet to verify the tradition of this metaphor in Sufi poetry.

However, the real difficulty lays in the third line. In fact, this can be translated in several ways, but with each translation there is some problem.

A literal translation of this phrase would be: “from behind a veil is the discourse of me and you.” So the simplest way would be to translate it as “you and me speak with each other from behind a veil.” This is how we find it in Gabrieli who immediately attaches a second misleading commentary to the word “veil,” identifying it with human body: as if after discussing the mysteriousness of the universe, Khayyam switched to the problem that we cannot even understand each other while living in the flesh here on earth. This Wittgensteinian problem, however, did not interest the Sufis. We find no allusion to it in their writings. They are concerned only with the possibility of a direct relationship with God and the this-worldly limits of such a relationship. Such limits were referred to by them with the topos of the “veil.” The widespread use of this topos is highlighted by the fact that the recently deceased (2003) great Islamic scholar Annemarie Schimmel also gave the title As through a veil: mystical poetry in Islam to her standard work on Sufi poetry.

However, this metaphor assumes that we are in front of the veil hiding the mystery from us. How can our discourse then come from behind of the veil?

One of the most recent and most exact English translations of Khayyam was published in 1979 by Peter Avery and John Heath-Stubbs. According to the foreword, it is “as literal an English version of the Persian originals as readability and intelligibility permit”. The third line of poem number 7, in the spirit of this compromise, strives to reconcile the “behind” of the Persian original with the “in front” of the traditional veil metaphor by attempting to translate “from behind” as “this side”.

Neither you nor I know the mysteries of eternity, Neither you nor I read this enigma; You and I only talk this side of the veil; When the veil falls, neither you nor I will be here.

Igor A. Golubev, in his monumental Russian edition of 2005 – where he collected and translated from Persian more than 1300 quatrains of Khayyam – allows himself an even larger poetica licentia. In this poem, numbered 996 in his edition, we do not speak behind the veil, but about the secrets hiding behind the veil. A more reassuring, more sober and more materialistic solution indeed, with the only flaw is that it is not supported at all by the Persian original.

Покрова с вечных тайн ни ты не снял, ни я: Неясным письменам ни ты не внял, ни я. Гадаем мы с тобой о скрытом за покровом... Но упади покров – ни ты б не встал, ни я. (Neither you nor I pulled down the veil from the eternal secret Neither you nor I understood the unclear script We are just guessing about the secrets behind the veil, But drop the veil – and neither you will stand up, nor I.)

Another solution to the dilemma is that it is not we who speak behind the veil, but that there is something spoken about us, it’s only that Khayyam left out the preposition دربارۀ darbâre-ye “about” from before man o to for the sake of a flawless rhythm. On this presupposition are based a number of authoritative versions, like the English Khayyam-translation (1882 and 1883, where this poem is number 389) by the eminent Persian philologist Edward Henry Whinfield (1836-1922), who also composed the first copiously commented translations of Hafez and Rumi:

Nor you nor I can read the etern decree To that enigma we can find no key They talk of you and me behind the veil But, if that veil be lifted, where are we?

Such ellipsis is also supposed by the Persian poet and homme de lettres Karim Emami (1930-2005). His anthology of Khayyam, published in 1988 under the title The Wine of Nishapur, accompanied by the calligraphy of Nassrollah Afje'i and the photography of Shahrokh Golestan, is the first English translation of Khayyam undertaken by a Persian translator.

Eternal secrets are not for you and me to share Cryptic letters are not for you and me to read. Behind the curtain there is a muffled discussion of you and me, And when the curtain falls, there will be no longer a you or I.

Ten years later, another Persian man of letters, the Vancouver-based Shahriar Shahriari, prepared some nicely ringing and faithful English translations which he published together with the Persian original, together with the English version by Fitzgerald, and an anonymous German translation on the site okonlife.com. What is more, in the vein of a charming medieval Persian custom, he also added a short quatrain to each poem to unfold their respective moral lessons. In the third verse of this poem, he also endorses the interpretation of Whinfield and Emami, while in the second verse, in contrast to them, he accepts the alternative hall-e mo'ammâ. Comically enough, the German translation published in parallel with this poem follows the pedestrian solution of Golubev.

The secrets eternal neither you know nor I And answers to the riddle neither you know nor I Behind the veil there is much talk about us, why When the veil falls, neither you remain nor I. Meaning: In vain we scream, in vain shout And try our best to find out And when it’s end of our route What’s left is simply naught.

Edward Fitzgerald (1809-1883), who was the first to publish, in four editions between 1859 and 1879, an English translation of altogether 114 quatrains, thus launching the European cult of Khayyam, admittedly treated his material in quite a free manner. His translations reflect much more his own taste and that of his Victorian age than the original message of the poems. In this quatrain (number 32 in the first, third and fourth editions, but number 35 in the second one) he gets around the problem of the interpretation of the third line by isolating the topos of the veil and shifting it up in the second line – omitting from there the “enigma,” and also replacing the “secrets of eternity” in the first line with a self-coined metaphor. Thus he separates from it the obscure discourse about “you and me,” as if it were whispered by marsh-fires around us on the moorland right before retribution overtakes us. A nice gothic solution indeed, but has not much to do with its original.

There was a Door to which I found no Key There was a Veil past which I might not see: Some little talk awhile of ME and THEE There seem’d – and then no more of THEE and ME.

At this point I badly needed a thorough Persian commentary of Khayyam. I only managed to get a relatively laconic version – but even so about 500 pages long – in Tehran, with the title ترانه های خیام Tarânaha-ye Khayyâm, that is “Songs of Khayyam,” compiled by Mohammad Baqer Najafzadeh Barforush (Amir Kabir Publisher, 2004). Even this was not easy to obtain, because most bookshops only have pocket editions of Khayyam. Finally I found this one in the shop of the ثالث Saless publisher on Kharimkhân-e Zand Avenue, where the bookshops with the richest choice line up: the outstanding edition of Hafez by Mohammad Estelami was also on sale only here. This commentary quotes from the discussion written by the Rumi scholar Mohammad Taqi Ja'fari (1923-2007) on the last two verses of this poem. He too interprets this line by assuming that the discourse goes about us behind the veil:

با دقب کافی در این رباعی، می بینیم، چند علم در این رباعی ادعا شده است: علم یکم: واقعیات در معرفت بشری بر دو نوع است. نوع اول، روشن، آشکار و قابل فهم. نوع دوم، تاریک و معما و غیر قابل فعم، علم دوم: عالم هستی بر دو رویه تقسیم می گردد: ۱) رویۀ پشت پرده. ۲) رویۀ ظاهری پرده. علم سوم: گفتوگویی دربارۀ من و تو در پشت پرده در جریان است. علم چهارم: اگر پرده برداشته شود نه تو خواهی ماند و نه من (که البته این علم چهارم دارای احتمالاتی است.) ی

Let us observe how many experiences [Khayyam] gives account of in this rubai. The first experience is that reality is present in human knowledge in two ways: in a clear, obvious and understandable form on the one hand, and in a dark, mysterious and unintelligible form on the other hand. The second experience is that the wise man distinguishes two faces of the things: 1. the face behind the veil and 2. the one outside the veil. The third one is that the discourse about us goes on behind the veil. And the fourth one is that if we draw the veil away, there remains neither you nor I (this fourth experience is of course only of a contingent nature).

But who might speak about us behind the veil? The God of Islam is a lonely God, not the Christian Trinity between whose Persons an eternal dialogue goes on. His absolute majesty excludes His “conversing” with His creatures. He gives commands only to spiritual beings of the highest rank, and he also contacted Mohammad only through the medium of an angel. Even the Sufi who strives after the most complete proximity to Him can only speechlessly dissolve and lose himself in Him “as the butterfly in the flame of the candle.” And it would be in fact quite pretentious to think that such a God, even if conversing with someone, converses precisely about us, however great a satisfaction this would give the Pascalian reed.

I hope that by the time I know better the mystical poetry of Islam, and perhaps also will have found a more detailed commentary to Khayyam, I will understand more profoundly this line as well.

In the meantime let us see for a moment how the Hungarian translators of Khayyam coped with this quatrain.

The Hungarian tradition of Khayyam was established by the renowned poet Lőrinc Szabó (1900-1957) who translated his quatrains from the English of Fitzgerald in three versions, in 1920, 1930 and 1943. He introduced the first edition of 1920 with a foreword (also published in another version in the prestigious literary review Nyugat), in which he exalts the discovering and pioneering merits of Fitzgerald – and thus, indirectly, himself – who has wiped the dust of seven centuries’ oblivion off the – rather unworthy – poems of Khayyam:

Because there lived an Omar Khayyam, far, far away, somewhere in Persia, a long, long time ago, at the turn of the eleventh and twelfth centuries [...] completely abandoned and misjudged, in great misery, until he finally died in Nishapur. His tomb is exhibited there even today. [...] His poems have not survived. I mean there are some thousand rubaiyat left under his name, but who knows whether it was really he who wrote them. Some of them probably yes, but even this part is impossible to identify. [...] It produced no effect when these short poems were deciphered on the recently discovered papyrus rolls. [sic!] It seemed as if Omar Khayyam was definitely lost for the world. The forgotten poet was waiting in vain for being discovered right until the middle of the last century. It was then, in 1859 that the English translation of Edward Fitzgerald saw the light of day.

However, if he already knew about the tomb of Khayyam in Nishapur, it would have not been a great effort to look up the chapter on Nishapur in the highly popular travelogue of the Hungarian Islam scholar Ármin Vámbéry (1832-1913), Vándorlásaim és élményeim Perzsiában (My wanderings and experiences in Persia). Vámbéry, who traveled extensively all over Persia in the same years of the publication of the first translations of Fitzgerald, wrote this note on Nishapur:

The other poet whose corpse lays in Nishapur, Khayyam, stands in sharp contrast to the other [Attar]. [...] Nevertheless, the poems of Khayyam are just as widely read as those of the other.

And the situation is the same even today, more than a hundred years later. Whoever saw the film The wind will carry us, by Abbas Kiarostami, will certainly remember the episode when the old district doctor of the tiny Kurdish village and the engineer visiting the village rush off on a shaky small motorbike on a white dirt road meandering in the wonderful Kurdish landscape, reciting in unison by heart the poems of Khayyam.


In the editions of 1920 and 1930, Lőrinc Szabó translates the quatrain like this (with numbers 30 and 33, respectively):

Volt egy Kapu: de kulcsa elveszett; volt egy Fátyol: nem tépte szét kezed; ma még miénk a hír s holnapra már kiejt rostáján az Emlékezet! (There was a Gate: but its key was lost there was a Veil: your hands did not tear it the fame is still ours today, but by tomorrow Memory will let us fall through her sieve.)

It is quite understandable that the young and ambitious Lőrinc Szabó was much more concerned about the problem of the transitoriness of fame than either Khayyam or Fitzgerald in their original versions. However, by transposing the subject of the “discourse about us” from behind the transcendent veil into the world, he extirpated from the rubai even the last remnants of the Sufi mystics left behind by Fitzgerald, making it just as materialistic as Golubev’s version. I don’t know whether he realized this, his thirst for recognition abated in the following twenty-three years, or he just simply gave a more attentive reading to Fitzgerald’s original, but the fact is that in the third edition of 1943 with number 32 already this version figured:

Volt ott egy Kapu, kulcsa elveszett; volt egy Fátyol, látni nem engedett; mondták, hogy ÉN meg TE, de azután a TE meg ÉN elnémult, vége lett. (There was a Gate there, its key was lost, there was a Veil that did not let to see they told ME and YOU, but then the YOU and ME fell silent, came to an end.)

Apart from Lőrinc Szabó it is worth mentioning only one more Hungarian translator of Khayyam, Dezső Tandori (1938-), and even him only because he made his translations not from the English of Fitzgerald, but on the basis of the rough translations made from the original Persian by the Islam scholar Róbert Simon (1939-). However, he could have prepared them from anything else; the result would have been the same one hundred percent Tandori instead of Khayyam, just like any other translation by this genius of contemporary Hungarian literature.

Titkát az örökvalónak éljük – s mire van? Rejtély ez az írás, sose értjük, mire van. Színmű, hol a függöny épp a lényeg veleje, felmegy, lemegy, és bár soha nem kérjük – van. (We live the secret of eternity – but what is it for? This writing is a mystery, we never understand what it is for. A drama where the curtain is the nub of the essence, it rises and it falls, and although we never ask for it – it is.

The first two lines he could bear with some attention, but by the beginning of the third, he has arrived at the end of his tether. Until that point there was no sparrow, horse or bear – the obligatory topics of the Master – in the poem, on hearing the word “veil” or “curtain,” he nervously snorted: “from here I will continue.” And he has. True, Khayyam would not thank him for this, but Hungarian literature will thank him for the idiom “the nub of the essence” which cries out to be cast in bronze. It is just as worthy a match of the genial trouvaille “the secret of the enigma”, coined by the Hungarian humorist Frigyes Karinthy (1887-1938) in the title of his parody of Stephen Leacock, as is Tandori’s entire translation a match for that famous quote from another parody by Karinthy where the poem of Endre Ady, which begins with “I came from the shore of the Ganges”, is transformed in the hands of a number of translators into “In the salami by Herz the salt is extremely dense.”

Nevertheless the blunder of Tandori is crowned by the anthology of Khayyam A mulandóság mámora (The rapture of transitoriness, Terebess 1997) selected by Ágota Steiner from several Hungarian translators. Steiner in number 47 – obviously attracted by the buzzword of “curtain” – hastily included Tandori’s version as a translation of that quatrain which figures in the 1943 edition by Lőrinc Szabó with number 52 like this:

átvillan az Örök Színpadon és megint a Homály Függönyébe vész, mely körülömli a Drámát, mit Ő maga rendez, játszik és maga néz. (Flashing through the Eternal Stage and getting lost again in the Curtain of Darkness which surrounds the Drama that is directed, played and watched by Himself.)

Curtain, curtain. Anyway, every poem of Khayyam speaks about one and the same thing, wasn’t this already stated by Fitzgerald? But the intricate question of how any curtain or director comes to a Persian stage of eight hundred years ago, should yet be the object of the translation and analysis of another quatrain of Khayyam.

Each has spoken according to his humor
No one can define the face of things.

(Khayyam)