Berlin, Paris, and Tehran: Iranian Writers in the European World, 1900–1960 By Roberto Minichini

During the first decades of the twentieth century, literary change in Persia was inseparable from travel, political displacement, translation, and the expansion of print culture. The Constitutional Revolution of 1905–1911 had enlarged the public role of journalism and prose, while censorship, foreign intervention, and educational reform pushed many intellectuals beyond the country’s borders. From that movement emerged a transnational field in which books and periodicals could be conceived in one city, printed in another, and read thousands of kilometres away. A clarification of terminology is necessary. Persian speakers had called their country Iran for centuries, and Iranian was already a normal form of national self-description, although Western governments, publishers, newspapers, and travellers generally used Persia until Reza Shah requested that Iran be adopted in international communications from 20 March 1935. In this article, Iran is therefore used as the country’s historical self-designation and as the normal modern scholarly term, while Persia is retained when referring to habitual Western and diplomatic usage before 1935; Persian continues to designate the language, literature, and cultural tradition. The title “Iranian Writers” is consequently accurate for the entire period, including the years before the international change of usage. Berlin first acquired exceptional importance during the First World War, when Iranian nationalists living in Germany sought support against the extensive political influence exercised in Persia by Russia and Great Britain. Sayyed Hasan Taqizadeh, born in Tabriz in 1878, directed the Iranian Nationalist Committee of Berlin and edited the Persian-language journal “Kāveh”, published from 24 January 1916 until 30 March 1922. Its history must be described precisely, since its later cultural reputation can obscure its political origins. During the war, “Kāveh” received German government funding and openly supported Germany, which many Iranian constitutionalists regarded as a possible counterweight to the two powers occupying or dominating parts of their country. Its issues attacked Russian and British intervention, reported the activities of Iranian nationalists, and joined national independence to a revival of historical consciousness. After the conflict, the journal’s New Series, issued from 1920, concentrated increasingly on literature, history, science, education, linguistic reform, and the adoption of selected European institutions. The Berlin circle around Taqizadeh included Mohammad Qazvini, Mohammad-Ali Jamalzadeh, Hosayn Kazemzadeh Iranshahr, Ebrahim Pur-Davud, and several other scholars, journalists, and political activists. Their weekly and monthly meetings created a disciplined intellectual environment in which knowledge of classical Persian literature could be joined to European historical research, comparative philology, translation, and the modern periodical press. Berlin was therefore more than a refuge for political opponents of foreign domination. It became an external workshop for the reorganisation of Persian intellectual culture, although its members disagreed deeply about nationalism, secularisation, religion, socialism, and the degree to which European civilisation should be adopted. Mohammad-Ali Jamalzadeh, born in Isfahan around 1892, gave this environment its most consequential literary expression. Having left his homeland as a boy, he received part of his education in Beirut, Lausanne, and Dijon before becoming involved in Iranian nationalist activity during the war and joining the editorial work of “Kāveh”. His long residence abroad sharpened his awareness of linguistic divisions within Iranian society, where educated officials, clerics, returning students, merchants, and ordinary people often employed radically different registers of speech. In 1921 he published “Once Upon a Time”, whose six stories had been written between 1915 and 1920. The collection opened with “Persian Is Sweet”, set largely in a prison where a provincial man encounters a cleric speaking an elaborate Arabicised idiom and a Western-educated traveller filling his sentences with French expressions. The ordinary prisoner understands neither of them, and the comic encounter becomes an exact representation of cultural hierarchy, imported prestige, and the exclusion of the wider population from public language. Jamalzadeh’s prose drew on colloquial expressions, proverbs, social caricature, and the formal discipline of the modern short story. His purpose included literary innovation, social criticism, and the creation of a written language capable of reaching readers outside restricted scholarly circles. “Once Upon a Time” helped establish the foundations of modern Persian fiction, yet its importance did not arise from a mechanical transfer of European models. Jamalzadeh had absorbed foreign narrative techniques while preserving Persian idiom and constructing his stories around Iranian bureaucracy, provincial life, religious speech, class distinction, political violence, and encounters between travellers and their own society. Mohammad Qazvini, born in Tehran in 1877, supplied another element of this transformation. During his long periods in London, Berlin, and Paris, he worked with manuscripts and major European scholars, developing rigorous methods of textual comparison and historical verification that influenced Jamalzadeh and other members of the Berlin group. His scholarship demonstrated how European philology could be incorporated into the study of classical Persian civilisation without dissolving the authority of Persian and Arabic learning. After “Kāveh” ended, the journal “Iranshahr”, published in Berlin from June 1922 to February 1927, continued the discussion of education, women’s position, language, ancient history, philosophy, nationalism, and institutional reform; it circulated throughout Europe, Persia, Afghanistan, India, Egypt, and other regions, revealing how a Persian-language periodical produced abroad could participate directly in debates within the country. France exercised a different kind of attraction. Its universities, schools, publishers, museums, libraries, Orientalist institutions, and literary prestige had influenced Iranian elites since the nineteenth century, while French remained a major language of diplomacy and higher education. Sadeq Hedayat, born in Tehran in 1903, encountered French culture first at the Saint Louis School in the capital and then through a state scholarship that took him to Europe in 1925. He initially studied civil engineering in Ghent, moved to France, spent approximately a year and a half in Paris during 1928–1929, attended courses in Reims, and lived for a further period in Besançon. In April 1929 he received permission to pursue French literature within a teacher-training programme, although he completed no degree and returned home in the summer of 1930. These years contributed to his knowledge of contemporary fiction, psychoanalytic ideas, theatre, cinema, vegetarian thought, and modern treatments of death, memory, isolation, and unstable consciousness. Several early works were drafted during this period, including stories later collected in “Buried Alive”, published in Tehran in 1930. Hedayat’s foreign reading included French authors and figures such as Edgar Allan Poe and Franz Kafka, yet his mature writing remained closely connected to Iranian domestic life, popular beliefs, colloquial speech, government employment, provincial settings, religious customs, folklore, and pre-Islamic history. His prose became influential because it placed these materials within forms capable of representing mental disturbance and social cruelty with a severity rarely encountered in earlier fiction. In 1936 he travelled to Bombay, where he studied Middle Persian with the Parsi scholar Bahramgor Tahmuras Anklesaria and privately produced fifty handwritten, stencilled copies of “The Blind Owl” for circulation among friends outside Persia. The work had probably been drafted during his earlier European residence, although its first physical publication occurred in India, and Hedayat returned to his country in 1937. Its fragmented chronology, recurring images, doubled characters, violence, decay, and uncertain division between recollection and hallucination placed Persian prose within international modernism. The book’s language and imaginative substance remained connected to Iranian settings, visual traditions, social relations, and literary memory. During the 1940s Hedayat became a central figure among younger authors in Tehran, contributing through fiction, satire, translations, studies of folklore, and work on Middle Persian texts. He returned to Paris near the end of 1950 and died there by suicide on 9 April 1951. The French capital thus occupied two distinct periods in his life: the formative residence of a young scholarship student and the final residence of a writer whose relationship with his own society had become increasingly difficult. Bozorg Alavi, born in Tehran on 2 February 1904, embodied the German connection across a longer political period. His father, Sayyed Abu’l-Hasan Alavi, had supported constitutionalist activity and joined the Iranian Nationalist Committee in Germany. Bozorg arrived there with his family in 1923, studied education and psychology, developed a strong interest in German Romanticism and contemporary European literature, and graduated from the University of Munich in 1928. His contacts with Taqizadeh, Qazvini, Jamalzadeh, and Taqi Arani encouraged him to reconnect European intellectual experience with classical Persian literature and the political conditions of Iran. After returning home, he taught German and translated Friedrich Schiller, George Bernard Shaw, Stefan Zweig, and Theodor Nöldeke. He also entered the Tehran circle formed by Hedayat, Mojtaba Minovi, and Masud Farzad. His collection “The Suitcase”, published in Tehran in 1935, used changing narrators, psychological ambiguity, frustrated personal relations, and urban settings, showing how techniques acquired through German-language reading could be absorbed into Persian fiction. Alavi’s association with Taqi Arani and the intellectual group later known as the Fifty-Three led to his arrest in 1937. He remained imprisoned until Reza Shah’s abdication in September 1941, after which he published works dealing with incarceration, political organisation, interrogation, and the mechanisms of the authoritarian state. His novel “Her Eyes”, issued in Tehran in 1952, constructed its story around a portrait painted by Makan, an artist involved in underground opposition during the final years of Reza Shah’s reign. Through the testimony of Farangis, an aristocratic woman connected to the painter, the novel examined political commitment, personal attachment, secrecy, betrayal, social privilege, and the moral costs imposed by clandestine activity. Its framed narration and gradual disclosure gave political fiction a psychological and investigative structure. When the government of Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh was overthrown on 19 August 1953, Alavi was teaching at Humboldt University in East Berlin. He remained in the German Democratic Republic, while his writings were prohibited in Iran from 1953 until 1979. During the remainder of the decade he wrote in German about Iranian politics and society, assisted the translation and study of Persian literature, published “The Land of Roses and Nightingales” in Berlin in 1957, and saw “Her Eyes” appear in German translation in 1959. By 1960, East Berlin had become a centre from which an exiled Iranian author could teach his language, interpret his country for foreign readers, and continue participating in Persian literary culture from outside its political borders. The importance of these foreign centres should not diminish the decisive position of the capital inside the country. Tehran supplied the ministries, schools, prisons, banks, cafés, newspapers, publishing houses, private homes, and new social classes that filled modern Persian fiction. Works shaped or printed abroad acquired their full historical effect when they reached local readers and entered conflicts over language, religion, political authority, foreign influence, sexuality, class, and national identity. Reza Shah’s abdication in 1941 temporarily weakened censorship and allowed journals, political organisations, translation projects, and literary associations to multiply. In 1946 the First Iranian Writers Congress met in Tehran under the auspices of the Iran-Soviet Cultural Association, with Malek al-Sho‘ara Bahar presiding and Alavi playing an important organisational role. Its participants debated classical inheritance, modern poetry, realism, political commitment, and the social responsibilities of literature, revealing a field that had become institutionally visible and ideologically divided. The coup of 1953 closed much of this relative openness, strengthened censorship, forced some intellectuals abroad, and made foreign publication increasingly important for politically suspect authors. By 1960, the movement linking Berlin, Paris, and Tehran had established a permanent pattern in Iranian cultural history. Germany had provided political organisation, periodical publishing, translation, scholarship, socialist debate, and eventually a place of exile; France had supplied educational prestige, literary models, philological institutions, and a powerful image of cosmopolitan authorship; Tehran had provided the language, public, institutions, conflicts, and human material from which the literature itself was made. The modernity of Persian prose developed through this circulation, as techniques encountered abroad were recast within works concerned with the specific history of Iran. Distance gave certain authors a clearer view of social divisions and political violence, while publication and reception inside the country transformed private experiments into a lasting literary tradition.

 

( Roberto Minichini, July 2026 )

Sahl ibn Bishr e la nascita dell’astrologia oraria medievale - Roberto Minichini

Tra la fine dell’VIII secolo e i primi decenni del IX, il sapere astrale praticato nei territori dell’impero abbaside acquisì una struttura tecnica più ordinata e adatta alla consultazione professionale. Nelle città poste fra la Mesopotamia, la Persia e la Siria, materiali greci, persiani e indiani vennero tradotti, confrontati e inseriti in manuali destinati agli studiosi, ai funzionari di corte e ai consiglieri dei governanti. Il consultante non chiedeva una descrizione generica del proprio carattere, ma presentava un problema concreto riguardante un viaggio, un matrimonio, un incarico, una malattia, un bene scomparso, un prigioniero, una guerra o il ritorno di una persona assente. In questo ambiente operò Sahl ibn Bishr, autore di lingua araba attivo nella prima metà del IX secolo, le cui date di nascita e morte non sono conosciute con certezza. Le fonti lo indicano spesso con l’appellativo al-Isrāʾīlī, che segnala la sua origine ebraica; la notizia di una sua eventuale conversione all’Islam rimane discussa. Visse in una società nella quale studiosi musulmani, ebrei, cristiani siriaci, persiani e rappresentanti di tradizioni culturali differenti partecipavano alla formazione delle scienze abbasidi. Fu legato agli ambienti politici di Ṭāhir ibn al-Ḥusayn, il comandante che contribuì alla vittoria del califfo al-Maʾmūn durante la guerra civile contro al-Amīn, conclusa nel 813, e di al-Ḥasan ibn Sahl, uno dei maggiori funzionari dell’amministrazione califfale. La sua attività si colloca dunque vicino ai centri decisionali di un impero nel quale il giudizio sul cielo poteva influire sulla scelta del momento adatto per una campagna militare, sulla valutazione della fedeltà di un governatore, sul destino di un prigioniero o sulla convenienza di iniziare un negoziato. La figura dell’interprete dei pianeti non apparteneva ancora al mondo marginale dell’occultismo moderno. Poteva essere un matematico, un compilatore di tavole, un conoscitore dei moti celesti e un consulente chiamato a formulare risposte davanti a decisioni dalle conseguenze politiche, economiche o personali molto gravi. Sahl ibn Bishr non inventò la tecnica delle interrogazioni. Alcuni suoi elementi erano già presenti nell’opera di Doroteo di Sidone, autore del I secolo, mentre nell’VIII secolo Māshāʾallāh aveva composto trattati dedicati a domande particolari, elezioni e giudizi mondani. Il contributo di Sahl consistette soprattutto nell’ordinare un insieme di regole provenienti da tradizioni precedenti e nel trasformarle in un procedimento relativamente coerente. Nei testi arabi queste consultazioni venivano chiamate masāʾil, cioè domande o questioni. La figura celeste veniva eretta per il momento nel quale l’interrogazione era ricevuta e compresa seriamente dall’interprete. Il principio fondamentale era che una situazione giunta a un determinato grado di maturazione potesse manifestare la propria struttura nel cielo del momento. Non si prendeva quindi un pianeta isolato, né ci si limitava al segno zodiacale del consultante. Occorreva stabilire l’Ascendente, individuare la casa competente, assegnare i pianeti che rappresentavano le persone e le cose coinvolte, osservare la Luna e ricostruire la sequenza degli aspetti. La prima casa e il suo signore indicavano generalmente chi poneva il quesito. La seconda riguardava denaro, beni mobili e risorse. La terza descriveva fratelli, messaggi e spostamenti brevi. La quarta era collegata alle abitazioni, alle terre, alle origini e alla conclusione degli affari. La quinta comprendeva figli, gravidanze e piaceri. La sesta riguardava malattie, servitori e animali da lavoro. La settima rappresentava il coniuge, il socio, il compratore, il venditore, il rivale o il nemico dichiarato. La decima indicava il sovrano, il superiore, l’incarico e la reputazione pubblica. Le altre case permettevano di giudicare eredità, viaggi lontani, amicizie, speranze, prigionia e avversari nascosti. Le case potevano inoltre essere derivate. Per conoscere il denaro del coniuge si osservava l’ottava, seconda casa a partire dalla settima; per studiare i figli di un fratello si partiva dalla terza e si contavano cinque settori da essa. Questa costruzione non era un gioco numerico. Serviva a definire con esattezza chi fosse rappresentato da ciascun pianeta e quale rapporto esistesse fra i soggetti della vicenda. Il centro del metodo era costituito dal movimento reale dei significatori. Un pianeta non veniva trattato soltanto come espressione di un temperamento o di una qualità morale. Rappresentava una persona, un oggetto, una funzione o una circostanza e doveva mostrare se possedeva la forza necessaria per agire. In una domanda matrimoniale, il signore della prima casa indicava il consultante e quello della settima l’altra persona. Se i due pianeti si avvicinavano a un aspetto, la relazione poteva procedere verso un incontro, un accordo o una formalizzazione. Se l’aspetto si era già perfezionato e i pianeti si stavano separando, il fatto principale poteva appartenere al passato. L’assenza di un contatto diretto non bastava però per dichiarare impossibile l’evento. Un pianeta più veloce poteva separarsi dal primo significatore e applicarsi al secondo, trasferendo la luce fra i due. Nella realtà questo pianeta poteva rappresentare un parente, un messaggero, un intermediario, un funzionario oppure una circostanza capace di mettere in comunicazione persone che non si sarebbero raggiunte autonomamente. La raccolta della luce si verificava invece quando due significatori applicavano a un terzo pianeta, generalmente più lento e in una condizione adatta a riceverli. Un’autorità, un giudice, un responsabile amministrativo o un mediatore potevano così raccogliere le intenzioni di entrambe le parti e produrre una soluzione. Queste configurazioni divennero elementi fondamentali della tradizione successiva. Accanto a esse venivano giudicate la proibizione, la frustrazione, la restituzione della luce e le diverse forme di impedimento. In una domanda su un incarico, il signore dell’Ascendente rappresenta il candidato e quello della decima la carica richiesta. Se i due si applicano, l’assegnazione può avvicinarsi. Se un altro pianeta raggiunge prima il signore della decima, qualcuno può ottenere il posto, bloccare la procedura oppure introdurre una condizione che impedisce il risultato. Se uno dei significatori diventa retrogrado prima del perfezionamento, il candidato può ritirarsi, il superiore può cambiare decisione o l’intero affare può tornare alla condizione precedente. La stessa logica vale per un viaggio. Il pianeta del viaggiatore deve mostrare la possibilità di allontanarsi, raggiungere la meta e, quando la domanda lo richiede, ritornare. Un significatore posto nell’ultimo grado di un segno indica spesso una situazione prossima a cambiare radicalmente. Sahl paragona questa condizione a quella di un uomo che ha già posto il piede fuori dalla porta. Egli si trova ancora formalmente nell’abitazione, ma la partenza è ormai imminente. In una consultazione concreta ciò può descrivere un funzionario vicino alla destituzione, un viaggiatore che sta per partire, una persona prossima a uscire da una relazione oppure un affare giunto alla fine della propria forma attuale. Particolare importanza aveva la distinzione fra inclinazione, capacità e risultato. Due pianeti possono mostrare favore reciproco attraverso la ricezione e tuttavia non formare alcun aspetto. In tal caso le persone possono stimarsi, cercarsi, avere bisogno l’una dell’altra o riconoscersi un valore, senza riuscire a produrre un incontro concreto. Un uomo può pensare favorevolmente a una donna e non compiere alcuna azione. Un sovrano può apprezzare un candidato senza concedergli l’incarico. Un compratore può desiderare un bene senza possedere il denaro necessario per acquistarlo. Può verificarsi anche la situazione opposta. Due significatori entrano in contatto, ma le ricezioni sono ostili. Il contratto viene firmato, l’incontro avviene o il matrimonio viene celebrato, mentre una delle parti agisce per convenienza, necessità, pressione familiare o aperta riluttanza. Per comprendere quale esito fosse realmente possibile, Sahl considerava la dignità essenziale dei pianeti, la loro posizione nelle case, la velocità, il moto diretto o retrogrado, la vicinanza al Sole, la ricezione e la qualità dell’aspetto. Un pianeta angolare dispone generalmente di una maggiore forza operativa. Un pianeta cadente può descrivere una persona debole, lontana dai luoghi decisionali, priva di mezzi o incapace di intervenire in tempo. Un significatore combusto può rappresentare qualcuno dominato da un’autorità superiore, nascosto, intimorito oppure impossibilitato a vedere chiaramente ciò che sta accadendo. La Luna mostrava lo svolgimento generale dell’affare. L’aspetto dal quale si separava poteva indicare il fatto appena accaduto; quello verso cui applicava mostrava la fase successiva. Una Luna priva di applicazioni significative prima di lasciare il segno poteva segnalare che, nelle condizioni presenti, la questione non avrebbe prodotto sviluppi sostanziali. Nessuna di queste testimonianze veniva però interpretata meccanicamente. Il giudizio dipendeva dalla combinazione dei fattori e dalla capacità dell’interprete di distinguere le indicazioni principali da quelle secondarie. I problemi affrontati nei trattati di Sahl mostrano quanto questa disciplina fosse immersa nella vita quotidiana del IX secolo. Si domandava se una persona assente fosse viva, se un prigioniero sarebbe stato liberato, se un matrimonio sarebbe stato concluso, se un servo fosse fuggito, se una merce sarebbe arrivata, se un sovrano avrebbe conservato il potere, se una gravidanza sarebbe giunta al termine o se un bene rubato sarebbe stato recuperato. Dietro la classificazione tecnica emerge una società caratterizzata da viaggi lunghi e pericolosi, comunicazioni incerte, lotte dinastiche, dipendenza dai funzionari, schiavitù, commercio a distanza, mortalità elevata e frequenti cambiamenti di fortuna. L’interprete doveva tradurre una domanda spesso confusa in una questione giudicabile. “Mi pensa?” non era sufficiente, perché poteva nascondere problemi diversi. La persona prenderà contatto? Vuole sposarsi? Mantiene un rapporto segreto? Prova favore ma non possiede la capacità di agire? Cerca soltanto un vantaggio? Ogni formulazione richiedeva case, significatori e criteri differenti. Il valore del metodo dipendeva quindi anche dall’esattezza della domanda. Ripetere continuamente la stessa interrogazione nella speranza di ottenere una risposta più gradita avrebbe distrutto il rapporto fra il momento e la situazione reale. L’interprete professionale doveva riconoscere quando un quesito era maturo, quando nasceva da una paura momentanea e quando il consultante stava cercando di costringere il cielo a confermare una conclusione già scelta. Le opere di Sahl passarono dal mondo arabo alla penisola iberica e furono tradotte in latino nel XII secolo. Il suo nome divenne Zael, Zahel o Zahel Benbriz. Il trattato sulle interrogazioni circolò con il titolo latino “De interrogationibus”, mentre altri scritti furono dedicati alle elezioni, ai tempi favorevoli e alle regole generali del giudizio. La diffusione manoscritta e le successive edizioni a stampa ne fecero una delle autorità conosciute dagli astrologi europei del Medioevo e del Rinascimento. Attraverso questa trasmissione, concetti come applicazione, separazione, ricezione, trasferimento della luce, raccolta, proibizione e frustrazione entrarono stabilmente nella pratica latina. Gli autori posteriori ampliarono le classificazioni e adattarono le tecniche alle proprie società, ma conservarono l’impostazione fondamentale: una questione precisa, presentata in un momento determinato, viene rappresentata da una figura nella quale persone, oggetti e sviluppi assumono una posizione riconoscibile. La nascita dell’astrologia oraria medievale non coincide dunque con l’invenzione improvvisa di una disciplina da parte di un solo autore. Fu il risultato di una lunga trasmissione che passò dal mondo ellenistico alla Persia sasanide, dagli studiosi di lingua araba all’Occidente latino. Sahl ibn Bishr occupa però un posto decisivo in questo processo, perché diede forma ordinata a tecniche precedenti, le applicò a problemi reali e contribuì a trasformarle in un metodo professionale destinato a durare per secoli. Le sue opere conservano una concezione severa del giudizio: il compito dell’astrologo non consiste nel rassicurare il consultante, attribuire significati edificanti a ogni sconfitta o promettere che ogni sentimento produrrà un risultato. Occorre stabilire chi possiede la forza di agire, quale evento si sta formando, che cosa può impedirlo e se la promessa mostrata dai significatori arriverà realmente al compimento. È questa concretezza, più della distanza storica e del linguaggio tecnico, a rendere ancora oggi importante lo studio di Sahl ibn Bishr.

 

Astrologo Roberto Minichini, luglio 2026

Mystical Iran Between the Qajar and Pahlavi Eras, 1900–1930 - Roberto Minichini

Across cities, villages, shrines, and mountain roads, religious life in the early twentieth century unfolded through practices that joined prayer, poetry, music, pilgrimage, hospitality, and personal allegiance to revered masters. Lodges and private houses received disciples who gathered for recitation, ethical instruction, communal meals, and the remembrance of God. This remembrance, known in Arabic as dhikr and in Persian as zekr, commonly involved the repetition of divine names, Qurʾanic passages, or devotional formulas under the direction of a spiritual guide. Within Iran, such practices belonged to a long Sufi inheritance that had developed inside a predominantly Twelver Shiʿi society. Twelver Shiʿism recognizes a succession of twelve Imams from the family of Prophet Muḥammad. The twelfth, Imam al Mahdī, is believed to have entered occultation in 874 and to remain alive by the will of God until his future return. The authority of the Imams, known as walāya, carried legal, religious, and inward dimensions. Sufi teachers frequently presented their own chains of initiation as extensions of this sacred guardianship, particularly through Imam ʿAlī, whom many lineages regarded as the original transmitter of the interior knowledge received from Prophet Muḥammad. Sufism in Iran did not constitute a single organization governed by a common leadership. It survived through distinct orders, local branches, hereditary families, itinerant dervishes, urban associations, and circles formed around individual teachers. A disciple usually entered the path through an act of initiation and accepted the guidance of a master whose authority had been transmitted through an established spiritual lineage. The master directed prayer, ethical discipline, remembrance, meditation, service, and the interpretation of religious experience. A khānaqāh served as a lodge where members could meet, study, worship, eat, and receive travellers. Some communities possessed substantial buildings and property, while others gathered in private homes or around the tomb of a deceased teacher. These institutions existed alongside the Shiʿi seminaries, where scholars known collectively as the ulema studied Qurʾanic interpretation, theology, jurisprudence, Arabic grammar, logic, and the traditions attributed to Prophet Muḥammad and the Imams. Religious scholars acquired authority through education, teaching, legal competence, and recognition from other scholars. Sufi masters relied upon initiation, discipleship, spiritual reputation, and the continuity of their lineages. Many figures were trained in both worlds. Others regarded the claims of rival authorities with deep suspicion. The Niʿmatullāhī tradition held a particularly important place during these decades. Founded in the late medieval period and established again in Iran during the eighteenth century, it had divided into several branches, each possessing its own succession of masters. One influential current developed around Ḥājj Mīrzā Ḥasan Iṣfahānī, known as Ṣafī ʿAlī Shāh (1835–1899). He settled in Tehran and attracted princes, officials, poets, merchants, and educated members of the capital’s society. His teaching combined Shiʿi devotion, Sufi initiation, Qurʾanic interpretation, moral instruction, and Persian poetry. After his death, leadership passed to ʿAlī Khān Qājār Ẓahīr al Dawla (1864–1924), a member of the royal family who had become his disciple. Ẓahīr al Dawla gave the community a broader public form through the Anjoman e Okhovvat, the Society of Brotherhood, established at the close of the nineteenth century and active throughout the constitutional period. The Society of Brotherhood became one of the most unusual cultural and religious associations of its time. Meetings included Sufi instruction, music, poetry, charitable activity, and commemorations connected with Imam ʿAlī. Musicians who later became major figures in Persian musical history performed in its gatherings, where artistic cultivation carried an ethical and devotional meaning. Members were expected to practice mutual assistance, humility, generosity, and personal discipline. The society attracted people from different social ranks and created a setting where court culture, reformist ideas, religious fellowship, and literary life could meet. Its activities acquired political significance during the Constitutional Revolution, which began in 1905 and led to the creation of the first national parliament in 1906. Many members sympathized with demands for law, representative government, and limits upon royal power. When Mohammad ʿAlī Shāh (1872–1925) ordered the bombardment of the parliament in June 1908, troops also attacked Ẓahīr al Dawla’s residence and the headquarters of the brotherhood. Books, manuscripts, musical instruments, works of art, and personal possessions were destroyed or dispersed. After constitutional forces regained Tehran in July 1909, the association resumed its gatherings and assisted families affected by the conflict. Its history shows how a Sufi circle could participate in cultural reform and public life while preserving the language of spiritual companionship. A different Niʿmatullāhī branch grew around the village of Baydukht near Gonabad in Khorasan. Its most important master at the beginning of the century was Sulṭān ʿAlī Shāh Gonābādī (1835–1909), a scholar and spiritual teacher whose influence extended far beyond his rural centre. He had studied jurisprudence, philosophy, theology, and the intellectual traditions associated with Muḥyī al Dīn Ibn ʿArabī (1165–1240) and Ṣadr al Dīn Shīrāzī, commonly known as Mullā Ṣadrā (1571–1640). His major Qurʾanic commentary, “Bayān al Saʿāda fī Maqāmāt al ʿIbāda,” interpreted revelation through Shiʿi teachings on the Imams and the Sufi understanding of spiritual development. He presented religious life as a disciplined movement toward knowledge of God, guided by obedience to Islamic law, devotion to the family of Prophet Muḥammad, purification of character, and companionship with an authorized master. Baydukht became a destination for disciples seeking initiation, counsel, instruction, and participation in communal rites. Travelling to the master formed part of the spiritual discipline. The journey removed the disciple from ordinary habits and placed personal concerns within a sacred relationship. Sulṭān ʿAlī Shāh’s authority also generated determined opposition. Critics among local religious figures rejected the legitimacy of Sufi initiation and feared the influence exercised by a master over a large body of followers. He was killed in 1909 under circumstances connected with these hostilities. His son Nūr ʿAlī Shāh II (1867–1918) succeeded him and maintained the community during years marked by political disorder and war. Leadership later passed to Ṣāliḥ ʿAlī Shāh (1881–1966), who preserved the Gonabadi lineage through the transition to the new monarchy. Its survival depended upon family continuity, learned writings, personal networks, pilgrimage to Baydukht, and the loyalty of disciples living across the country. Other communities followed less centralized forms of religious life. The Khāksārs preserved customs associated with wandering dervishes, sacred poverty, initiation, and the older traditions of spiritual chivalry. Their name evoked humility before God, since khāk means dust or earth. Khāksār dervishes could be recognized by particular garments, staffs, axes, begging bowls, rosaries, and ritual objects. Some travelled from town to town, visited shrines, received alms, and offered prayers or blessings. Admission into their circles involved ceremonial stages, new spiritual names, instruction in symbols, and obedience to senior members. Their public appearance made them familiar figures in marketplaces, pilgrimage centres, and religious festivals. Respect for their poverty and reputed holiness existed beside criticism of begging, unconventional behaviour, and practices viewed as incompatible with the standards defended by some scholars. The Khāksār world remained internally diverse, and the conduct of one group could not represent every branch carrying the name. The Dhahabiyya maintained an important presence, especially in Shiraz and other southern centres. Its masters cultivated a learned form of Shiʿi Sufism and preserved traditions of Qurʾanic interpretation, prayer, spiritual genealogy, and devotion to the Imams. Kurdish regions in western Iran contained Sunni Qādirī and Naqshbandī communities connected with religious networks extending into Ottoman Iraq. The Qādiriyya traced its spiritual inheritance to ʿAbd al Qādir al Jīlānī (1077–1166), while the Naqshbandiyya emphasized disciplined remembrance, companionship with a guide, and a strong chain of transmission. Kurdish sheikhs frequently acted as teachers, mediators, landholders, and leaders of extended families. Their lodges provided food, education, arbitration, and support during periods of insecurity. Local influence rested upon religious prestige, family alliances, economic resources, and a reputation for sanctity accumulated over generations. Pilgrimage connected Sufi practice with the broader sacred geography of Shiʿi Iran. The shrine of Imam ʿAlī al Riḍā in Mashhad attracted visitors from every province. Imam ʿAlī al Riḍā, the eighth Imam, died in 818 and was buried near the earlier grave of the Abbasid caliph Hārūn al Rashīd. The settlement that grew around his tomb became one of the principal centres of pilgrimage and religious learning in the Islamic world. Travellers also visited Qom, the burial place of Fāṭima al Maʿṣūma, the sister of Imam ʿAlī al Riḍā, as well as countless local shrines associated with descendants of the Imams, revered scholars, and Sufi masters. Visits to such places involved prayer, vows, charity, healing, mourning, and the renewal of family bonds. Markets, guest houses, schools, kitchens, and charitable foundations developed around the larger sanctuaries. Spiritual journeys therefore shaped economic and social life along with personal devotion. Poetry gave these communities a common language. Verses by Jalāl al Dīn Rūmī (1207–1273), Farīd al Dīn ʿAṭṭār (circa 1145–1221), and Ḥāfiẓ of Shiraz (circa 1315–1390) were recited in gatherings and used to express longing for God, the discipline of love, the dangers of pride, and the uncertainty of outward appearances. Their works were familiar far beyond formal Sufi orders. Educated households, musicians, storytellers, clerics, and ordinary believers drew upon the same poetic inheritance. A line of verse could accompany private prayer, public music, moral advice, or conversation. During the constitutional period, older mystical images also entered political writing. Tyranny could be described as captivity to the lower self, while justice could appear as the restoration of spiritual order. Such language allowed inherited religious ideas to enter new discussions concerning parliament, law, education, and national independence. The First World War placed these communities under severe pressure. Although the country declared neutrality in 1914, Russian, Ottoman, and British forces operated across its territory. Warfare, requisitions, disease, hunger, and disrupted travel weakened many institutions. Lodges and shrines continued to distribute food, receive travellers, and support local populations where resources permitted. The Russian Revolution of 1917, the withdrawal of imperial troops, British ambitions, tribal conflicts, and provincial uprisings created further instability. Sufi networks could offer continuity because their authority remained attached to families, sacred places, and relationships of discipleship. They also depended upon safe roads, agricultural income, donations, and the protection of local patrons, all of which suffered during prolonged disorder. Reza Shah (1878–1944) emerged from the Persian Cossack Brigade after the coup of February 1921. He became prime minister in 1923, ended the old dynasty in 1925, and was crowned the following year. His government built a larger army, strengthened the bureaucracy, expanded secular education, reorganized the courts, and imposed greater control over provinces, tribes, associations, and public religious activity. Sufi orders encountered these policies according to their social position and public visibility. Educated urban circles could adapt by emphasizing ethics, literature, and private gatherings. Hereditary lineages relied upon family organization and provincial support. Itinerant dervishes, whose clothing and public conduct stood outside the preferred image of a disciplined national society, faced increasing restrictions. The same state also reduced the institutional independence of the ulema, altered legal education, and transferred important functions from religious courts to government institutions. By 1930, the religious world inherited from the nineteenth century had undergone profound change. Several major masters had died, constitutional hopes had passed through revolution and repression, foreign armies had crossed the country, and a powerful monarchy had extended its reach into regions once governed through local negotiation. Sufi life nonetheless remained active in Tehran, Baydukht, Shiraz, Khorasan, Kurdistan, and many smaller centres. Its endurance rested upon prayer, initiation, poetry, pilgrimage, charity, family memory, and devotion to sacred teachers. The lodge, the shrine, the master’s house, and the gathering of disciples preserved forms of spiritual community that political transformation could regulate without fully extinguishing. Through them, an ancient language of inward knowledge entered the modern century and continued to shape the religious imagination of the country.

 ( Roberto Minichini )

The Buyids and the Shi‘i Transformation of Baghdad - Roberto Minichini

During the middle decades of the tenth century, Baghdad remained the ceremonial centre of the Abbasid Caliphate, although the political order created by the early Abbasids had already disintegrated. Provincial dynasties controlled much of the Islamic world, military commanders competed for the revenues of Iraq, and the caliphs had become increasingly dependent upon armed factions capable of dominating the capital. The arrival of the Buyids in 945 emerged from this prolonged crisis. Their conquest introduced a new ruling house into Baghdad and gave Shi‘i communities an unprecedented public presence within a city whose caliphate continued to represent Sunni legitimacy. The resulting order lasted for more than a century. It reshaped political authority, religious ceremony and urban conflict while preserving institutions inherited from the Abbasid past. The three founders of the Buyid dynasty, ʿAlī, Ḥasan and Aḥmad ibn Būya, came from Daylam, the mountainous region south of the Caspian Sea whose soldiers had become an important force in the politics of tenth-century Iran. Beginning as military adventurers, the brothers established themselves across Fars, Jibal and Iraq. ʿAlī received the title ʿImād al-Dawla, Ḥasan became Rukn al-Dawla, and Aḥmad, after entering Baghdad in December 945, was recognised as Muʿizz al-Dawla. The Abbasid caliph al-Mustakfī formally granted these titles, even as his own effective power disappeared. Within weeks he was deposed, blinded and replaced by al-Muṭīʿ, whose long caliphate from 946 to 974 continued under Buyid supervision. The arrangement revealed the political intelligence of the conquerors. Muʿizz al-Dawla possessed sufficient military power to abolish the Abbasid Caliphate, yet he preserved it. The caliph still provided titles, robes of honour and a language of universal sovereignty understood across much of the Muslim world. Abbasid legitimacy also remained valuable among the Sunni majority of Baghdad and among many provincial rulers. The Buyid amirs therefore governed beside the caliph, controlled the army and the treasury, appointed officials and determined the succession, while allowing the Abbasid institution to survive as a restricted source of ceremonial authority. Baghdad consequently became the seat of a Sunni caliph ruled by a Shi‘i military dynasty. The religious identity of the Buyids requires careful description. The Daylamite environment from which they emerged had been influenced by Zaydi missionaries, while later Buyid rulers supported institutions and scholars associated with Twelver Shi‘ism. Their policies were shaped by dynastic calculation, regional alliances and personal patronage as well as by confessional attachment. They never proclaimed a Twelver imamate under their own authority, and they continued to govern a population containing Sunnis, Shi‘is, Christians, Jews and several competing theological and legal communities. Their historical importance lies in the protection and public recognition that Shi‘i traditions acquired under their rule. Practices previously confined largely to particular families, circles of scholars and urban districts entered the official ceremonial life of the capital. The decisive moment came in 963, when Muʿizz al-Dawla ordered the public commemoration of ʿĀshūrāʾ and the celebration of Ghadīr Khumm in Baghdad. On the tenth day of Muḥarram, shops were closed and commercial life was interrupted. Public lamentation recalled the death of Imam al-Ḥusayn ibn ʿAlī at Karbala in 680. Processions, mourning garments and recitations carried the memory of the tragedy into streets and marketplaces. Eighteen days later, the festival of Ghadīr Khumm commemorated the declaration concerning Imam ʿAlī made by Prophet Muhammad during his return from the final pilgrimage. Buildings were decorated, fires were lit, and celebrations continued into the night. These observances established a specifically Shi‘i sequence within the civic calendar of the Abbasid capital. The political importance of these ceremonies extended beyond devotional practice. Public ritual defined possession of urban space. It displayed the protection of the ruling power and gave collective form to memories concerning the family of Prophet Muhammad. Karbala became visible within Baghdad through mourning, while Ghadīr Khumm affirmed the authority of Imam ʿAlī through celebration. The streets became sites where historical interpretation, communal loyalty and political power met. A procession revealed which groups could assemble, which events could be commemorated publicly and which account of the Islamic past possessed official recognition. Baghdad had long contained substantial Shi‘i communities, especially in the western district of al-Karkh. Under the Buyids, al-Karkh developed into one of the principal centres of Twelver religious life. Its markets, mosques, scholars and processions gave the district a distinct identity. Other quarters contained strong Sunni populations, including groups associated with the Hanbali tradition. Confessional affiliation became intertwined with neighbourhood solidarity, professional organisation, family networks and competition over local authority. Riots could begin with a sermon, an inscription, a procession or an accusation of disrespect toward a revered figure. They could then expand into attacks upon markets, houses and places of worship. The Buyid period therefore brought repeated communal violence. Sunni groups organised ceremonies answering Shi‘i commemorations, while preachers and agitators used contested memories of early Islamic history to mobilise crowds. The companions of Prophet Muhammad, the Umayyads, Imam ʿAlī, Imam al-Ḥusayn and the Battle of Karbala became subjects of public controversy with immediate consequences for urban order. Al-Karkh was attacked and burned on several occasions. Government officials sometimes defended Shi‘i processions, sometimes prohibited them, and sometimes attempted to suppress all public demonstrations when the threat of disorder became too serious. Buyid policy varied according to the ruler, the political situation and the balance of forces within the city. The religious transformation of Baghdad also occurred through scholarship. The tenth and early eleventh centuries witnessed the consolidation of Twelver theology, law and historical memory. Al-Shaykh al-Mufīd, who died in 1022, became one of the leading theologians of his age. His works on the Imamate, divine justice, jurisprudence and the lives of the Imams helped define Twelver doctrine during a period of intense debate with Sunni theologians, Muʿtazilites and other Shi‘i currents. His position in Baghdad reflected the growing confidence of the Twelver scholarly community, although his career also included periods of exile caused by political and communal disturbances. Two brothers from a distinguished family, al-Sharīf al-Raḍī and al-Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, occupied similarly important positions. Al-Sharīf al-Raḍī, who died in 1015, is traditionally credited with compiling “Nahj al-Balāgha,” the influential collection of sermons, letters and sayings attributed to Imam ʿAlī. Al-Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, who died in 1044, became a major authority in theology, law and Arabic literature. Their intellectual careers demonstrate how aristocratic lineage, scholarly learning and Buyid patronage could combine in the formation of a powerful Shi‘i elite. Baghdad became one of the principal centres in which Twelver scholars developed systematic answers to questions created by the occultation of Imam al-Mahdī, especially the authority of jurists and theologians during his absence. Buyid patronage also strengthened the sacred geography surrounding Baghdad. The tombs associated with the Imams acquired architectural and political prominence. Imam ʿAlī’s shrine at Najaf and Imam al-Ḥusayn’s shrine at Karbala received particular attention. Under ʿAḍud al-Dawla, who ruled Iraq from 978 until his death in 983, extensive construction and restoration were undertaken at several sacred sites. Pilgrimage routes connected the capital to Najaf, Karbala, Kufa and the other centres of Shi‘i memory. These shrines linked local devotion to the history of the Imams and gradually encouraged the growth of religious economies based upon visitors, donations, resident scholars and custodial families. At the same time, Buyid Baghdad remained a major centre of Sunni scholarship. The Abbasid caliphs continued to uphold Sunni claims, and Sunni jurists, traditionists and preachers retained extensive social influence. The Buyids employed officials from different religious backgrounds and rarely attempted to impose a complete confessional uniformity upon their territories. Their courts supported Arabic and Persian literature, medicine, philosophy, astronomy and administration. The Christian philosopher Yaḥyā ibn ʿAdī, the historian Miskawayh and numerous physicians, secretaries and translators worked within the broader intellectual environment sustained by Buyid rule. The city’s Shi‘i transformation developed inside a plural and frequently unstable society. Political fragmentation within the dynasty repeatedly weakened its control. Different branches of the Buyid family ruled Fars, Rayy and Iraq, and rival amirs fought over territory and succession. Turkish and Daylamite soldiers competed within the army, while financial crises reduced the government’s ability to maintain order. The reign of ʿAḍud al-Dawla briefly restored central authority and produced major public works, including hospitals, canals and the reconstruction of damaged institutions. After his death, internal conflict returned. By the middle of the eleventh century, the Iraqi Buyids had become vulnerable to the expanding Seljuk Turks. In December 1055, the Seljuk ruler Ṭughril Beg entered Baghdad at the invitation of the Abbasid caliph al-Qāʾim. The final Buyid amir, al-Malik al-Raḥīm, was arrested, and Buyid rule in Iraq came to an end. The Seljuks presented themselves as protectors of the Sunni caliphate and altered the political balance of the city. Their victory did not erase the institutions created or strengthened during the previous century. Twelver scholarship continued, pilgrimage centres expanded, and the memory of public mourning remained embedded within Shi‘i communal life. Al-Shaykh al-Ṭūsī, a student of al-Mufīd and al-Murtaḍā, eventually left Baghdad after disturbances in 1058 and settled in Najaf, where his presence contributed to the emergence of the city as a permanent centre of Twelver learning. The Buyid century changed Baghdad by making Shi‘i memory publicly visible and institutionally durable. The city still housed the Abbasid caliph, and its population remained religiously diverse. Its streets, neighbourhoods and ceremonial calendar now expressed rival interpretations of Islamic history with greater intensity. ʿĀshūrāʾ and Ghadīr Khumm gave collective form to attachment to the Imams. Scholars established enduring traditions of theology and law. Shrines connected the capital to a wider landscape of pilgrimage and sacred memory. Urban conflict revealed the dangers created when political patronage, neighbourhood identity and religious commemoration converged. This transformation shaped the later history of Twelver Shi‘ism far beyond the lifetime of the dynasty. The Buyids created no unified Shi‘i empire and offered no permanent solution to the question of political authority during the occultation. Their rule provided the conditions within which Twelver scholars, rituals and institutions could develop openly at the heart of the Abbasid world. Baghdad became a city where the legacy of the Imams entered public ceremony, scholarly organisation and the contested geography of everyday life. The order established in 945 disappeared in 1055, while many of its religious consequences endured for centuries.

 ( Roberto Minichini )

Al-Kindī: The First Great Architect of Islamic Philosophy - Roberto Minichini

In the ninth century, Baghdad became the meeting place of Greek philosophy, Persian intellectual traditions, Indian science, and the theological debates of the Abbasid world. When Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb ibn Isḥāq al-Kindī began writing in the first half of the ninth century, philosophy in Arabic did not yet possess an established canon, a stable technical vocabulary or a recognised place within Islamic culture. Greek works on logic, medicine, astronomy and mathematics had already circulated through Syriac-speaking Christian communities, while scientific materials from Persia and India had entered the intellectual life of the Abbasid Empire. The decisive transformation occurred when these traditions converged in Baghdad, the capital founded by the caliph al-Manṣūr in 762 on the Tigris, close to the older centres of Mesopotamian, Persian and Hellenistic learning. Al-Kindī belonged to the generation that turned this immense body of imported knowledge into an Arabic philosophical culture. His achievement consisted in organising ideas, defining terms, coordinating disciplines and placing the study of nature, the soul and the First Cause within the intellectual world of Islam. Al-Kindī was probably born around 801 in Kufa, one of the principal cities of Iraq and an important centre of Arabic grammar, Islamic law, theology and political debate. His family claimed descent from the South Arabian tribe of Kinda, which had once ruled parts of central Arabia before the rise of Islam. His father, Isḥāq ibn al-Ṣabbāḥ, served as governor of Kufa under the Abbasids, giving the young al-Kindī access to an educated and politically connected environment. He later moved to Baghdad, where his career developed under the caliphs al-Maʾmūn, who ruled from 813 to 833, and al-Muʿtaṣim, who ruled from 833 to 842. He also remained active during the reign of al-Wāthiq, from 842 to 847. His position became less secure under al-Mutawakkil, whose reign began in 847 and marked a change in the religious and cultural atmosphere of the court. Al-Kindī died around 870, perhaps in Baghdad, after witnessing both the expansion of court-sponsored learning and the political vulnerability of those who depended upon imperial favour. The Abbasid Empire of al-Kindī’s time extended from North Africa to Central Asia. Baghdad stood at the centre of commercial routes connecting the Mediterranean, Iran, India and the lands beyond the Oxus. Its intellectual culture reflected this geography. Greek philosophy reached Arabic readers through translations made largely by Christian scholars familiar with Syriac and Greek. Persian administrative and cosmological traditions remained influential, while Indian astronomy and mathematics contributed methods of calculation and observation. The institution commonly known as the House of Wisdom formed part of this environment, though the translation movement was broader than any single library or court academy. Scholars, physicians, translators and patrons worked through overlapping networks. Al-Kindī appears to have supervised, corrected or commissioned translations rather than translating every Greek text himself. Works associated with his circle included writings by Aristotle, mathematical treatises, medical texts and Arabic adaptations of Neoplatonic works. The text later called the “Theology of Aristotle,” derived mainly from Plotinus, exercised a deep influence upon Islamic metaphysics because it presented Neoplatonic doctrines under the authority of Aristotle. Al-Kindī understood that translation required intellectual reconstruction. Greek philosophical terms could not simply be transferred unchanged into Arabic. Concepts such as substance, matter, form, cause, intellect and soul had to be expressed through words already carrying meanings shaped by Arabic grammar, Qurʾanic language and theological controversy. Al-Kindī’s circle contributed to the creation of this vocabulary, while his own works demonstrated how it could be used. He wrote for readers formed by Islamic monotheism, familiar with debates concerning divine unity, creation, prophecy and human responsibility. Philosophy entered this context as an organised investigation of reality. In “On First Philosophy,” al-Kindī defined the highest philosophical science as knowledge of the First Truth, the cause of all truth and all existence. The study of God therefore occupied the summit of philosophy because every other being depended upon the First Cause. His metaphysics developed from the problem of unity. Every object encountered in the world possesses some degree of unity, yet it also contains multiplicity. A body consists of parts; a species includes many individuals; a quality may be shared by different substances. Created unity is always limited and received. Al-Kindī concluded that the order of the world ultimately depends upon a source whose unity is neither composed nor derived. God is the True One, beyond genus, species, quantity and physical form. Divine unity cannot be understood as the numerical unity of one object among others, since number belongs to the created world. God is the cause through which things possess existence and coherence. This doctrine gave al-Kindī a philosophical language for Islamic monotheism. It also shaped his account of creation. Aristotle had described the cosmos as eternal, without a first moment in time. Al-Kindī rejected this position and argued that the physical universe had a beginning. Drawing partly upon arguments developed in late antiquity, especially by John Philoponus in the sixth century, he maintained that an actual infinite could not exist within the created world. Time, motion and bodily magnitude were therefore finite. The universe was brought into existence by God, whose creative causality differed from the operations of natural agents. Fire heats, medicine alters the body and celestial movements affect terrestrial processes, yet each of these causes acts within an order it did not create. God gives existence itself. Al-Kindī’s treatment of prophecy followed the same intellectual structure. Human philosophy proceeds through study, demonstration and disciplined reasoning. Prophetic knowledge is granted directly by God and communicates truths with a clarity and power unavailable to ordinary philosophical effort. Al-Kindī did not regard revelation as an obstacle to rational inquiry. The existence of prophetic knowledge established a higher mode of access to truth, while philosophy remained a legitimate human science. This arrangement allowed Greek reasoning to enter Islamic culture without requiring the religious community to accept the authority of Greek paganism. The truths discovered by earlier peoples could be examined, corrected and incorporated into a wider intellectual order. The theory of intellect formed another central part of this construction. In “On the Intellect,” al-Kindī distinguished several conditions of human understanding. The mind first possesses the possibility of knowing. It becomes actual when it receives intelligible forms, and acquired knowledge remains available for later use. Human thought depends upon an intellect already in actuality, which enables the potential mind to understand universal realities. The treatise is brief, and its terminology does not yet possess the complexity later found in al-Fārābī, Avicenna or Averroes. Its importance lies in the problem it established. The human intellect had to be explained as a power capable of passing beyond sensation and grasping forms shared by many individual things. Islamic philosophers of later centuries would continue to debate the relation between individual minds, universal knowledge and the active intellect. Al-Kindī also treated the soul as capable of intellectual purification. In “On Dispelling Sorrows,” he examined grief through the instability of worldly possessions. Wealth, status, reputation and physical pleasure depend upon circumstances that remain outside human control. Attachment to perishable things therefore exposes the soul to repeated disturbance. His argument drew upon Greek ethical traditions, especially Stoic and Platonic themes, yet it was integrated into a religious view of the human person. Intellectual goods possess greater permanence because knowledge cannot be destroyed in the same manner as property. Ethical discipline directs the soul toward realities less vulnerable to fortune and prepares it for a form of existence no longer governed by bodily change. The originality of al-Kindī becomes clearer when his scientific works are considered together with his metaphysics. Medieval philosophy did not divide knowledge into the modern categories of humanities and sciences. Mathematics, music, medicine, astronomy, optics and metaphysics belonged to a connected investigation of order. Al-Kindī wrote hundreds of treatises, although most have been lost. The surviving works and later catalogues attribute to him studies of arithmetic, geometry, astronomical instruments, meteorology, pharmacology, perfumes, minerals, tides, vision, music and cryptography. These subjects were joined by the conviction that reality could be understood through measure, proportion and causation. In medicine, al-Kindī attempted to calculate the strength of compound drugs through numerical ratios. In optics, he used geometry to study the paths of visual rays and the conditions of perception. His work on cryptanalysis examined the frequency of letters in written Arabic, providing a method for deciphering coded messages. Music occupied a particularly important position because it revealed the relation between number, sound and the condition of the soul. In his musical writings, intervals were analysed through mathematical proportions, while rhythm and melody were studied as forces capable of producing psychological and bodily effects. The four strings of the lute could be connected with wider systems of correspondence involving the elements, bodily qualities and cosmic order. Astrology also belonged to this unified vision of nature. Al-Kindī lived in a period when astronomy and astrology were closely connected. The movements of the heavens were studied mathematically, while their effects upon the terrestrial world were interpreted physically and politically. In works such as “The Forty Chapters,” he discussed judicial astrology, including the evaluation of celestial configurations in relation to events, rulers and collective conditions. His cosmology treated the stars as causes operating within divine providence. Celestial bodies possessed no independent divine power. Their movements formed part of the created hierarchy through which changes occurred in the lower world. The regularity of the heavens revealed an ordered cosmos governed by causes rather than a collection of arbitrary signs. Al-Kindī never completed a philosophical system comparable in scale to that of Avicenna in the eleventh century. Many of his arguments remain compressed, and much of his work survives only through fragments, quotations or Latin translations. His historical importance rests upon the structure he created. He established Arabic as a language of philosophy, linked metaphysics to the doctrine of divine unity, connected the theory of intellect with the destiny of the soul and organised the mathematical and natural sciences within a coherent conception of knowledge. His work also travelled beyond the Islamic world. From the twelfth century onward, several of his writings were translated into Latin, influencing medieval discussions of optics, medicine, psychology and astrology. To call al-Kindī the first great architect of Islamic philosophy is therefore to identify a precise historical function. He built foundations, established proportions and connected previously separate intellectual materials. Greek philosophy, Mesopotamian scholarship, Persian culture, Indian science and Islamic theology met within his work without losing their distinct origins. The resulting structure remained incomplete, yet it made later developments possible. Al-Fārābī, Avicenna and Averroes would construct larger systems, while theologians would challenge many philosophical conclusions. The field in which they worked had already been opened by al-Kindī: an Arabic philosophy concerned with God, the cosmos, the intellect and the sciences, formed within the political and cultural geography of the Abbasid world.

( Article by Roberto Minichini )

Incontro onirico con Montale - Roberto Minichini

Eugenio Montale si manifesta nei sogni, come incarnazione dell’archetipo del vecchio saggio, ironico e scettico, distaccato dalle mode sociali e ideologiche imperanti, diffidente nei confronti di ogni tipo di conformismo e spirito di gruppo. Uomo schivo a cui non piace apparire, mi dice che scrive al massimo cinque o sei poesie all’anno. Gli chiedo qual è il segreto della poesia. Lui dice che non ci sono segreti e che lui fortunatamente non è un esoterista che vende segreti ma soltanto un artigiano della parola. La poesia deve essere come una pietra trovata nei boschi: asciutta, piccola, solo in apparenza semplice, deve creare pensiero e immagine, svelare un poco ciò che va oltre la comprensione immediata. Un poeta, per ogni poesia che scrive, dovrebbe leggerne con attenzione e calma almeno cento, cercando di conoscere direttamente i grandi maestri di ogni epoca e luogo. – Testo di Roberto Minichini, luglio 2026. Immagine realizzata con IA: composizione immaginaria con Eugenio Montale.

Bolesław Leśmian, il poeta polacco dei boschi, dei corpi e dell’invisibile - Roberto Minichini

Nelle cronache e negli archivi della poesia europea del Novecento esistono autori molto affascinanti che appartengono pienamente alla letteratura della propria nazione e tuttavia sembrano provenire da una regione più remota, precedente alle scuole, alle correnti e alle classificazioni nazionali. Bolesław Leśmian è uno di questi. La sua opera nasce nella cultura polacca, nella lingua slava, nelle leggende contadine, nella memoria ebraica assimilata, nel modernismo europeo e nella filosofia del suo tempo, ma nessuna di queste origini riesce da sola a contenerla. Nei suoi versi il bosco non costituisce uno scenario, il corpo non è una semplice presenza sensuale, la morte non coincide con una conclusione e il nulla non rappresenta soltanto l’assenza dell’essere. Ogni creatura appare impegnata nel difficile tentativo di esistere, acquistare una forma, amare, morire oppure oltrepassare i limiti imposti dalla propria incompiutezza. Uomini, donne, mendicanti, esseri deformi, spiriti, animali, piante e divinità minori partecipano alla stessa avventura cosmica. La realtà visibile sembra continuamente sul punto di aprirsi, lasciando emergere un’altra dimensione che non appartiene interamente al sogno, alla religione o alla fantasia. Leśmian non descrive un mondo incantato per allontanarsi dalla vita. Cerca invece la vita nei luoghi in cui essa diviene più enigmatica, intensa e difficile da nominare. Bolesław Lesman nacque a Varsavia, probabilmente il 22 gennaio 1877, anche se egli stesso indicò in alcune occasioni il 1878 e sulla sua tomba venne riportato il 1879. Questa incertezza biografica sembra quasi appropriata per un poeta che avrebbe dedicato gran parte della propria opera agli esseri privi di una collocazione stabile. Proveniva da una famiglia ebraico-polacca colta e assimilata. Trascorse gli anni della formazione a Kiev, allora appartenente all’Impero russo, dove studiò giurisprudenza all’Università di San Vladimiro. Conobbe quindi una realtà culturale posta fra Polonia, Russia e Ucraina, fra modernizzazione urbana e permanenza delle tradizioni popolari. Durante la giovinezza scrisse anche in russo, mentre la scelta definitiva della lingua polacca divenne parte essenziale della sua identità poetica. Il cognome Leśmian, adottato al posto dell’originario Lesman, accentuava foneticamente il legame con il polacco e sembrava contenere la parola “las”, il bosco, quasi anticipando uno degli spazi fondamentali della sua immaginazione. Tornato a Varsavia, partecipò alla vita del modernismo raccolto intorno alla rivista “Chimera”, diretta da Zenon Przesmycki, e frequentò gli ambienti artistici della Giovane Polonia. Visse anche in Francia, conobbe la cultura parigina e subì l’influenza della poesia simbolista e del pensiero di Henri Bergson. La sua esistenza esteriore rimase tuttavia sorprendentemente distante dalla figura convenzionale del poeta visionario. Dopo la Prima guerra mondiale lavorò come notaio prima a Hrubieszów e poi a Zamość, affrontando problemi economici, responsabilità professionali e gravi difficoltà finanziarie. Nel 1933 entrò nell’Accademia polacca di letteratura. Morì a Varsavia il 5 novembre 1937, senza avere ancora raggiunto la posizione centrale che la critica polacca gli avrebbe attribuito nei decenni successivi. La sua produzione poetica pubblicata in vita fu relativamente limitata. “Sad rozstajny” del 1912, traducibile come “Il frutteto al bivio”, non ottenne un riconoscimento immediato. “Łąka” del 1920, “Il prato”, conteneva già molti dei caratteri decisivi della sua maturità. “Napój cienisty” del 1936, “La bevanda ombrosa”, uscì poco prima della morte. “Dziejba leśna”, espressione difficilmente trasferibile in italiano e riferibile a un accadere boschivo, apparve postuma nel 1938. Accanto alla poesia scrisse racconti e riscritture fiabesche, fra cui “Klechdy sezamowe” e “Przygody Sindbada Żeglarza”, dedicate alle avventure di Sindbad il marinaio. La quantità contenuta delle opere non deve trarre in inganno. Pochi poeti hanno costruito un universo tanto vasto attraverso un numero così ristretto di libri. Ogni raccolta sembra estendere la lingua polacca verso territori che prima non possedevano parole. Leśmian non si limita a combinare vocaboli esistenti. Produce verbi, sostantivi, aggettivi e forme negative, sfruttando le possibilità offerte dai prefissi e dai suffissi slavi. La critica ha chiamato queste invenzioni “leśmianismi”. Molte indicano qualcosa che non esiste ancora, che ha cessato di esistere, che esiste solo parzialmente oppure che resta sospeso fra presenza e cancellazione. La sua lingua non riveste un pensiero già formato. Genera il pensiero nel momento stesso in cui genera la parola. Questa caratteristica rende Leśmian estremamente difficile da tradurre. In italiano si possono trasferire le immagini, le situazioni, parte del ritmo e alcuni significati, ma spesso si perde l’atto creativo compiuto dentro la struttura stessa del polacco. Nei suoi versi una parola inventata può indicare contemporaneamente un’azione, una condizione e una mancanza. I prefissi negativi non servono soltanto a negare. Producono esseri appartenenti al non ancora, al non più e al quasi. Il nulla leśmianiano possiede attività, profondità e capacità di trasformazione. Non rimane vuoto. Agisce sulle creature, le deforma, le chiama e qualche volta le restituisce a una forma diversa. La morte, allo stesso modo, non interrompe necessariamente l’accadere. I morti continuano a cercare, ricordare, incontrarsi, fallire e amare. Perfino Dio può essere interrogato, inseguito o colto nella propria distanza. Da questa libertà linguistica deriva una delle qualità più singolari della sua poesia. Il lettore riconosce un’atmosfera arcaica, quasi proveniente da una ballata popolare, ma incontra nello stesso tempo problemi filosofici radicalmente moderni. La tradizione non viene riprodotta con nostalgia. È riattivata affinché possa parlare dell’estraneità dell’uomo, dell’impossibilità di possedere interamente la vita e della precarietà di ogni identità. Il bosco rappresenta uno dei luoghi privilegiati di questa ricerca. Nella cultura popolare slava esso è lo spazio delle presenze ambigue, delle deviazioni, degli incontri con esseri che non appartengono alla comunità umana. Leśmian conserva questa eredità e la trasforma. Fra alberi, prati, stagni e sentieri sorgono creature che sembrano nate dall’unione fra natura e parola. Alcune provengono dal folklore polacco, altre sono invenzioni personali costruite secondo una logica simile a quella del mito. Nessuna rimane una semplice decorazione fiabesca. Ogni apparizione mette in questione la presunta superiorità dell’essere umano. La natura non è un ambiente passivo contemplato da un osservatore. Possiede iniziativa, memoria, sensualità e crudeltà. Un albero può partecipare a un dramma amoroso, una pianta può assumere un’intensità quasi carnale, la terra può accogliere e modificare i morti. L’uomo non domina tale realtà. Vi entra come una creatura fra le altre, fragile e spesso incapace di comprenderne le leggi. La poesia diviene così un incontro fra forme differenti dell’esistenza. Il soggetto umano perde la propria centralità senza dissolversi. Continua a soffrire, amare e interrogare, ma non può più considerarsi l’unico depositario dell’interiorità. La presenza del corpo è altrettanto decisiva. Leśmian fu uno dei grandi poeti erotici della lingua polacca, benché il suo erotismo non possa essere separato dalla morte, dalla natura e dalla ricerca metafisica. Gli amanti non si incontrano in uno spazio protetto dal tempo. Ogni abbraccio contiene la coscienza della fine, ogni unione rivela la distanza che rimane fra due esseri, ogni piacere sembra voler raggiungere un’impossibile pienezza. Il corpo conserva la propria concretezza. Le mani, la bocca, la nudità, il contatto e la vicinanza non sono allegorie destinate a scomparire dietro una verità spirituale. Attraverso di essi l’essere umano tenta di superare il proprio isolamento. Proprio perché il corpo è mortale, l’incontro erotico acquista una gravità cosmica. Gli amanti cercano di diventare più reali l’uno mediante l’altra, ma la loro unione non elimina la caducità. Talvolta la approfondisce. La sensualità leśmianiana può essere luminosa, giocosa, dolorosa oppure inquietante. Non conosce la separazione moralistica fra carne e spirito. Il corpo costituisce uno dei modi in cui l’invisibile diviene percepibile, senza però essere interamente spiegato. In poesie come “W malinowym chruśniaku”, traducibile come “Nel roveto dei lamponi”, l’esperienza amorosa si compie dentro una vegetazione fitta, partecipe e quasi indiscreta. Gli amanti raccolgono frutti, si sfiorano e scoprono il proprio sentimento mentre la natura circonda e accompagna i loro gesti. La scena possiede una delicatezza concreta, lontana tanto dall’astrazione sentimentale quanto dalla rappresentazione puramente sensuale. Altrove l’amore coinvolge esseri deformi, morti, figure fiabesche e creature prive di una completa appartenenza al mondo. Leśmian concede dignità poetica a chi non corrisponde alla perfezione fisica o sociale. La sua attenzione verso mendicanti, storpi, esseri incompiuti e figure respinte non nasce da un programma umanitario. Deriva da una concezione più profonda secondo cui ogni creatura lotta per ottenere una quantità maggiore di esistenza. Ciò che appare difettoso agli occhi della società può rivelare con maggiore evidenza il carattere incompiuto di tutta la condizione umana. Uno dei testi più celebri, “Dusiołek”, presenta un essere mostruoso proveniente dall’immaginario popolare che assale nel sonno un contadino. La vicenda conserva il tono ritmico e narrativo della ballata, ma conduce a una domanda rivolta a Dio. Perché creare una creatura tanto ripugnante e oppressiva. Dietro l’umorismo grottesco emerge il problema del male presente nel mondo. Leśmian non lo affronta mediante un sistema teologico. Lo mette in scena attraverso un incontro assurdo, corporeo e quasi comico. In “Dwoje ludzieńków”, “Due piccoli esseri umani”, due amanti muoiono senza riuscire a incontrarsi pienamente e continuano anche dopo la morte a cercare una felicità sottratta. Il diminutivo contenuto nel titolo non li ridicolizza. Esprime la loro piccolezza dinanzi all’universo e insieme l’immensità della loro ostinazione. In “Dziewczyna”, “La ragazza”, alcuni fratelli odono una voce oltre un muro e tentano di abbatterlo, persuasi che dietro si trovi una giovane prigioniera. Il loro sforzo continua oltre la morte, affidato infine alle ombre e agli strumenti, ma una volta distrutto il muro non appare nessuno. Resta il vuoto. La poesia non insegna che ogni speranza sia illusoria. Mostra piuttosto come l’essere umano venga costituito dalla ricerca di ciò che potrebbe non esistere. L’assenza dell’oggetto non cancella la verità dello sforzo. Dio occupa nella poesia di Leśmian una posizione instabile. Non è semplicemente negato, accolto o celebrato. Compare come creatore lontano, interlocutore inafferrabile, presenza insufficiente o potenza coinvolta nella stessa incompiutezza del creato. Le creature possono rivolgersi a lui con protesta, nostalgia e stupore. Il rapporto religioso perde ogni sicurezza dottrinale e diventa un confronto fra la debolezza umana e il mistero di un universo che non offre spiegazioni definitive. La metafisica di Leśmian nasce da immagini, vicende e movimenti, non da enunciati astratti. Un uomo incontra una creatura, una ragazza canta dietro un muro, due morti si cercano, un essere deforme vuole amare, una divinità minore entra nel mondo visibile. In queste situazioni prende forma la domanda fondamentale. Che cosa significa esistere quando nessun essere coincide completamente con se stesso. L’influenza di Bergson è stata spesso ricordata dalla critica, soprattutto per l’importanza attribuita al movimento vitale, all’intuizione e alla realtà concepita come continuo divenire. Leśmian, tuttavia, non trasforma la poesia in esposizione filosofica. Utilizza il pensiero per liberare l’immaginazione dalle forme immobili. La vita non è una sostanza posseduta una volta per sempre. È attività, mutamento, creazione incessante e lotta contro l’inerzia. Anche la parola deve quindi muoversi. Un linguaggio composto esclusivamente da termini già disponibili non riuscirebbe a esprimere ciò che sta nascendo o scomparendo. I neologismi rispondono a questa necessità. Essi danno una consistenza provvisoria a esperienze che la lingua ordinaria non sa registrare. Per Leśmian il poeta non è soltanto colui che usa abilmente le parole. È colui che scopre possibilità dell’essere mediante possibilità linguistiche. Durante la sua vita Leśmian rimase una figura relativamente appartata. La sua poesia non coincideva pienamente né con il tardo simbolismo della Giovane Polonia né con le tendenze dominanti nella Polonia indipendente fra le due guerre. I poeti di Skamander portarono nella letteratura la città, la quotidianità, la conversazione e una nuova immediatezza. Le avanguardie esaltarono la modernità, la macchina e la sperimentazione formale. Leśmian seguì una strada personale, rivolta verso il mito, la ballata, il mondo rurale e i problemi ultimi dell’esistenza. Questa distanza favorì per qualche tempo l’equivoco di un poeta estraneo alla modernità. In realtà pochi autori furono moderni quanto lui. L’inquietudine riguardante l’identità, la crisi del soggetto, l’instabilità del linguaggio e la presenza del nulla appartiene pienamente alla cultura novecentesca. Leśmian affrontò tali questioni senza rinunciare alla musicalità, alla narrazione e alla concretezza delle immagini. La sua grandezza dipende anche dalla capacità di unire elementi che altrove tendono a separarsi. La ballata popolare incontra la filosofia, il grottesco convive con il tragico, l’erotismo conduce verso la morte, l’umorismo apre domande religiose, la natura diventa protagonista senza trasformarsi in idillio. Le creature più improbabili possiedono una serietà esistenziale, mentre le questioni più solenni possono apparire attraverso situazioni buffe o inquietanti. Questa libertà impedisce alla sua poesia di diventare prevedibile. Il lettore non sa mai se il bosco offrirà un incontro amoroso, una divinità, un morto o un mostro. Ogni elemento può mutare funzione perché ogni cosa partecipa a un universo ancora in formazione. Fuori dalla Polonia Leśmian rimane meno conosciuto di quanto meriterebbe. La difficoltà della traduzione ha certamente contribuito a questa condizione. Il suo caso ricorda che la storia della poesia europea non coincide con la somma degli autori facilmente trasferibili nelle lingue maggiormente diffuse. Alcune opere dipendono così profondamente dalle strutture linguistiche originarie da opporre una resistenza quasi irriducibile. Ciò non significa che debbano rimanere confinate. Una traduzione di Leśmian può comunicare la forza delle immagini, il carattere delle vicende e la profondità delle domande, anche quando non riesce a riprodurre completamente l’invenzione verbale. Leggerlo attraverso una traduzione richiede soltanto la consapevolezza che dietro ogni frase può esistere un ulteriore movimento della lingua polacca. Bolesław Leśmian non fu un cantore evasivo di boschi incantati. Nella vegetazione, nei corpi, nei morti e negli esseri deformi cercò ciò che la realtà ordinaria tende a nascondere. Vide l’esistenza come un processo incompiuto, minacciato dal nulla e proprio per questo capace di una prodigiosa intensità. Le sue creature non possiedono certezze, eppure continuano a cercare una forma, un incontro, una parola o un Dio che forse non risponderà. Nel loro ostinato tentativo si riconosce una delle verità più profonde della sua poesia. Vivere significa partecipare a qualcosa che non comprendiamo interamente, creare parole per ciò che ancora non ha nome e avvicinarsi all’invisibile attraverso la materia fragile del mondo.

(Scritto di storia della letteratura di Roberto Minichini)