Iraj Pezeshkzad’s “Prosecuting an Author”: A Translation and Short Commentary

“Prosecuting an Author,” A Short Story of Iraj Pezeshkzad: A Translation and Short Commentary

 Alireza Korangy

Before venturing into a brief hermeneutical query as to the thematic parameters of “Prosecuting an Author,” and then its translation, it is perhaps prudent to first address Pezeshkzad as an author as means of a segue into his work—and particularly the work at hand. Iraj Pezeshkzad (1927-2022) was an Iranian novelist and diplomat who revolutionized the genre of the Persian novel with his immensely successful Da’i Jan Napelon (Dear Uncle Napoleon)—a stern and scathing social commentary which meant to offend the existential peripheries of Iranian life at large; although some oddly—and or mistakenly—have construed the novel to be a highlighting of misunderstood Iranian traits by the West. On the other hand, literati abound have attributed its success to the main character who embodies the never-ending Iranian preoccupation with conspiracy theories and suspicion of foreigners (especially the British). It goes without saying that the ever-watchful and ever-imposing concept of the West at large is a theme of choice by Pezeshkzad. He represents a kind of resistance movement which finds true ideological liberation in repentance and of course acceptance: acceptance that the problem is not with the West but rather as Bahār poignantly utters, az māst kih bar māst (“it is our tree, we are sitting in it”).[1]

A no nonsense author, Pezeshkzad’s greatest asset is his truthfulness and his ability to highlight the sometimes curiously comic faults with his milieu—without excluding himself as a responsible role player in the same. Pezeshkzad’s chief concern in his works behooves an honest and personal angst against the hypocrisies of Iranian everyday life, a society in which he feels—and portrays—allegory and hyperbolic images pepper self-descriptions and actions, but not as one would expect. There is an ironic tinge to what he sees as an Iranian sense of self-hood—and pomp and circumstance—which is clearly delineated in works such as Da’i Jan Napelon and others: self-aggrandizement, often through a self-lowering, imbued with an intense culturally-innate martyr complex, drenched in literary nostalgia. This short essay is yet another example of his true hand at yawping the painful truth, and this time by taking a close look at his, and perhaps even through his place in the world as a writer: although he never reveals the identity of this writer, the details are that of his life, and wholly presented: e.g., he translated from the French in his early literary career some of the works of Voltaire and Molière as he mentions early in this short story.

Undoubtedly, anyone, in any field of their interest and / or in their occupation, would see a bit of themselves in the narrator’s self-description in which he serves as the judge, jury, accused, and the executioner. On numerous occasions, Pezeshkzad has referred to writing, mostly his own, as ārājīf (“folderol”). In a sense, his self-description extends far beyond his own anxieties as a writer and can translate into an angst poignantly aimed at the moral decrepitation rotting the otherwise well-intended foundations of writing, whether novels, and / or poetry. Below is an example of when, in the state of questioning how he can recuse himself for writing so much, he implies that he is merely an apprentice when it comes to writing for all the wrong reasons—and there are those who have far exceeded his “audacity.” Although it will become clear in the translation of “Prosecuting an Author”, the judge and the defendant (accused) are himself:

Judge: Then how come you have written so much?

Accused: Sir, if you saw how much Ostad Mosta‘an[2] wrote, then you would think my writing is but a few lines.

As such, in defense of his own self-involvement, he is criticizing the literary scene at large. He mocks the romanticization of writing witnessed in most writers of fiction—and further ballooned exponentially by those who read it.

            Pezeshkzad further touches on the inclination of the non-Western writer (particularly those in Iran) to fetishize the works of the writer in the West. There is a sort of what we see in the works of the likes of the Russian Romantic writers of the nineteenth century, e.g., Fyodor Kuzmich Sologub’s The Little Demon,[3] and Goncharov’s Oblomov,[4] and other great works. On one occasion, below, Pezeshkzad refers to the French works he had to pretend to re-create (that is, to write as though they were French original works) just to translate them in a literary magazine: quite ironic as why not simply admit it is yours and take credit for writing? This fascination with the West is of course seen in the ‏‏über-descriptive said works where Russians with absolutely no knowledge of French would only have great works of French literature in their library so as to seem worldly. We have the same criticism here by Pezeshkzad.

            Pezeshkzad joined the core of writers and translators in Iran at a time of great confusion, when subscribing to the Western fashion of writing was, equally, both criticized and more often romanticized. His characters are often completely enamored with being entrenched with vogues of the day—and learned—in the Western literary tradition. Further, he questions the actual intent of writing for many in his literary milieu. Often, he creates characters who ventriloquize real personae in Iran, and one can see that by doing so he was well aware of the master lexicographer, thinker, and poet Dehkhoda’s well-known Charand Parand (Nonesense).[5] While satirizing individuals, he is able to shed light, also, on foundational reasons as to those behavioral traits. As such, his is satirical didacticism at its best and the characters he employs are ever-so-familiar to any Iranian reading his works. He is speaking to the worldly wants and desires that burden the writer’s ability to truly influence and he speaks also to the refrain set upon the intent of the writer by their fervent desire to be recognized while alive. Through didacticism he aims to edify and awaken:

Judge: Do you really think this type of crap is the same as Golestan of Sa’di, and destined to stay around here on after?

Accused: Sir, I didn’t mean 120 years. I meant for a few months, in case I go travelling and come back, so friends don’t forget me.

The irony of Pezeshkzad’s critique of writing is that it is his criticism and anxiety that peppers his absolutely intoxicating writing and in fact one can even imagine that his criticism of the self finds itself in his works quite regularly. Perhaps one can cite when Dā’i Jān set out to write an epistolary masterpiece to Adolf Hitler so as to solicit his aid in leaving Iran. In the character of Da’i Jān, in the process of writing to Hitler, by the behest of Āghā jān—and the manner of writing indeed—he portrays the utter disillusionment of his character by believing that 1) Hitler actually will read this and 2) his epistolary technique of flighty munshī style would prompt Hitler to recognize what a great persona of high stature he would be saving: self-aggrandizement at its best.

All said, the following short story is a freeze-frame of Pezeshkzad’s self-hood as a writer and the trials therein. The story also speaks to exaggerations and über-exaggerations afforded to folk that at best hold no truth, e.g., “Judge [self]: One of these people of pen [Sarcastic!] has written you were born a writer. Well, tell me! Name something you wrote before or upon birth.” These baseless lionizations highlighted in his work speak to a larger society-wide flaw and this is exactly what Pezeshkzad’s intent here and in his overall career seems to have been: buffooning the human condition—and successful at that!

Translation: “Prosecuting an Author”

Perhaps you are aware that a few of my critical essays, written a few years back, have been compiled under one cover and were published just recently under the title of Bobol. 

When it was published, a few of my literary pals, took a kind and favorable view of it, as they say, and wrote their thoughts about it. It goes without saying, I was happy to be lionized by these friends, but to be honest I nagged a bit about it too to myself:

“Ha! Ha!, these guys sure are exaggerating..!!!”

“Writer!…Really!…Good writer!…O really!!!”

But when I got home and I saw my reflection in the mirror I realized I am looking at my poor reflection in an entirely new way…side view…whole view…this way… and that…and a fright overtook me, as I knew my human side had done what it was bound to do [Glorify me!]

Even if I didn’t consider myself the crown jewel of all writers, still…hey look!…I mean come on!!!…Ohum…Ohum [pomp and circumstance]…: like a peacock I perched up my chest.

But my reflection in the mirror hit [me] back with a frown—and to save this weak, pathetic human from himself, he became the judge and jury. As such the court proceedings began, questions, answers, and the whole gamut. The crime was my undeservingly foolish self-perception:

Judge: The accused may rise.

Accused: Yes, Sir your honor.

Judge: You admit that you are a writer.

Accused: Well, what should I say Sir. They say I am.

Judge: No! It is quite clear that you feel comfortable with that estimation too!

Accused: No Sir, but…

Judge: It is in your best interest to confess. It may mean leniency when considering your punishment later.

Accused: Well, it’s not that I have believed and accepted the accolade, yet there is for some reason a party inside me.

Judge: Confess! Confess! The court appointed doctor’s prognosis is that this dangerous disease is in you! Confess I say! Truth will free you!

Accused: (trembling, afraid, and shameful) I admit! I confess!

Judge: Defendant, I am sure you are aware that a writer must be a born writer—a God-given gift.

Are you aware of such talent in you?

Accused: Please elaborate further…[since] I don’t know what a talent in writing truly implies!

Judge: He who has that talent cannot sit still. Everything motivates him to write. There is an ever-lit flame within him only appeased by the touch of his pen upon the paper. Have you ever felt that way?

Accused: No, your honor.

Judge: For a writer loves to write and for him writing trumps all. Have you ever shunned all typical worldly usual suspects, e.g., wine, cozy embrace of laziness, a beloved, and a drinking companion so that you could only write?

Accused: Your honor, I would claim to be wise if I said yes!

Judge, So, then why have you written and continue to write?

Accused: It is a long story Sir!

Judge: So that the court is aware, briefly enlighten us!

Accused: Sir when I was about 15 or 16 years old, I had already grown tall, yet I had kind of a baby face. On different occasions no one paid much attention to me. The young people of 24 or 25 years old wouldn’t give me the time of day and this really was difficult for me. This kind of made me think that I should do something to make up for my youth and do something special.

Judge: Well, if you were going to show off, why did you pick this line of work?

Accused: Because in every other field I couldn’t really hit the mark.

Judge: Example…?

Accused: First I thought about becoming a painter.

Judge: Why didn’t you pursue that?

Accused: Because one day I drew the picture of this movie star (Paulette Goddard)[6] from the cover of the of Hindi magazine Shaypūr (Trumpet). Other than one person, everyone else said it was utter shit!

Judge: Who was that one person?

Accused: My Mama.

Judge: What other fields did you dabble in?

Accused: Being a poet.

Judge: Did you write any?

Accused: Yes, Sir.

Judge: At what age?

Accused: When I was 16.

Judge: Why did you not continue?

Accused: Because everyone thought that my first poem was utter shit too!

Judge: Even your mom?

Accused: Even my mom???

Judge: Do you remember any of it?

Accused: Just a bit of it.

Judge: Enlighten the court by reciting a few lines.

Accused: O northern wind stroll past that coquettish moon

And let it know of how doth the lover so sadly swoon

Tell it that Iraj from the lonesome of his home

Sends you a message, O sun of every nook and cranny, and every dome:

How nice the day that you and I hand clasped in hand

Walk the earth: mountain to mountain, sea to desert land

Our vigor and love-drunk state in every autumn would bring

The greenery and flowers anew as though Spring…

Judge (frowning): Enough!!! Truly they had every right to deem this shit! Ok, why didn’t you write modern poetry.

Accused: Because I wanted the fame attained by the kinds of Ali Akbar Kasma’i and Ali Jalali—the young contemporary writers of the time.

Judge: Why didn’t you write in the same magazines they wrote in?

Accused: Because they rejected me.

Judge: How come Hollywood magazine accepted your work?

Accused: Because it was a new magazine and didn’t have many submissions. Also, people like me were the clique that wrote expecting no pay.

Judge: How long did you work with this magazine?

Accused: 3 or 4 months.

Judge: Then why did you leave this magazine?

Accused: Because one day I went to the editor-in-chief of the magazine. He opened the book which I was translating. Incidentally, he saw the word “Ogre” which means beast and ghoul. He didn’t know what it means and asked me what it means. Since I didn’t know the meaning either my face got torch red. After that I couldn’t face him anymore.

Judge: Then what happened?

Accused: Then for a while I devised until one day I translated a funny story I had gotten access to, by a French Satirist—and then I went to Iṭṭilāʻāt Farhangī (Cultural News) magazine. I lingered in the hallway until the editor-in-chief came out of his office. Shaking and shy I handed it to him. I think he may have had some urgent matter to attend to because his back was bent, and his feet were going nuts under him. So, to get rid of me, he took the article and said, “If it is good we will publish it”.

Judge: What was the name of the editor-in-chief?

Accused: Mr. Ahmad Shahidi.

Judge: Then what happened?

Accused: The week after they published it.

Judge: Were you really happy?

Accused: I was so happy I was about to have an out of body experience.

Judge: Then what happened.

Accused: Then I translated some more stories from the same French author and they published them.

Judge: What happened after translating his stories?

Accused: Then, I would write stories and would translate them as though they were his.

Judge: You are telling me you didn’t know it is wrong to do that?

Accused: Your honor, there were others who did the same, therefore…

Judge: Well, you got what you wanted, no?

Accused: Yes Sir! My friends and acquaintances would see my name in that magazine and hear my name at parties and such I no longer considered myself an outsider.

Judge:  OK! After you had left this position for a few years, how did you start again? When you returned to Tehran, some irresistible [sarcastically] force prompted you to begin writing again?

Accused: No Sir!

Judge: Then why did you?!

Accused: Because I had nothing better to do and being jobless irked me.

Judge: Why did you continue writing when you had a real job?

Accused: Sir, we left the waterskin, but it didn’t leave us [lit. I was infatuated with it].

Judge: When someone is truly blessed with the gift of writing, as soon as they pick up a pen the pen moves across the paper with ease: Did you write with facility as well?

Accused: No Sir! I had a hard time.

Judge: Then how come you have written so much?

Accused: Sir, if you saw how much Ostad Mosta’an wrote, then you wouldn’t think my writing is but a few lines.

Judge: You say you are untalented and yet how come you are one of the more mentioned authors?

Accused: Sir because it’s a mess out there.

Judge: What is the purpose of all this stuff you published under the title Bobol?

Accused: So that I would have a legacy.

Judge: Do you really think this type of crap is the same as Golestan of Sa’di, and destined to stay around here on after?

Accused: Sir, I didn’t mean 120 years. I meant for a few months, in case I go travelling and come back, so friends don’t forget me.

Judge: One of these people of pen [Sarcastic!] has written that you were born a writer. Well, tell me! Name something you wrote before—or upon birth.

Accused: Sir, you are mistaken Sir! This was written in one of the written media about Ostad Manuchehr Varasta,[7] and if you remember Sir, I myself did research for the Supreme Council and it was determined that he had written a method to teach English when he was in his mother’s womb and that he taught his twin brother—right there in his mother’s womb.

Judge: They have said you, too, have been born a writer!

Accused: Well! It seems when I was born, just like today, everything was kind of screwy too.

Judge: Defendant! What do you have to say for yourself in terms of your final defense?

Accused (poem): My Lordship my sin may be too hefty to describe

But it holds no candle to your immense merciful vibe

—The court goes into a state of uproar

Judge: The Defendant may rise! I will now read the verdict of the court—After having fully, fairly, and completely listened to the comments of the accused, this court, beyond any reasonable doubt rules that the accused has committed the crime attributed to them—and the accused, in lieu of his youth and ignorance is hereby given a reduced sentence of a writing ban for four years, from 1960-1964. The findings and verdict have been communicated to the accused and he has indicated that he concurs with the decision of the court and has no call for an appeal of this decision.

*Publisher: Unfortunately, and apparently due to the esteemed writer’s position in the policy table at the State Department, the said ban, up to this point (Spring 1970) has continued!

This is an original translation of “Prosecuting an Author,” as are all other translations mentioned.

Alireza Korangy, Ph.D. teaches at the American University of Beirut. His research focuses on Semitic and Iranian philology and linguistics, poetics, and 12^th-century Persian literary devices.

[1] Malik al-Shu‘arā Bahār, Divān-i Ash‘ār (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1944), 65-67.

[2] This is in reference to H. Mosta’an, prolific journalist, writer, and translator (d. 1983). In his reference to Mosta’an, who is known for his unparalleled work ethic and fervor to write, Pezeshkzad could perhaps be insinuating that some people are born to write, and some are not. In the case of Mosta’an, he could be inferring that he is of the former ilk; yet some erroneously feel that since others write, write copiously, and well, they should write as well, and who is to say otherwise!

[3] Fyodor Sologub, The Little Demon (New York: Penguin, 2013).

[4] Ivan Goncharov, Oblomov (New York: Bunim and Bannigan Ltd., 2006).

[5] Ali Akbar Dehkhoda, Charand Parand (Tehran: Nilufar, 2019).

[6] American actress and the third wife of Charlie Chaplin (1910-1990).

[7] A celebrated author and educator in teaching English.