General Introduction to Persian Literature 9780755610396, 9781845118860

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A History of Persian Literature Editorial Board Mohsen Ashtiany J. T. P. de Bruijn (Vice-­Chairman) Dick Davis William Hanaway, Jr. Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak Franklin Lewis Wilferd Madelung Heshmat Moayyad Ehsan Yarshater (Chairman) Late Member: Annemarie Schimmel

Contributors Iraj Afshar, Professor Emeritus of Tehran University, has been a tremendous force in promoting the causes of librarianship, bibliographical research, and collection and publication of historical Persian documents, particularly of the Qajar period. He has been the author or editor of many works, and initiator and general editor of several series of books. He has been the editor, at different times, of the journals: Mehr, Sokhan, Ketâbhâ-ye mâh, Râhnemâ-ye ketâb, Âyande (2nd period), among others. He is the founder of the ­Farhang‑e Irân-zamin periodical (1952–) in which many Persian texts have been published. Among the positions he has occupied were the Librarian of Tehran Teachers College, the Director of the National Library, the head of University of Tehran’s Central Library, and the President of the Iranian Librarian Association. He has been a Consulting Editor of the ­Encyclopaedia Iranica for Bibliography and the Director of the Foundation of Dr. Mahmud Afshar, which has published a considerable number of books in Iranian studies and offers prizes to, and honors qualified ­Iranologists. Johannes Thomas Pieter de Bruijn is Professor Emeritus of Persian at the University of Leiden. His publications include Of ­Piety and Poetry (1983, on Sanâ’i of Ghazne), Persian Sufi Poetry (1997), a Dutch translation of Sa’di’s Golestân (1997); an anthology of classical Persian poetry (2002), and articles on Persian literature and the history of Persian studies in Europe. He is a contributor to the Encyclopaedia of Islam and the Encyclopaedia Iranica, the Consulting Editor of the latter for Persian Classical Literature, and the Vice-Chairman of the Editorial Board of A History of Persian Literature. xv

General Introduction to Persian Literature

François de Blois has worked on a broad range of topics in the fields of Iranian, Semitic, and Near Eastern studies, and taught at the University of Hamburg in the academic year of 2003–4. He is currently working at the School of Oriental and African Studies, London, on a research project about the Bactrian documents. Among his publications are Burzoy’s Voyage to India and the Origin of the Book of Kalilah wa Dimnah (1990), and Persian Literature. A Bio-bibliographical Survey, Vol. V: Poetry of the pre-Mongol period (1992–97, second revised edition 2004). He is co-author of the forthcoming Dictionary of Manichaean Texts. Vol. II: Texts from Iraq and Iran. He has been a contributor to the Encyclopaedia of Islam, the Encyclopaedia Iranica, and a number of scholarly journals. He is a member of the Editorial Board of A History of Persian Literature. Natalia Chalisova is a Leading Research Fellow at the Institute of Oriental Cultures, Russian State University for the Humanities, Moscow. Among her publications are: Rashid al-Din Vatvât, Sady volshebstva (1985, on Hadâ’eq al-sehr fi daqâ’eq al-she’r), Shams‑e Qeys Râzi, Svod pravil persidskoy poyezii (1997, on Al-Mo’jam fi ma‘âyir ash‘âr al-Ajam), and Persian Poetics: The Conventions of The Description of Beauty (2004, on the Anis al-oshshâq by Sharaf al-Din Râmi). She is also the author, with M. Rusanov, of a forthcoming study on Nizâmi’s Leyli and Majnun. Geert Jan van Gelder was from 1975–98 Lecturer in Arabic at the University of Groningen, and is presently Laudian Professor of Arabic at the University of Oxford. He has published widely on classical Arabic literature, including Beyond the Line: Classical Arabic Literary Critics on the Coherence and Unity of the Poem (1982), The Bad and the Ugly: Attitudes Towards Invective Poetry (Hijâ’) in Classical Arabic Literature (1988), and Close Relationships: Incest and Inbreeding in Classical Arabic Literature (2005). William L. Hanaway Jr., Professor Emeritus of the University of Pennsylvania where he taught classical and modern Persian and Persian literature. Among his publications are: Love and war: xvi

Contributors

Adventures from the Firuz Shah Nama of Sheikh Bighami (1974, translation), and Reading nastaliq: Persian and Urdu hands from 1500 to the present (1995, together with Brian Spooner). He is the founder of the journal Edebiyât and was its editor until 1993. He is a regular contributor to the Encyclopaedia Iranica and a member of the Editorial Board of A History of Persian Literature. Julie Scott Meisami has taught at the University of Tehran (1972–80), the University of California, Berkeley (1981–82), and was University Lecturer in Persian at Oxford University (1985–2002) until her retirement. She now lives in California. She has published several books, including Medieval Persian Court Poetry (1987), Persian Historiography to the End of the 12th Century (1999), and Structure and Meaning in Medieval Arabic and Persian Poetry (2003), numerous articles and translations from Persian, including Nezâmi of Ganje’s Haft Peykar (1995). She is currently the Sectional Editor for Islam of the Journal of the American Oriental Society. John Perry is Professor of Persian at the University of Chicago. He is the author of Karim Khan Zand, A History of Iran 1747–1779 (1979), which has also been published in Persian and Kurdish translations; Form and Meaning in Persian Vocabulary: The Arabic Feminine Ending (1991); and A Tajik Persian Reference Grammar  (2005), as well as numerous articles on Persian of Iran, Afghanistan, and Central Asia. Nasrollah Pourjavady is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Tehran, and a member of the Academy of Persian Language and Literature. He has written numerous books, essays and articles on Islamic mysticism, philosophy, and Persian literature, including: a critical edition of Ahmad Ghazâli’s Sawâneh (1980, English translation, 1986), Ro’yat‑e mâh dar âsmân (1996), Eshrâq va Erfân (2001), and Do mojadded /Two Renewers of Faith (2002). He served as General Editor of The Splendour of Iran (2001), a threevolume book on Iranian art and culture, and of Nashr‑e Dânesh and Ma’âref, journals published by the University Press of Iran. xvii

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Christine van Ruymbeke has taught at the Free University of Brussels and is now Soudavar Lecturer in Persian at the University of Cambridge, U.K. She has published several articles on scientific lore in the works of Nezâmi of Ganje. Her forthcoming book is entitled Science and Poetry in Medieval Persia: The Botany of Nizami’s Khamse. She is currently involved in an analysis of a rewriting of the Kalile va Demne cycles of animal fables from 15th century Herat. Priscilla P. Soucek is James R. McCredie Professor of the History of Art at the Institute of Fine Arts of New York University. Her main interests are Islamic art and architecture. She was the editor of Content and Context of Visual Arts in the Islamic World (1988), and has contributed to a number of other publications including Timurid Art and Culture (1992), and the Encyclopaedia Iranica. She is the Consulting Editor for the latter on the history of Persian art. Bo Utas is Professor Emeritus of Iranian studies at Uppsala University, Sweden. He has published on a wide array of subjects within Iranian linguistics, literature, and religion, most recently the monograph The Virgin and her Lover. Fragments of an Ancient Greek Novel and a Persian Epic Poem (2003, with Tomas Hägg). He has also edited a number of collective volumes, among others Arabic Prosody and its Application in Muslim Poetry (1994, with Lars Johanson). He continues to be a contributor to the Encyclopaedia Iranica. Gernot Windfuhr has taught in the Department of Near Eastern Studies at the University of Michigan since 1966, and served as the Chair of the Department from 1977 to 1987. His interests are focused on Persian and Iranian linguistics, literature, and culture, including Zoroastrianism, and their typological, cognitive, and esoteric aspects. His recent publications include a study of chronograms and time reckoning in Rumi’s Mathnavi, and a comparative study of the Zoroastrian and Taoist ritual. He is presently editing a volume on Iranian languages. He is also Consulting Editor of the Encyclopaedia Iranica for Linguistics. xviii

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Ehsan Yarshater is Director of the Center for Iranian Studies and Professor Emeritus of Iranian Studies, Columbia University, and the Founding Editor of the Encyclopaedia Iranica. Among his publications are Persian Poetry Under Shâhrokh (1955, in Persian); Myths and Legends of Ancient Iran (1959, in Persian); A Grammar of Southern Tati Dialects (1970); and “The Persian Presence in the Islamic World” (1998). Among the books he has edited are Highlights of Persian Art (with R. Ettinghausen, 1979); Cambridge History of Iran, Volume III in two parts (1983); Persian Literature (1988); the general editor of the annotated translation of Tabari’s History (40 Vols., 1979–2006); and the founding General Editor of the Persian Heritage Series, Persian Studies Series, and Modern Persian Literature Series. Riccardo Zipoli has been teaching Persian language and literature at the University of Venice since 1975, where he was also director of the Department of Eurasian studies from 1990 to 1996, and from 1999 to 2005. He is the Founding Editor of Lirica Persica series and the author of several of its volumes, including Statistics and Lirica Persica, Venice, 1992. Among his many other publications are: Encoding and Decoding Neopersian Poetry, Rome, 1988; translation of Kay Kâ’ûs ibn Iskandar, Il Libro dei Consigli (Qâbus–nâme), Milan, 1981; and the photographic books about the Persian landscape: Un giardino nella voce/Bâgh-i dar sedâ, Florence, 1995, and Tâ shaqâyeq hast/While poppies bloom, Tehran, 2005. Currently he is working on questions of stylistics and rhetoric, with a special focus on Persian rhyme as well as on Persian satirical and obscene poetry.

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Foreword In the 1990s I gradually became convinced that the time had come for a new, comprehensive, and detailed history of Persian literature, given its stature and significance as the single most important accomplishment of the Iranian peoples. Hermann Ethé’s pioneering survey of the subject, “Neupersische Litteratur” in Grundriss der iranischen Philologie II, was published in 1904 and E. G. Browne’s far more extensive A Literary History of Persia, with ample discussion of the political and cultural background of each period, appeared in four successive volumes between 1902 and 1924. The English translation of Jan Rypka’s History of Iranian Literature, written in collaboration with a number of other scholars, came out in 1968 under his own supervision. Iranian scholars have also made a number of significant contributions throughout the 20th century to different aspects of Persian literary history. These include B. Foruzânfar’s Sokhan va sokhan­ varân (On poetry and poets, 1929–33), M.-T. Bahâr’s Sabk-­shenâsi (Varieties of style in prose) in three volumes (1942) and a number of monographs on individual poets and writers. The truly monumental achievement of the century in this context was Dh. Safâ’s wide-ranging and meticulously researched Târikh-e ­adabiyyât dar Irân (History of Literature in Iran) in five volumes and eight parts (1953–79). It studies Persian poetry and prose in the context of their political, social, religious, and cultural background, from the rise of Islam to almost the middle of the 18th century. Nevertheless, it cannot be said that Persian literature has received the attention it merits, bearing in mind that it has been the jewel in the crown of Persian culture in its widest sense and the standard bearer for aesthetic and cultural norms of the literature of the eastern regions of the Islamic world from about the 12th century; and that it has profoundly influenced the literatures xxi

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of ­Ottoman ­Turkey, Muslim India and Turkic Central Asia—a literature that could inspire Goethe, Emerson, Matthew Arnold, and Jorge Luis Borges among others, and was praised by William Jones, Tagore, E. M. Forster, and many more. Persian literature remained a model for the literatures of the above countries until the 19th century, when the European influence began effectively to challenge the Persian literary and cultural influence and succeeded in replacing it. Whereas Persian art and architecture, and more recently Persian films, have been written about extensively and at different levels for a varied audience, Persian literature has largely remained the exclusive domain of specialists: It is only in the past few years that the poems of Rumi have drawn to themselves the kind of popular attention enjoyed by Omar Khayyam in the 19th century. A History of Persian Literature (HPL) has been conceived as a comprehensive and richly documented work, with illustrative examples and a fresh critical approach, to be written by prominent scholars in the field. An Editorial Board was selected and a meeting of the Board arranged in September 1995 in Cambridge, UK, in conjunction with the gathering that year of the Societas Europaea Iranologica, where the broad outlines of the editorial policy were drawn up. Fourteen volumes were initially envisaged to cover the subject, including two Companion Volumes. Later, two additional volumes devoted to Persian prose from outside Iran (the Indian subcontinent, Anatolia, Central Asia) and historiography, respectively, were added. Of the Companion Volumes, the first deals with pre-Islamic Iranian literatures and the second with the literature of Iranian languages other than Persian as well as Persian and Tajik oral folk literature. The titles of the volumes are as follows: Volume I: General Introduction to Persian Literature Volume II: Persian Poetry in the Classical Era, 800–1500

Panegyrics (qaside), Short Lyrics (ghazal); Quatrains (robâ’i)

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Foreword

Volume III: Persian Poetry in the Classical Era, 800–1500

Narrative Poems in Couplet form (mathnavis); ­Strophic Poems; Occasional Poems (qat’e); Satirical and Invective poetry; shahrâshub

Volume IV: Heroic Epic

The Shahnameh and its Legacy

Volume V: Persian Prose Volume VI: Religious and Mystical Literature Volume VII: Persian Poetry, 1500–1900

From the Safavids to the Dawn of the Constitutional Movement

Volume VIII: Persian Poetry from outside Iran

The Indian Subcontinent, Anatolia, Central Asia after Timur

Volume IX: Persian Prose from outside Iran

The Indian Subcontinent, Anatolia, Central Asia after Timur

Volume X: Persian Historiography Volume XI: Literature of the early Twentieth Century

Volume XII:

From the Constitutional Period to Reza Shah

Modern Persian Poetry, 1940 to the Present

Iran, Afghanistan, Tajikistan

Volume XIII: Modern Fiction and Drama Volume XIV: Biographies of the Poets and Writers of the Classical Period Volume XV: Biographies of the Poets and Writers of the Modern Period; Literary Terms Volume XVI: General Index Companion volumes to A History of Persian Literature: Volume XVII: Companion Volume I: The Literature of Pre-­Islamic Iran Volume XVIII: Companion Volume II: Literature in Iranian Languages other than Persian

Kurdish, Pashto, Balochi, Ossetic; Persian and Tajik Oral Literatures

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General Introduction to Persian Literature

It is hoped that the multi-volume HPL will provide adequate space for the analysis and treatment of all aspects of Persian literature. The inclusion of a volume on Persian historiography can be justified by the fact that Persian histories like the biographical accounts of mystics or poets often exploit the same stylistic and literary features and the same kinds of figures of speech that one encounters in Persian poetry and belles-lettres, with skilful use of balanced cadences, rhyme, varieties of metaphor and hyperbole, and an abundance of embellishing devices. This was considered to impart a literary dimension to the prose, enhance its esthetic effect, and impress the reader with the literary prowess of the author. The study of Persian historiography should therefore be regarded as a component of any comprehensive study of Persian literary prose and the analysis of its changing styles and contours. Moreover, in pre-modern times, “literature” was defined more broadly than it is today and often included historiography. As is evident from the title of the volumes, A History of Persian Literature’s approach is neither uniformly chronological nor entirely thematic. Developments occur in time and to understand a literary genre requires tracing its course chronologically. On the other hand, images, themes, and motifs have lives of their own and need to be studied not only diachronically but also synchronically, regardless of the time element. A combination of the two methods has therefore been employed to achieve a better overall treatment. Generous space has been given to modern poetry, fiction, and drama in order to place them in the wider context of Persian literary studies and criticism.

About the present volume Volume I is an introductory volume, treating subjects that are common to many fields of Persian literary study. The Volume has been carefully and expertly planned by its editor, J. T. P. de Bruijn, emeritus professor of Persian literature at the University of Leiden, who also invited and edited the contributions; the chapters were also xxiv

Foreword

reviewed by the general editor. For the selection of the fonts and the attractive layout of the Volume, we are indebted to Claudius Naumann of the Institut für Iranistik, Freie Universität, Berlin. A number of specific editorial decisions need to be explained to the reader: 1. Diacritics have been reduced to a minimum (except in Chapter 5, where the nature of the topic required nearly full transcription) in order to avoid unnecessary complications and to make the presentation more palatable and reader-friendly. Earlier Orientalists generally wrote for their peers and were careful to meticulously render all the letters and sounds in proper names and foreign words. While this made sense to experts who were interested in the philological aspects of the original language, it often proved distractive to the general reader who was perhaps baffled by the variety of diacritical signs and symbols. The HPL Volumes are addressed to both scholars and general readers. Diacritics are of little use to those who know Persian or Arabic; they can easily envision the original even if the transcription does not include diacritics. Only the long vowel “â” bears a special sign to distinguish it from the short vowel “a” as the Latin alphabet uses only one sign for the two different vowels. By the same token, a single sign, namely, an apostrophe, has been used for both “eyn” and “hamze,” homophonous letters in Persian, when they appear in the middle or the end of a word, but are omitted in initial position; thus Attâr, Sa’di, adib, Ma’mun, abnâ’. When the published title of a book or an article bears diacritics, it is reproduced as published, with diacritics, as a matter of accuracy. The same applies to items in the Bibliographies. In some well-known names and titles, such as Qur’an (Qur’ân) and Shahname (Shâh-nâme), the long ‘a’ is not marked. When an anglicized form of a name exists, it has been used, e.g., Isfahan, Samarkand. Also in the names of provinces and cities the long ‘a’ is not marked, e.g., Khorasan, Mazandaran, Kashan. 2. The Tehrani pronunciation of Persian as used in audio-visual media has been taken as standard; thus, qaside, qat’e, khal’at, vaqfnâme, Ganje, Ghazne. xxv

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3. In Arabic constructs, however, the Arabic pronunciation has generally been observed; thus, Hadiqat al-haqiqa, Majma’ al­bahrayn. 4. In compound names, such as Nezâmi-Aruzi, Amir-NezâmGarrûsi, Eqbâl-Ashtiyâni, Modarres-Razavi, the ‘e’ of Ezâfe prior to the last component is dropped. 5. As HPL is primarily addressed to a Western audience, it provides, as a rule, only bce and ce dates, unless there is a good reason for providing also the Islamic date (such as the date in the colophon of a book). This applies also to the publication dates of books and periodicals. Readers interested in the equivalent Islamic year can subtract 621 from a ce year to obtain the Persian solar year; thus 1998 ce equals 1377 of the Persian solar year. Conversion to lunar years is more complicated and interested readers should refer to one of the easily available conversion tables, accessible also on the Internet. 6. Each Islamic year, whether lunar or solar, coincides with two Christian years, and vice versa. In order to avoid cluttering the pages with a series of numerals, only the first year has been chosen as the equivalent; thus, the equivalent of 967 will be given as 1559 and not as 1559–60, but the reader should be aware that the actual date may fall in the following year. When the month and the day of an Islamic date is known, then the equivalent can be made precise. 7. As the HPL Volumes are not prepared simultaneously, and as the chapters in each volume are written by different experts without the prior knowledge of what will follow in the succeeding volumes, cross-references from one chapter to other chapters will be minimal in the first volumes. 8. Non-English words such as ghazal, qaside, madrese, or divân are italicized in every occurence, as are book and periodical titles. Ehsan Yarshater General Editor

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Chapter 1 Classical Persian Literature  as a Tradition J. T. P. de Bruijn

1. Preliminary Remarks A literary tradition is much more than a group of texts that happen to be written in the same language. The term denotes a collective concept, a cultural phenomenon in its own right with important links to the context in which it manifests itself. Writers and poets who participate in a tradition of this kind create their works, either consciously or unconsciously, according to a set of artistic norms. These rules, governing matters of form as well as content, were laid down by preceding generations and are passed on to future generations as long as the tradition remains in force. The structure of literary conventions is safeguarded by certain standards of criticism that help to establish artistic values and by a canon of the most eminent representatives of the tradition. Being a public matter, literary activities also are informed by the possibilities and constraints of the prevailing social and economic conditions. The extra-literary context not only affects the production and reception of literary texts, but also their distribution. Eventually, it determines the status of the writers, the poets and their art in society. As chronology is an essential element in the definition of a tradition, the historical perspective is to be considered as well. Just as historical changes affect all sectors of society, they also influence the position of the literary artist. The study of the intrinsic and the contextual conditions of a literary tradition in their proper diachronic perspective should be the fundamental objective of any history of literature. 

General Introduction to Persian Literature

In the present volume the outlines of Persian literature as a tradition are drawn in order to provide a frame of reference for the discussion of individual works and genres in the volumes to follow in this series. The first chapter briefly examines a few preliminary aspects mainly pertaining to the proper demarcation of our subject, and to some of its contextual features. In common usage classical Persian literature refers to the literary tradition that emerged in the third Islamic century (9th century ce) simultaneously with the renaissance of the Persian language as a literary medium. For more than a millennium it continued to exist as a living and extremely productive “tradition” (in the most appropriate sense of the term), which held unrivalled sway over all activities at the level of polite literature. Its normative strength was apparent also in the literatures of other Muslim nations who were not persophone, but were strongly influenced by the Persian literary tradition, in particular the Turks of Central Asia and Anatolia and the Muslim peoples of the Indian Subcontinent. Even non-Muslim denominations—notably the Jews and the Zoroastrians—faithfully followed the classical rules when they dealt in Persian poetry with subjects belonging to their own religious traditions. The hegemony of the normative system of classical Persian literature was broken only in the 20th century, when a modern Persian literature emerged, a quite different tradition influenced strongly by Western models. The focus in this volume will be Persian literature in its classical form and as a written tradition. For a discussion of the general features of pre-Islamic and modern literatures as well as of forms of oral literature in the Iranian linguistic area the reader should turn to the volumes of this series that are specifically devoted to these subjects. If the term “normative system” is a valid characterization, this implies that the Persian literary tradition is not just a construct of modern scholarship but that it was already an entity in the minds of its participants. There is a problem here, however: the concept of “literature” has no equivalent in the terminology used by traditional Persian scholars. The word adabiyyât, which denotes “literature” in modern Persian usage, is a neologism coined by Turkish modernists in the 19th century and subsequently adopted by 

Persian literature as a tradition

other languages of the world of Islam.1 Traditionally, the notion of embellished speech was essentially linked to poetry, for which a proper appellation was currently used, and even when it could be applied to prose works, it was because the style of these texts had certain poetic qualities, for instance by the insertion of rhythmic and rhyming phrases (saj’) or of short poems. The Golestân (Rose garden) by Sa’di (d. 1292) is the most celebrated example of the poeticizing of the classical Persian prose style, which set a standard for the centuries that followed. The same emphasis on poetry is also noticeable in Persian literary scholarship. The system so tenaciously adhered to until quite recently was not a creatio ex nihilo. The first Persian writers and poets were very conscious that they continued the Arabic literary tradition, which by the end of the 9th century had already reached its mature growth, including sophisticated philological methods and authoritative works of literary criticism. 2 However, even if full credit is given to this Arabic legacy, it is still an astonishing fact that those elements in the Persian tradition that eventually became its most distinctive features were already present at a very early date. The fundamental system of literary conventions seems to have been established quite soon and to have acquired a firm grip on the actual writing of Persian poetry. It appears, for instance, that the prosodic rules followed by the first Persian poets were not very different from those employed by later generations. The convention of writing “responses” ( javâbs) or “similitudes” (nazires), i.e., compositions emulating successful works by preceding authors, helped to provide the tradition with strong coherence and gave classical Persian literature its conservative outlook in which very little seems to have changed for more than a millennium. If the classical tradition had been really so rigid and impervious to change as it appears from the robustness of its basic set of 1 The Arabic word adab on which the modern term is based carried various meanings, both wider and more restricted than adabiyyât; cf. F. Gabrieli, EI2, s.v. Adab; Dj. Khaleqi-Motlagh and Ch. Pellat in EIr, s.v. Adab; S. A. Bonebakker, “Adab and the concept of belles-lettres,” in J. Ashtiany, ed., ‘Abbasid Belles-Lettres (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 16–30. 2 Cf. the survey of Arabic literary theory by G. J. van Gelder in Chapter 5.



General Introduction to Persian Literature

prosodic rules, the writing of its history would not be a very challenging project. However, when one takes a closer look at the actual production of literary works, their rich variety of forms and content soon becomes apparent. The question to be asked is not, therefore, whether or not significant variations can be found within the tradition, but how patterns of development can be discerned enabling the historian of literature to trace the general lines in the story of a tradition’s life. Several suggestions have been made for the periodization of Persian literature. Some were based on external factors such as the dynastic history of Persia—considering the undeniable fact that Persian literature has had close links with the courts during most of its history—or an underlying social and economic development to which changes on the level of literature were supposedly reducible.3 The most interesting, and undoubtedly the most successful, of these attempts at a classification of Persian literature is the theory of the three “styles” (sabks). This theory has the great advantage that it did not originate in the more or less abstract reflections of modern scholarship, but in the concerns of practicing poets who endeavored to come to terms with different tendencies within their own tradition. Although the available evidence is scarce, it likely emerged towards the end of the 19th century in discussions of the best examples to be followed in poetry that were going on in Mashhad among a circle of poets and literati. The most prominent among them was Sabuhi, the poet laureate (malek al-sho’arâ) at the court of the Qajar governor of Khorasan and at the shrine of the Imam Ali al-Rezâ. These ideas were publicized especially through the writings of Sabuhi’s son, Mohammad-Taqi Bahâr (1886–1951), one of the founders of modern literary scholarship in Persia as well as an outstanding poet in the neo-classical style.4 The geographical terminology is a distinctive feature of this theory as a whole. It has its justification in the political and cultural history of Persia in as far as it indicates important shifts in the centers of power and 3 4

On the various proposals for a classification of Persian literary history, see J. Rypka, HIL, pp. 112–19. Cf. the account in M.-T. Bahâr, Sabkshenâsi I (Tehran, 1942), pp. y–yb.



Persian literature as a tradition

patronage in Persian culture. The disadvantages are, first, that it fails to encompass all the historical developments that fall within a period; second, that its chronology is imprecise; and third, that it does not specify any literary characteristics of the period. For our present purpose, the theory of the three styles provides a convenient framework for a birds-eye view of the history of the classical tradition. The earliest stage was, according to this theory, the period of the style of Khorasan (sabk-e Khorâsâni), which is also known as the style of Turkestan (sabk-e Torkestâni).5 It was thus named because the earliest courts where Persian poetry was written were those of semi-independent rulers in the eastern provinces of the Abbasid Caliphate: the Taherids of Nishapur, the Saffarids of Sistan and above all of the Samanids of Central-Asian Bukhara. Together the flowering of these emirates in the east fell between the middle of the 9th and the end of the 10th centuries. About the year 1000 the center of political gravity moved to the area of Ghazne, in present day eastern Afghanistan. Here the Ghaznavids, the first Turkish dynasty to come to power in the Persian lands, energetically continued the patronage of Persian poets and writers. They were also the first to bring the Persian literary tradition to India, to Lahore, the residence of the Ghaznavid governors of the Punjab. In Central Asia the Samanids were succeeded by the Turkish Qarakhanids who continued to support Persian court poetry. The end of this period is not easy to determine. It could be argued that it lasted until the downfall of the Ghaznavids and their successors, the Ghurids, in the second half of the 12th century, but at that time Persian literature had already begun its extension to the western regions from which the next period derived its name. An event of great historical significance had occurred in the middle of the 11th century when the Saljuq Turks invaded Persia from Central Asia. As a result, the west and the east of ­Persia were reunified, not only politically but also culturally. About the same time the use of the Persian language in literature gradually started 5 The stylistic characteristics were described by M. J. Mahjub, Sabk-e Khorâsâni dar she’r-e fârsi (Tehran, 1966).



General Introduction to Persian Literature

to gain terrain in the center, including Ray (at that time an important city, the ruins of which lie near Tehran, the present capital of Persia) and Isfahan, the Caspian provinces, and especially the northwestern province of Azerbaijan. In terms of the stylistic theory that we are discussing here this signified the development of a new literary style, “the style of Iraq” (sabk-e Erâqi), i.e., the style which developed in “Persian Iraq” (Erâq-e Ajam), the medieval appellation for what in ancient times was known as Media, or western Persia. If we accept the year 1100 as a rough dating of the first signs of stylistic change, the period of the style of Iraq spans over four centuries. Geographically, the entire area where Persian was spoken became involved. The reputation of “the city of poets” which Shiraz in the southern province of Fârs gained, dates from the 13th to 14th centuries. Even places outside Persia, such as Baghdad and Anatolian Konya in the west as well as the Sultanate of Delhi in the east, were included in this stylistic period. Politically, it encompasses upheavals of great historical impact, of which the rise and disintegration of the Saljuq sultanate and its successor states, the Mongol conquest, the reign of the Timurids, and finally the coming into power of the Safavids were the most important. The religious landscape of Persia was also altered drastically, first by the expansion of Sufism and then, after 1500, by the forced establishment of Twelver Shi’ism as the state religion by the Safavids. In the early decades of the 16th century the Timurid prince Bâbor, who was well familiar with Persian literary tradition, fled from Central Asia to India, where he became the founder of the Mughal dynasty. One of the things Bâbor carried with him was the tradition of patronage by his ancestors, who had liberally favored both literature and the visual arts. For several centuries Persian literature had already been cultivated in the Subcontinent. It had flourished in particular during the period of the Sultans of Delhi, when the great Indo-Persian poet Amir Khosrow of Delhi (1253–1325) enjoyed their patronage. The establishment of a vast Muslim empire by the Mughals, which eventually encompassed the greater part of the Subcontinent, gave a new and strong impetus to Persianized culture in India. Islamic courts in many different 

Persian literature as a tradition

regions grew into important centers where Persian was used and Persian letters flourished. Throughout the 16th and 17th centuries they attracted scores of artists and poets from Persia. Incentives for the drain of artistic talent from Persia were, on the one hand, the expectation of profits to be gained at the Indian courts and, on the other, the experience that the Safavids were far less enthusiastic patrons of letters than former Persian rulers had been. The number of Persian poets who had immigrated to India was supplemented by many who were born in India and sometimes were not even ­native-speakers of Persian. The contacts with foreign traditions, largely non-Islamic, as well as a greater freedom with regard to critical standards maintained in the homeland, must have induced poets to experiment with the conventional imagery, though the prosodic system of the Persian tradition remained fully intact. The remarkable innovations which the Persian poets in India introduced were in retrospect subsumed under the heading “Indian style” (sabk-e Hendi). Also in this instance, however, the transition from the preceding “Erâqi style” was not as sudden as the terminology suggests. In Persia itself many stylistic features of 15th and early 16th century poetry foreshadow the new trends. One of the poets who is often named as a precursor of the Indian style is Feghâni of Shiraz (d. 1519), who spent his entire life in Persia. Recently the appellation “Isfahani style” (sabk-e Esfahâni) has gained some currency indicating that the new style was also practiced in the capital of Safavid Persia, where Sâ’eb of Tabriz (1601–77) was its most outstanding representative.6 The liberties that the Persian poets allowed themselves under the influence of this new trend met with far less enthusiasm in Persia than in India. The features characterizing the Indian style were felt to be somewhat alien to the sound principles of Persian 6

See A. Bausani, “Contributo a una definizione dello ‘stile indiano’ della poesia persiana,” Annali dell’ Istituto Universitario Orientale di Napoli N.S. 7 (1958), pp. 167–78; W. Heinz, Der indische Stil in der persischen Literatur (Wiesbaden, 1973). On the Persian roots of many elements of the Indian Style, see in particular Dh. Safâ, TADI IV, pp. 167–69; V/1, pp. 521–27; and E. Yarshater, “The Indian Style: progress or decline?” in Persian Literature, ed. the same (Albany, 1988), pp. 249–88.



General Introduction to Persian Literature

style that had guided the great masters of Persian literature in the past. About the middle of the 18th century a reaction against these novelties arose. Afterwards the label “Literary Return” (bâzgashte adabi) was attached to this movement.7 It manifested itself first among writers and poets in the cities of Isfahan and Shiraz, which were still important cultural centers, but it received political backing when, after more than seventy years of chaos and dynastic strife, the Qajar shahs established their rule over the entire area of present-day Persia. Since the time of the Literary Return in Persia, the tradition of Persian poetry has lost the unity of style that had been its hallmark for so many centuries. In Persian poems written in India, Afghanistan, and Central Asia the Indian style of the Mughal period remained an important influence. This can be illustrated by the fact that in these lands a major representative of the Indian style such as Bidel (1644–1721, written Bedil in the Subcontinent) remains a highly revered poet, whereas until recently his name was hardly known in Persia itself. In the latter country neoclassicism remained the stylistic ideal throughout the last phase of the classical tradition. The sole point of discussion was whether the style of Khorasan or that of Erâq should be chosen as the model of good and genuinely Persian poetry. The Khorâsâni style was practiced by the poets of the Samanid, Ghaznavid, and early Saljuqid periods, when Persian poetry was confined almost to the environment of the courts. Instances of religiously inspired poetry were still very few and did not yet exert a dominant influence on the use of poetic themes, images, and rhetorical devices. This early style may be briefly characterized—at the risk of too great a simplification—by a lofty and virile diction, syncopated rhythms, meticulous attention to the correct use of the language, and a more or less happy outlook on life and love. The typical form of this period is the panegyrical ode (qaside). It is also the time when the heroic epic reached its fullest development in the Shahname of Ferdowsi, completed circa 1010. 7

Cf. W. Hanaway, EIr, s.v. Bāzgasht-e adabi.



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Already during the 11th and early 12th centuries ce, there were significant changes, which were due partly to the emergence of religious poetry in various forms. The names of the Ismâ’ili philosopher and propagandist Nâser-e Khosrow (d. 1060) and of the preaching poet Sanâ’i of Ghazne (d. 1131) mark a profound turn in stylistic history. This resulted in a strong impact of Sufism on poetry, even in the case of those poets who continued to work within the secular atmosphere of the Persian courts. Equally important was the increasing use of Arabic words and learned allusions, particularly by Anvari (d. probably 1189), and the mannerism of language and imagery appearing in the works of the poets of the northwestern provinces such as Khâqâni (d. 1199) and Nezâmi of Ganje (d. 1202). The period of the Erâqi style (Erâq here refers to western Persia often designated as Jebâl), roughly dated between 1100 and 1500 ce, actually shows a very complicated picture of various stylistic trends that does not lend itself to a one-dimensional description. Apart from the developments mentioned above, this was the period in which the ghazal—originally a short love poem as it was sung by minstrels—became the dominant lyrical form of classical Persian poetry, highly appreciated for its great musical smoothness and flow. Being preoccupied with love feelings, the poets of the ghazal depict the beauty of the beloved and lament the separation from him/her. In the poetry of Sa’di (d. 1292) and Hâfez (d. 1389) the special features of the ghazal were brought to their highest perfection. This form also gained a prominent place in the poetry of the mystics, exemplified in the huge collection left by Jalâl-ad-Din Rumi (d. 1273). Simultaneously, the mathnavi was no longer used mainly for heroic epics, but was applied with greater frequency to the narration of romantic stories and the exposition of moral and mystical ideas. Towards the end of the Erâqi period, a growing artificiality can be noted, particularly in the ghazals. In mathnavis (poems in rhyming couplets) there was a strong tendency towards allegory. The Indian style, which manifested itself during the 16th century ce, was not only practiced on the Subcontinent, but also temporarily in Persia, where Sâ’eb (d. 1676), the last great poet of the ghazal, was its principal representative. Also this appellation covers different, sometimes contradictory features. On the one hand, 

General Introduction to Persian Literature

it is marked by a less stylized language, coming closer to everyday speech; the poets of the Indian style allowed themselves greater freedom in the use of conventional imagery, and even introduced new images which hitherto had not been regarded as poetic. Occasionally this led to a relaxation of the strict structural soundness of the Persian language. On the other hand, the rule of harmonious imagery, observed by the older poets, was increasingly disregarded. Instead, incongruous images were connected with great, often exaggerated subtlety and sophistication. Philosophical themes were frequently broached, but in a rather superficial manner. More attention was given to ingenuity of expression than to profoundness of thought or natural sentiment. These stylistic innovations deeply influenced the subsequent history of Indo-Persian and Urdu poetry. However, in Persia it led to a strong reaction in the 18th century, known as the “literary return” (bâzgasht-e adabi), which inaugurated a renaissance of the older styles, especially the idealized simplicity of the Khorâsâni period. Yet, from a stylistic point of view, the value of the “geographical” theory for a historical periodization of Persian literature is slight. Especially the first two periods of this scheme are unsatisfactorily defined and cover too many divergent tendencies to be truly meaningful. It is therefore better to leave the description of development of style in poetry and prose to the subsequent volumes of this series where detailed arguments can be given within the appropriate context.

2. Documentation Classical Persian literature had long remained exclusively a manuscript tradition. The printing of Persian texts was virtually unknown in Persia and the Indian subcontinent until the beginning of the 19th century. Also in Europe, almost no Persian literary work had appeared in print after Sa’di’s Golestân was published by Georgius Gentius (Amsterdam, 1651). During the 19th century, philological research on a scientific basis made significant advances, 10

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particularly in Western scholarship. First to be mentioned are the inventories of the important collections of Persian manuscripts in several European libraries, but also a number of classical works, such as Ferdowsi’s Shahname, the Divân of Hâfez, and works by Sa’di and Jâmi, were published for the first time in critical editions according to the standards of the time. Still, when around 1900 Hermann Ethé and E. G. Browne published their comprehensive surveys of Persian literature, the great majority of the works they described were accessible only in manuscript or in not very reliable lithographs.8 The amount of progress made in the next half century, in the Persian cultural area as well as in the West, can be measured by the rich bibliography in the History of Iranian Literature (English edition: Dordrecht, 1968), prepared by Jan Rypka and his Czech colleagues. The documentation available for the present History of Persian Literature has improved even more. Not only the major classics, but also many works of minor writers and poets have appeared in print in more or less critical editions. During the past century Persian scholars have continued to investigate their literary heritage assiduously by publishing texts and writing studies in an increasing number of periodicals and in monographs. This is not to say that all the manifold problems which confront the historian of a more than millenary tradition have now been solved. However, the advances made are sufficient to allow the present attempt at a synthesis, which of course can offer no more than a moment of reflection in a continuing effort of scholarly exploration. A few more words must be added about our documentation as far as the extra-literary context is concerned. Through the publication of the seven-volume Cambridge History of Iran (1974–91), the Encyclopædia Iranica (in progress), and a great number of monographs, the broader historical background has been clarified and enriched with many cultural details. The advances made recently in religious studies, especially those on Persian Sufism with its close

8

For Persian studies in the west up to 1900 cf. Ethé, “Neupersische Litteratur,” in GIPh II, pp. 212–368.

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links to literature, is of paramount importance to this History and will receive full attention in a special volume of the series. Of a more direct concern is the material for the study of the place of literature in society. A fair number of primary sources for this kind of research are available, but they usually deal with literature from a normative standpoint. For that reason, they tend to stress the invariants rather than the variations in literary practice. A striking example is provided by reports of the extravagant remuneration successful court poets received from their patrons, as evidenced in Nezâmi-Aruzi’s Chahâr maqâle. Textbooks of poetics, such as Shams-e Qeys’s Mo’jam, often disregard the poetic practice of their day, focusing instead on features of older Arabic poetry, for instance in his treatment of the ghazal. Moreover, the most informative sources belong to an earlier period, whereas later writers take many aspects of the subject for granted. This makes it difficult to put the social environment of literature into a diachronic perspective. Descriptions of the conditions of a career in Persian literature, especially in poetry, necessarily lean heavily on two works belonging to the genre of “mirrors for princes” from the pre-Mongol period. The first is the Qâbus-nâme, a manual of correct behavior for courtiers written by the nobleman Key-Kâvus at the court of Ghazne in 1082. It deals in special chapters with the poet and his counterpart, the minstrel. The second work is the Chahâr maqâle (Four Essays) by Nezâmi-Aruzi, written about 1156 for the Ghurids, who as Persian kings were still upstarts at the time. Under the heading “Poetry and the craft of the poet” (she’r va shâ’eri) the craft of the court poet is discussed as one of the four professions essential to a medieval Persian ruler, the others being the functions of a secretary, a physician, and an astrologer. The author not only deals with his subject theoretically, but also from a practical standpoint through anecdotes which illustrate a number of exemplary situations as they occurred in the careers of famous poets. The invaluable information provided by these two authors can be supplemented from various other sources which, though not as explicit as the works of Key-Kâvus and Nezâmi, contain useful data. Among them are historical works, for instance Beyhaqi’s Târikh-e Mas’udi (d. 1077), treatises on poetics such as the afore12

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mentioned Mo’jam of Shams-e Qeys (who wrote ca. 1226), and anthologies, for instance Owfi’s Lobâb al-albâb (completed in 1220). Later anthologies, the so-called tadhkeres, provide much material of a biographical nature, even if they are not always historically reliable. The works of the poets are also of interest in as far as they refer to their professional concerns, especially their dealings with patrons. In all these works numerous reflections on the nature of poetry can be found. Undoubtedly, a full history of the literary profession in the Persian tradition could be attempted only on the basis of a collection of numerous small nuggets of information scattered throughout various sources. This is a task that has to be shouldered by future researchers.

3. The Birth of a Tradition At some point in time and under certain political and social conditions, a language which has been used almost exclusively as a spoken vernacular, acquires enough cultural prestige to inspire the speakers of this language to start using it in writing and thus create a literary tradition. The circumstances and the incentives might be very different in each instance. The event may lie far back before the beginnings of historical recollection, and the accounts about the origins may have become entirely legendary, such as the rise of literature in ancient Greece and in China. Sometimes, however, this process takes place within a historically well-documented setting. In the latter case, the new literature often emerges within another, alien literary tradition which, for political or religious reasons, had previously monopolized the written use of language. This occurred during the European Middle Ages when the vernaculars challenged and eventually broke the hegemony of Latin that was supported by both the state and the church. Another example is the emergence of Persian as a written language in the context of an Islamic cultural environment that was dominated by the use of Arabic as the sole literary medium. 13

General Introduction to Persian Literature

The comparison between Medieval Europe and early Islamic Persia is illuminating in more than one respect. The political and religious conditions show many similarities. In both instances the rise of new literary languages went together with a political development towards a greater autonomy of national entities, but this did not involve the disruption of a unified religious community. An interesting parallel is also the appearance of regional courts with strikingly similar traditions. The appearance of several courts where the work of artists was appreciated meant that there was fertile soil for the growth of literature in the shadow of the patronage that the feudal lords and their courtiers could provide. The specific traits of the Persian situation should not be overlooked, however. Unlike the Europeans, who could not look back upon a developed civilization of their own prior to the Roman Empire, the Persians did have such a background. Recollections from the Sasanid past had remained very much alive, however much they were colored by Islamic views. The interaction of pre-Islamic traditions with patterns that arose during the formative centuries of Islamic civilization poses a number of questions that usually are difficult to answer on account of gaps in our documentation concerning the literatures of ancient Iran. For all we know, written literature did not have a very strong position in pre-Islamic society. Apparently it was linked largely to the spheres of religion and state, where moreover it was restricted to a limited number of uses. This situation has not only very much reduced the number of texts handed down to us—a fact which cannot possibly be attributed merely to the loss of written material in the course of time—but also points to a quite different social role of the participants in the field of literature. The nostalgia for the splendor of the Sasanid period has been particularly strong in Islamic Persia. However, the immediate cultural horizon of the first Persian writers and poets was the Arabic literature of the early Abbasid period and this also determined most of the extra-literary conventions adopted by the Persian tradition. As poetry was considered to be very much the essence of literature, accounts about the origin of the literary tradition focus on the question of who wrote the first Persian poem. According to legend, 14

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this was the Sasanid Bahrâm V (r. 421–39), nicknamed Gur (“onager” supposedly on account of his fondness for hunting this animal), who lived on in the minds of poets and writers as one of the model kings of pre-Islamic Persia. It is characteristic that the invention of Arabic poetry is also ascribed to this Persian ruler, who was educated among the Arabs of Hira, a vassal state of Persia.9 Historically more reliable are the accounts that attribute the introduction of Persian poetry to the regional rulers of Khorasan and Central Asia in the 9th century. One of these reports is to be found in the anonymous chronicle Târikh-e Sistân. At the court of the Saffarid Ya’qub b. Leyth (r. 867–79), the initiative to write panegyric poetry in Persian would have been taken by Mohammad-e Vasif, one of the ruler’s secretaries: He made the first Persian poetry addressed to Persians [i.e. patrons of Persian descent]. Before him, no one had done such a thing because, as long as they were pârsis [i.e., before they became Muslims, both in a cultural and a religious sense], lyrics used to be sung to them to the sound of the lute (rud) in the khosrovâni manner. When the Persians were defeated and the Arabs came, poetry among them was in Arabic and they all had knowledge and understanding of it.10

The question as to which of the various reports on the actual beginnings of Persian poetry is trustworthy need not concern us here. The general background of the event is clear enough. The emergence of semi-independent rulers of local origin in the eastern provinces of the Abbasid caliphate had created the critical atmosphere required for this. With the increase of non-Arab converts to Islam (mavâli) among the higher layers of Muslim society, the nostalgia for the glorious past of Iran grew as well. This even happened in Iraq, at the very centre of Arabic power, where the intellectual movement known as the sho’ubiyye was already thriving among the class of “secretaries” (kâtebs), who nevertheless remained faithful to their

  9 E. G. Browne, LHP I, p. 12. 10 Târikh-e Sistân, ed. M.-T. Bahâr, p. 210. Cf. G. Lazard, Les premiers poètes persans I (Tehran and Paris, 1964), pp. 10–16, 18; F. Meier, Die schöne Mahsatī (Wiesbaden, 1963), pp. 10–11.

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Arabic erudition.11 In the east, where the centripetal force of Arabic was so much weaker, the urge to create a literary idiom on the basis of the surviving vernacular language, the Fârsi-ye dari or “Persian of the court,” was strong enough to break through the barrier.12

4. Writers, Poets, Minstrels, and Patrons Writers Persian literature was born in a society where literacy and writing, whether in prose or in poetry, were restricted to a few elite circles. They can be classified roughly into a political and a religious center. The courts of local rulers, which in the course of the 9th century had emerged in the eastern provinces, attracted all kinds of educated people: secretaries serving in the departments of state, professional men such as physicians and astrologers, and a variety of scholars, literati and, last but not least, poets who were looking for generous patrons. On the opposite side, in the mosques and institutions of religious education, especially the theological schools (madreses) and Sufi hospices (khâneqâhs), the scholarly and the devotional traditions of Islam had been firmly established since the first centuries after the Arab conquest. Nishapur and Balkh in Khorasan and Bukhara and Samarkand in Central Asia had already become famous seats of learning, and eastern Persia also had had its share in the development of Sufism. Both institutionally and culturally this eastern branch of Islamic civilization copied, more or less faithfully, the examples set by Iraq, the seat of the Abbasid Caliphate. The exclusive use of the Arabic language in writing, with all the scholarly and philological conventions that were attached to it, was one of the most conspicuous features of this dependence. Among state officials and scholars, secular as well as religious, Arabic was the language of choice once 11 See S. Enderwitz, EI2 s.v. al-Shuʿūbiyya. 12 On the development of literary Persian see J. R. Perry in Chapter 2.

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Islam was firmly established in Persia and Middle Persian stopped being the language of the Divân or departments of administration. For centuries they stuck to the use of Arabic, especially when they had to express themselves at the highest level of their profession. Up to the Safavid period (16th to 18th centuries), philosophers and religious scholars such as Avicenna (d. 1037), Biruni (d. c. 1050) and Mohammad Ghazâli (d. 1111) only seldom used their native language in writing, except for texts evidently intended for a lay public. The difference in style and dimension between writing in one or the other of the two languages becomes apparent when the two versions of Ghazâli’s most famous mystical work, the Arabic Ehyâ’ olum al-din (The Revivification of the Religious Sciences) and the Persian Kimiyâ-ye sa’âdat (The Alchemy of Bliss) are compared. Even among poets, the qualification of being “conversant with both languages” (dhu ’l-loghatayn) was regarded as a great distinction. Under the Turkish Ghaznavids, state officials still used citations of Arabic verses to enliven their conversation as it appears from the quotations by their Persian-writing colleague Beyhaqi. In a number of anthologies, such as Yatimat al-dahr by Abu-Mansur Tha’âlebi (961–1038), Dumyat al-qasr by Bâkharzi (d. 1075), and Kharidat al-qasr by Emâd-al-Din of Isfahan (d. 1201) the continuation of the practice of Arabic poetry in eastern Persia and Central Asia is well documented. Counter examples can also be mentioned. It was a high official of the Samanid rulers, Abu Ali Mohammad Bal’ami, who in 963 began his Persian adaptation of Tabari’s Arabic History, to be followed soon by a translation of the same writer’s commentary on the Qur’an. In the department of correspondence of the Ghaznavid administration, Persian was for the first time adopted as a diplomatic language in letters written to the Turkish rulers in Central Asia.13 However, even when in later centuries the secretaries contributed significantly to the development of Persian prose, they were also responsible for a style overgrown by learned Arabisms, which was the plague of Persian prose writing until about the mid19th century. 13

Cf. C. E. Bosworth, The Ghaznavids, 2nd printing (Beirut, 1973), p. 92.

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In the realm of learning, the persistant hegemony of Arabic is most noticeable in the core branches of Islamic scholarship such as the Qur’anic sciences, the study of the Prophetic Tradition (hadith), jurisprudence, theology, and Arabic philology. The earliest encroachments of Persian into religious writing occurred among religious minorities, both Islamic such as the Ismailis and the Karrâmis, and non-Islamic, in particular the Persian Jews who very early started to translate the Bible into an archaic form of the New Persian language, written in Hebrew characters, which is known as Judeo-Persian.14 Stories about the lives of the prophets recognized by Islam were also among the earliest topics to be dealt with in Persian. By far the greatest development of religious writings in Persian took place when Sufism grew widespread. The literature in prose written by Persian mystics in their native language is in its quantity, scope, and variety of no less importance than the much better known Sufi poetry in Persian, and is even unique in Islamic culture as a whole.15

Poets A rich minstrel tradition fulfilling various functions at court as well as in broader layers of society existed in Persia long before the coming of Islam. It is more difficult to find evidence for the presence of poets as we know them from Islamic times. Apparently, the pre-Islamic Persian tradition lacked a proper term for them, and such a term had to be borrowed from the Arabs: shâ’er (plural sho’arâ), a word known from the ancient Arabic poetry of the desert as well as from the Qur’an. When Arabic poetry was transferred from ­Bedouin society to the urban civilization of early Islam, the function of the shâ’er also changed from that of an oral soothsayer to the writer of poetry for rulers and learned audiences

14 See Jes P. Asmussen, EIr, s.v. Bible vii. Persian Translations of the Bible. 15 The various genres of Sufi writings are surveyed by N. Pourjavady in ­Chapter 9.

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in the cities of the Caliphate.16 In Persian, the common word for poetry became she’r, the poet was known as a shâ’er, and all that was connected to his art was subsumed under the heading of shâ’eri. These terms also point to decisive changes in literature itself, which signified that “the concept of separate, literary composition came to develop.”17 In the social context of the courts, which in many respects was paradigmatic for the position of a poet in the traditional sense, his part was first of all defined by the services that he could render to his patron. Nezâmi-Aruzi stated that the first duty of the poet is to immortalize a name (which could be taken to mean his own name as well as that of his patron) by making such good poetry that it … would be written on the pages of Time and be cited by the tongues of the noble, be recorded in albums and be read in all cities.18

In order to live up to this high standard the poet should have a careful education, including not only the rules of prosody and rhetoric, but also general knowledge which he could use to enrich his poems. He should above all make himself familiar with the tradition by “memorizing a thousand distichs by the earliest poets and ten thousand distichs from the works of later poets.” These masters should teach him how to deal with the difficulties and subtleties of composition. In addition he is advised to seek the guidance of a living master (ostâd) until he will have earned that title himself and he has established a lasting reputation.19 The social role that the poet had to fulfill also entailed demands on his personality and his behavior. Basic requirements were, according to Nezâmi-Aruzi, “a good character, an open mind, a sound nature, and a sharp wit.” In his chapter on the requirements of the poetical profession Key-Kâvus also stresses the importance 16

See M. M. Badawi, “ʿAbbasid poetry and its antecedents,” in J. Ashtiany a.o., eds., ʿAbbasid Belles-Lettres (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 146–66. 17 M. Boyce, “The Parthian gōsān and Iranian minstrel tradition,” JRAS 1957, p. 21. 18 Chahâr maqâle, p. 47. 19 Ibid.

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of the poet’s behavior in public. 20 He should take care of his clothes as well as his manners: If you are looking for a patron and when you are in business, do not look dejected and do not wear dirty clothes. Show at all times a fresh and smiling face. Memorize a lot of funny stories and jokes that make people listen, for in company and in front of the patron … you cannot do without them. 21

The emphasis on the practice of poetry as a craft in these descriptions does not mean that poetry was only a matter for professionals. Poems were written also by amateurs, among them kings and sultans, ministers, dignitaries and officials as well as scholars. This proves that, already in the early centuries, being able to write poetry was part of the normal training of an educated person. It was in particular a prerequisite of the secretaries in the offices of the state, whose letters and other writings needed embellishment by poetic inserts. Moreover, the improvisation of short poems was greatly appreciated in social settings.

Minstrels Key-Kâvus has left us the best description of the minstrel’s craft as it existed about the middle of the 11th century. 22 The most interesting point is that, for the first time, a clear distinction is made between the duties of the minstrel (khonyâgar) and those of the poet. This reflects a situation in the literary scene that was still comparatively new. One century earlier, reports about Rudaki’s performances as a player of the lute and a singer for the Samanid ruler show him as a minstrel who could exert a great influence on his patron’s state of mind. Even in early Ghaznavid times, Farrokhi was renowned as a musician as well as a poet. 23 In the representation of Key-Kâvus, however, the separation of the two professions 20 Qâbus-nâme, ed. Gh.-H. Yusofi (Tehran, 1967), Chapter 35, pp. 189–92. 21 Ibid., p. 192. 22 Ibid., Chapter 36, pp. 193–97. 23 As Farrokhi is portrayed by Nezâmi-Aruzi in Chahâr Maqâle, p. 58.

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is complete. Whereas in his preceding description of the poet, the emphasis is laid on the relationship of his profession to intellectual pursuits, the minstrel is in his eyes nothing more than a performer of the works of others, who is even discouraged from adding compositions of his own to his repertoire. Of course, just like the poet, he has to be a presentable person, be “quick of mind and pleasant in speech” and “good-natured,” and his clothes should be “clean and perfumed.” But he should also be very sensitive to the dispositions and reactions of those who listen to his singing and playing: When you sit down at a party look around. If the listener has a red face, saturated with blood, play especially on the lute with the two strings, but if he is pale and yellowish, play on the small string; if his face is black, lean and melancholic, play especially on the setar; if his skin is white, fat and sweating, play especially on the bass string. These types of lute are made in accordance with the four temperaments and the theoreticians of music have designed this art on the four human temperaments. 24

It is important for the minstrel to keep in mind that he is not a guest at the party where he performs but one of the servants. He must be careful not to drink while he is still at work, to be tactful in his dealings with a drunken patron and, in general, be very discrete as if he were: blind, deaf, and dumb. His ear should not be where it ought not to be, and he should not look upon what he ought not to see. After leaving the house, he ought not to speak at another place about the things he has seen and heard. Such a minstrel will always find a host and his business will be thriving. 25

In this exposition Key-Kâvus uses the term khonyâgar for minstrel, as he also was called in Pahlavi sources. The older term gôsân is hardly ever used anymore by Islamic writers, with the rare exception of a passage in Gorgâni’s romantic poem Vis o Râmin, where it seems to be a survival from the archaic sources of that story. 26 24 Key-Kâvus, Qâbus-nâme, p. 194. 25 Ibid., p. 197. 26 M. Boyce, “The Parthian gōsān,” p. 10.

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In later times, entertainers who are both singers and musicians are known as motrebs who are lowly on the social scale, but there can be little doubt that they represent a line of tradition continuing from pre-Islamic Iran, which was not interrupted by the appearance of the shâ’er as a new actor on the scene of Persian literature.

Patronage There is a remarkable similarity between traditions of court literature in otherwise different and unrelated cultures. Wherever such traditions exist, the basic structure is the same: a relationship of mutual interest between, on the one hand, the people in power who need confirmation of their status both in their own eyes and in those of the world and, on the other hand, the people who by means of their art can give the rulers and their courts the indispensable glamour. In the early 13th century, the Persian anthologist Mohammad Owfi expressed the part played by poetry in this interplay very succinctly by saying that the participants in poetry can be divided into two classes: one consists of “those who praise” (mâdehs), the other of “those who are praised” (mamduhs). The latter, he adds, “reward the first class with their favors.” Although kings and sultans and other notables have also tried their hands at improvising occasional poems, they cannot properly be called poets. 27 Naturally, this is much too narrow a view of the practice of Persian poetry, even in its classical phase. However, it is undeniable that the environment of the court has been archetypical to Persian poetry, and has left its mark also on poems produced under quite different circumstances. The presence of poets and minstrels in the environs of rulers perhaps goes back to the very beginnings of the monarchy in Persia, but we have scant knowledge of pre-Islamic courts. There is some evidence concerning the activities of minstrels and storytellers, though most of it is to be found in indirect 27 Owfi, Lobâb al-albâb, p. 8.

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or retrospective sources. 28 The probability of a longstanding tradition of court poetry is reinforced by the observation that in spite of all the breaks in its historical development, the institution of the court in Iran shows a great deal of continuity. The courts of ancient Iran, in particular that of the Sasanid kings, provided a model for the court of the Caliphs of Baghdad which in its turn was imitated by the local rulers in the Persian provinces of the Caliphate. When Turkish rulers came into power in most parts of the Islamic world, they meticulously followed the rules and practices of Iranian court life, including the patronage of poets. This situation remained essentially unchanged until the end of the 19th century. Only in its final stage, under the Pahlavi dynasty (1925–79), did the Persian monarchy abandon the tradition of Persian court literature. As an oft-repeated phrase goes, the life of a Persian king was spent mostly on bazm o razm, “feasting and fighting.” It hardly needs to be said that also this is a simplification because his duties included several other occupations, not least among them the dispensation of justice, as no panegyrist would fail to mention. Nevertheless, it is certainly true that when he was not on a campaign with his army or hunting, much time was spent in the banquet hall. This was also the place where rulers and poets most often met, either on the occasion of official functions or at the more informal parties in the convivial atmosphere of nashât o sharâb, “merry making and drinking.”29 At all the various court activities the accompaniment of poetry, whether recited or sung, was felt to be a necessity. The divâns of the court poets provide us with abundant material to study their ceremonial role. The Ghaznavid court of the 11th and 12th centuries best exemplified the patronage system of Persian court poetry and served as a model for later times. In this period, most of the ancient Iranian festivals were still observed, for instance Mehregân, celebrated in the autumn, and Sade, a mid-winter feast marked by huge bonfires such as the one magnificently described by Farrokhi 28 See EIr, s.v. Courts and Courtiers, and J. Scott Meisami’s contribution in Chapter 8. 29 This qualification is frequently used by Beyhaqi for a courtly drinking bout.

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in a qaside for a Ghaznavid official.30 These festivals were gradually abandoned, but the Nowruz celebrations at the beginning of the Persian year continued to be the most important festival on the calendar of the courts of Persia. The description of the splendor of nature in springtime, which was the favorite theme of the poems written for Nowruz, had a symbolic value as a hardly veiled reference to the flourishing state of the ruler’s kingdom. Of the Muslim festivals, the Id-e fetr at the end of the month of Ramadan was the most important. There were many other occasions for poems, such as birth and death, the founding of buildings and pleasure gardens, the royal hunt and, in particular, the warlike exploits of the ruler. The Ghaznavids, who for several generations were proud to be the champions of Islam on its easternmost frontier, especially liked to have their victories over the Indian infidels hailed by their court poets. Literature also played its part at leisure hours. The narrative genres, in prose as well as in poetry, equally served the purposes of entertainment and of moral instruction. Stories about the Persian kings of pre-Islamic times were always very much in demand as they gave models for right behavior that were especially useful to the Turkish newcomers to royal status. As mentioned by Beyhaqi, tales about a famous huntsman such as the Sasanid king Bahrâm Gur (r. 421–39) were appreciated for the inspiration they gave to a Ghaznavid prince when hunting. The persistence of old traditions is exemplified by the report that a storyteller (mohaddeth) had to be on duty at night at the palace gate to entertain the king if need be.31 The more frivolous part of the amusements at the courts were the drinking bouts that normally followed upon the ceremonial sessions and banquets. This was the moment when the minstrels, singers, musicians, and other entertainers were called in. In most erotic poetry, whether it occurs in the prologues of panegyric qasides or in independent ghazals, the atmosphere of these gatherings is to be understood as a background, real or virtual, as the case may 30 Farrokhi, Divân, ed. M. Dabir-Siyâqi (Tehran, 1970), pp. 48–51. 31 Cf. J. T. P. de Bruijn, “Poets and Minstrels in Early Persian Literature,” in Transition Periods in Iranian History (Paris, 1987), pp. 15–23.

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be. The light verse in the Persian divâns, which goes under the general rubric of hazliyyât or the more aggressive hajv (invective), may be assumed to reflect some aspects of the conversations at these occasions, with all its wittiness and bawdiness. It is hardly possible to define the social status of the court poet in a manner that would do justice to all its facets. Reports on the lives of poets provide useful information in as far as they depict situations that were considered to be typical, even if their application to individual cases may be doubtful. Some poets were able to win a position of trust in a court as a member of the inner circle of the ruler’s boon companions (nadims), with whom the ruler could relax freely from his official duties. On the other hand, there were those who spent a lifetime wandering from one court to another without ever attaining a permanent foothold in a particular place. Examples of the former are poets like Rudaki and Onsori, of the latter, Othmân Mokhtâri and Zahir-al-Din of Fâryâb. Whenever a court achieved a reputation for its liberal patronage, poets would flock to it in great numbers, thus creating the need for a means of selection. The most celebrated instance of this was at the court of Sultan Mahmud of Ghazne during the early 11th century. According to the anthologist Dowlatshâh who wrote at the end of the 15th century, the dignity of “king or prince of the poets” (malek or amir al-sho’arâ) was instituted by the sultan precisely for the purpose of testing the talents of would-be court poets before they were allowed to present themselves before the throne. In this the Ghaznavid sultan probably followed a precedent from the time of the Barmakids, the Persian ministers of the Abbasid caliphs, who in the early 9th century had founded an “office of poetry” (divân al-she’r) for the distribution of rewards to poets. It is not unlikely that they in their turn continued a pre-Islamic Persian tradition for the organization of court poetry.32 Several poets of later times carried this title, although its holders were often little more than a poet laureate to whom the title had been granted by a patron as a mark of special favor. 32

Cf. EI2 s.v. Malik al-Shuʿarâ.

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Reports of the rewards given to poets often strike the modern readers as extravagant. Carrying with oneself “four hundred camel loads,” as it is said of the poet Rudaki to gauge the wealth that he accumulated with his art, or having the mouth filled three times with pearls, as it is said to have happened to Onsori, no doubt with a great deal of poetic exaggeration, were undoubtedly exceptional cases and were, for that very reason, often quoted.33 More representative are references to the remunerations that one finds in the works of court poets themselves. The Divân of Sanâ’i of Ghazne is a particularly interesting source for this, as it contains a number of poems that he wrote for various patrons during his early years when he was active as a minor poet at the Ghaznavid court at the beginning of the 12th century. It is remarkable that he not only begs for gold and silver, but also for pieces of clothing, some of which are quite ordinary items such as an upper garment, an undergarment, a pair of trousers, a shirt, and a turban. Sometimes he asks simply for the cloth from which such garments could be made.34 The importance attached to these goods in particular may be connected with the demand on the poet to take proper care of his attire when appearing in public, which we have mentioned earlier. It should be considered that the position of the poet at court was not a stable one. His livelihood was nearly always dependent on the whims of the patrons whom he endeavored to please. An exception has to be made perhaps for the amir al-sho’arâ, whose status somewhat resembled that of an official in the service of the state. To Amir Mo’ezzi, who received this office once held by his father, a more or less fixed allowance was assigned, which was called jâmagi o ejrâ, and may have been paid at least partly in kind. Even this, however, was not a permanent position: already after one year Mo’ezzi abandoned it, as it did not bring in a lot, but cost him so much that he was submerged in debts. Besides, it did not give him the opportunity to become as close to his royal patron as he had hoped.35

33 Nezâmi-Aruzi, Chahâr maqâle, pp. 54, 57. 34 J. T. P. de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry (Leiden, 1983), p. 162. 35 Nezâmi-Aruzi, Chahâr maqâle, p. 66.

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Insecurity was never far away in the life of a court poet. This was especially the case if he got involved in the affairs of the state. The standard example of a great career that spiraled downwards is the fate of another Ghaznavid poet, Mas’ud-e Sa’d-e Salmân (d. 1121), who had to spend almost two decades in remote mountainfortresses banished from polite society. Ironically, the poems begging for mercy that he sent from his exile to Ghazne, known as the “prison-poems” (habsiyyât), contributed to his lasting fame.36 For many centuries patronage continued to provide a dominant pattern for Persian literary life. Although there were undoubtedly variations in its predominance, an awareness of its inextricable link to the institution of the royal court continued to exist. Even when it seemed to become less important in Persia itself, notably during the period of the Safavids and their immediate successors (16th–18th centuries), the traditions of royal patronage found new and fertile ground in other parts of the Persian cultural area, such as the Mughal Empire and other Muslim states on the Indian Subcontinent, and the Ottoman-Turkish Empire. In the early 19th century, a pastiche of the early Ghaznavid court as it once existed under Sultan Mahmud was created in Tehran by the Qajar ruler Fath-Ali Shah (r. 1797–1834). At this “Imperial Society” (­Anjoman-e Khâqâni), all the ancient practices of royal patronage were revived. These included the appointment of a “prince of the poets” in the person of Fath-Ali Khân Sabâ (d. 1822 or 1823), who glorified the deeds of his royal master in the epic poem Shâhanshâh-nâme, composed faithfully in the heroic style of Ferdowsi.37 The last poet to bear the title of malek al-sho’arâ, awarded to him in his youth by the Qajar governor of Khorasan, was Mohammad-Taqi Bahâr. Very soon he found himself on the front line of the battle for constitutional reform, which in the first decade of the 20th century brought down the ancient system of feudal poetry.

36 Cf. EI2 , Supplement, s.v. Ḥabsiyyāt. 37 Y. Âryânpur, Az Sabâ tâ Nimâ I (Tehran, 1976), pp. 14–28.

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Alternatives to Court Poetry The conspicuous role of the professional poet could easily lead us into the erroneous view that all poetic art was dominated by patterns of patronage. As we have seen already, even at the courts there were many “amateur” poets who wrote without having any further motives than showing their poetic skills. It is also not too much to say that the professional poets themselves must have taken pleasure and pride in their own compositions. Many of the royal patrons to whom they addressed their panegyrics were military men in the first place and may not always have been educated enough to appreciate fully the literary qualities of the poetry presented to them. There were, however, other people present at court with the required education to enjoy poetry for its own sake. The latter constituted the critical audience whose judgment the poets heeded in particular. It is very likely that the immediate comments of these connoisseurs provided the most important safeguard for the continuity of poetic conventions, which is such a marked characteristic of Persian literature. One of the most evident traits connecting Persian literature to the literature of pre-Islamic Iran is a tendency towards didacticism. The Middle-Persian “books of advice” (andarz-nâmags) were collections of wise sayings which sometimes were attributed to venerable sages such as Bozorgmehr, who was supposed to have been the minister and adviser of the Sasanid king Khosrow I Anushervân (r. 531–79). The morality they taught was of a secular kind, with special emphasis on the virtues of statesmanship, but there were also general prescriptions given for the good and righteous way to live. This didactic genre did not fall into disuse in Islamic times. On the contrary, next to panegyric poetry it came to occupy a very prominent place in Persian court literature.38 It comprised works in poetry as well as in prose. The honorific “the wise” (hakim) added to the names of many Persian poets points to the high esteem in which this element of literary art was held. It need not surprise us that we 38 See further J. Scott Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry (Princeton, 1987).

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already find moralists among the poets at the court of the Samanids (10th century), notably Rudaki who has left many fragments of wisdom poetry. Collections of wise sayings that aimed at providing a “mirror for princes” can be found in such different long ­mathnavis as Ferdowsi’s Shahname, Sanâ’i’s Hadiqat al-­haqiqa and Sa’di’s Bustân. In addition a great variety of prose works, including works that would normally be classified under historiography, could be mentioned.39 There can be no doubt that in all societies, the audience of the poets demanded more of them than just to be flattered by their praises or to be entertained by them.

5. Religious Inspiration It is tempting to connect this didactic strain in the Persian tradition with the amazing development of religious literature in Persian, especially in the realm of Islamic mysticism. One of the first communities where prose and poetry in the vernacular language was used for missionary purposes were the Ismailis in the eastern Persian lands. Neither Abu’l-Heytham of Gorgan (fl. probably in the early 10th century) nor Nâser-e Khosrow (d. 1060) belonged to the poetic profession as it was attached to the courts. Both seem to have served their community as teachers and propagandists. The most spectacular extension of the religious use of poetry took place among the Persian Sufi communities in Khorasan and Central Asia. It seems likely that this was influenced by mystical poetry in Arabic, of which older specimens are extant.40 Since the 10th century the question of whether or not it is was proper to listen to poetry in mystical sessions, called samâ’, was discussed, and often defended under certain conditions, by Sufi writers such as Sarrâj, Solami, Hojviri, and the brothers Ahmad and Mohammad Ghazâli. As the Sufi sheikhs addressed broad layers of society, 39

Cf. idem, Persian Historiography (Edinburgh, 1999), and see “Historiography” in EIr. 40 See A. Schimmel, As Through a Veil: Mystical Poetry in Islam (New York 1982), pp. 11–48.

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the changeover to the use of the vernacular was a natural development. The earliest specimens of Persian mystical poetry were short poems, mostly in the form of quatrains (robâ’is). Beside the wellknown collections handed down under the names of Bâbâ Tâher Oryân and Sheikh Abu-Sa’id b. Abu’l-Kheyr (d. 1049), who both lived in the first half of the 11th century, there are others attributed to famous mystics of the same century such as Abd-Allâh Ansâri of Herat and Kharaqâni. The problems of the actual authorship that hover around these collections of quatrains, as is also the case with the poems ascribed to famous philosophers and scholars such as Ebn-e Sinâ (Avicenna) and Omar Khayyâm, need not concern us here. It is certain however that, at least from the 11th century onwards, these poems were used both to enliven the conversations, sermons, and writings of Sufi sheikhs, and as basic texts for meditation and a stimulant to mystical ecstasy. Important information is to be found in the hagiographies of Sheikh Abu-Sa’id. In a scene from his childhood it is said that at his first attendance at a samâ’ session he heard a singer (qavvâl) recite a quatrain about mystical love which produced a state of ecstasy in the dervishes and incited them to a dance lasting all night.41 He became famous—and in the eyes of some even notorious—for the citation of poems in his conversations and sermons.42 In the next century the career of Sanâ’i of Ghazne (d. 1131) exemplified the way in which the craft of poetry broadened its horizons. From a conventional beginning as a court poet, he turned into a quite different type of poet who sought his inspiration in religious and ethical themes belonging to Islamic piety in general, and to Sufism in particular. Sanâ’i used various lyrical forms, but also larger compositions such as the mathnavi and stanzaic poetry. Sometimes his poems include panegyric sections that provide a glimpse into a new kind of relationship of patronage. Sanâ’i’s great didactic poem Hadiqat al-haqiqa, which had a great influence on 41

Mohammad b. Monavvar, Asrâr al-towhid, ed. M.-R. Shafi’i-Kadkani, I (2nd printing, Tehran, 1988), p. 16. 42 S. Nafisi, Sokhanân-e manzum-e Abu-Sa’id-e Abu’l-Kheyr, 5th printing (Tehran, 1994)., Introd., pp. 35–39.

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the development of Persian mystical poetry, was actually dedicated to the Ghaznavid Sultan Bahrâmshâh.43 Although from this time onwards the mystical strain in the Persian literary tradition only increased in force and quantity, it never became completely separated from the tradition of the courts. There were, of course, poets who never entered into a relationship of secular patronage, so far as we may judge from the lack of references to this in their works. The great mystical writer and poet Farid-al-Din Attâr (d. circa 1220) did not mention any patron of his many works, either secular or spiritual. The circle of Jalâl-al-Din Rumi (d. 1273) at Konya constituted an environment almost completely free from worldly attachments. There are, however, many more instances of poetical careers, such as those of the great poets of Shiraz, Sa’di and Hâfez, which seem to show that a dependence on the patronage of the wealthy and the mighty of this world need not exclude spiritual inspiration. Such cases have given rise to a hermeneutical discussion that will probably never be concluded to everyone’s satisfaction.

6. The Transmission of Literature The transmission of books in manuscript greatly limits their chances of survival. Many books never became known outside the immediate environment where they were written. If they were fortunate, they survived as rare or unique copies in modern libraries, but scores of texts must have been lost soon after they were composed. However, even in the case of works that eventually reached the status of classics, the practical obstacles to be overcome before they could reach such fame were considerable. In view of this, it is astonishing that so many texts survived at all, and that a canon of authors who by common assent were regarded as the “classics of Persian literature” ever came into being. Among the factors that made this possible were the enormous respect accorded to the book 43 Sanâ’i’s career is described in J. T. P. de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry.

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and the existence of a lively book trade and of libraries of many different kinds in the Islamic world.44 Crucial was also the existence of a strong philological tradition, which was established already in the early Islamic centuries and which the Persians inherited from the Arabs. Before the emergence of Persian literature philologists writing in Arabic and dealing with Arabic literature had already created models for the handling and arrangement of texts in manuscript. Conventions of this kind enabled scholars, writers, and poets to deal with their texts in such a manner that they could be easily distributed. Of special interest to our subject is the transmission of poetry. If we try to reconstruct the long way a Persian poem had to go until it became accessible to millions of readers in a modern printed edition, one has to start with the first occasion when it was made public. Even when there is little precise information available about the actual circumstances, it is reasonable to assume that, in most cases, this was the presentation of the poem to an audience assembled at a gathering (majles); this may be either a function at a court, a more informal circle of courtiers or friends, or a religious occasion such as a session held by a preacher or a Sufi sheikh. Unless he improvised a poem (badihe-gu’i), the poet would have prepared himself and probably even already put his text on paper. Shams-e Qeys shows how a poet should go about this in a passage that, although translated verbatim from an Arabic textbook, nevertheless can be accepted also as evidence of a Persian practice.45 However, even if a poem was composed on paper, oral delivery remained of paramount importance because the subsequent recitation to an audience really was its first publication. The next step was the preservation of the recited verses. As Nezâmi-Aruzi reports, Ferdowsi employed a reciter (râvi) as well as a copyist (nassâkh) to collect the text of his extensive epic Shahname.46 For the collection of shorter 44 On book-production and libraries see I. Afshar in Chapters 15 and 16, and on the arts of the book in Persian, P. Soucek in Chapter 14. 45 Mo’jam, pp. 445–47; for the Arabic model of Shams-e Qeys, see Ebn-Tabâ­ tabâ’i, Eyâr (Cairo, 1956), pp. 4–6. 46 Chahâr maqâla, p. 77.

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poems, which were written for various occasions and at different times, similar arrangements must have been made, if the poet could afford to pay for such assistance. We know that occasionally poets acted as collectors of the poetry of other poets or copied their manuscripts. About the further stages in the transmission of lyric poems in particular, we can only speculate.47 Unless the poet himself had the chance to collect his poems, they must have circulated during his lifetime, and even after his death, in small albums of varying contents. If the reputation of a poet became established so that later generations took an interest in his work, such albums were assembled into larger collections. Such collections, called divâns, always contained the works of one poet only. This type of book is best known in its classical form, in which the poems have been classified according to their form, usually in separate sections of qasides, stanzaic poems, ghazals, quatrains, and occasional or topical poems (qat’es or moqatta’ât, lit. a piece, fragment/s) neatly arranged alphabetically according to the rhyming letters of the poems. This model is found in most manuscripts and is reproduced in modern printed editions. As a philological convention it did not become fixed until the 13th century. The textual history of the ghazals of Sa’di (d. 1292), for instance, show that they were initially arranged non-alphabetically and only afterwards brought into alphabetical order. As there has been a great loss of manuscripts from the medieval period, most divâns of early Persian poets, if they have survived at all, are known to us only from the 16th or even the 17th century copies.48 From the extant medieval manuscripts it is clear that a Persian divân cannot be regarded as a “book” with more or less stable contents without reservations. Especially these ancient copies have not yet lost the character of a “register” (the original 47 One of the best documented cases is the divân of Sanâ’i, cf. J. T. P. de Bruijn, “The transmission of early Persian ghazals” in Manuscripts of the Middle East 3 (1988), pp. 27–31; V. Zanolla, I gazal di Sanâ’ī nei manoscritti più antichi, unpublished dissertation (Naples, Istituto Universitario Orientale, 1999). 48 Cf. F. de Blois, “Textual problems of early Persian dīwāns” in PL V, pp. 603–9.

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meaning of the word divân), i.e., a file for the lyrical production of a single poet. In some instances introductions in ornate prose have been added to divâns. Often they are written by someone other than the author and give some information about the making of the collection, though not always in very precise terms. In contrast to the Arabic tradition, commentaries on divâns were seldom composed and then only on notoriously difficult poets such as Anvari, Khâqâni, and Nezâmi of Ganje. More numerous are the commentaries on didactic mathnavis, especially those by Sanâ’i and Rumi. They were not only written in Persian but also in Arabic, Turkish, and Urdu. If mathnavis and divâns were assembled into one volume this was called a kolliyyât (collected works). The anthologies that were made in various forms, both for public and private use, were also important vehicles for the transmission of texts. The oldest Persian anthology that has been handed down to us, Mohammad Owfi’s Lobâb al-albâb (completed 1220), is classified according to social distinctions as well as to the divisions of dynastic history. Other works, e.g., Jâjarmi’s Mo’nes alahrâr (1341) and collections devoted to specific forms of poetry such as Jamâl Khalil Shervâni’s Nezhat al-majâles (13th century), containing about 4000 quatrains, are arranged according to literary criteria, and Mey-khâne, an anthology of works in the genre of sâqi-nâmes (poems in rhyming couplet form addressed to sâqi, the page or young man who served wine at male gatherings, extolling the virtues of wine-drinking and amorous sentiments), compiled by Abd-al-Nabi Fakhr-al-Zamâni between 1613 and 1619; or they follow a geographical order, e.g., Amin-e Râzi’s Haft eqlim (1593). From Dowlatshâh’s Tadhkerat al-sho’arâ (1487) onwards an interest in the lives of the poets comes to the foreground. The tadhkeres are unavoidable sources for the modern historian of Persian literature, not only on account of their biographical information (which often is to be taken with a pinch of salt), but mainly because they have preserved a great number of texts which would otherwise have disappeared entirely.49 Mention should also be made of the 49 The most extensive surveys of Persian anthologies are A. Golchin-Ma’âni, Târikh-e tadhkerahâ-ye fârsi, 2 vols. (Tehran, 1969–71), and C. A. Storey,

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manuscripts produced privately and usually only in a single copy to bring together a heterogeneous set of texts in one volume, designated by various terms such as as majmu’e, bayâz, safine, and jong (the latter two meaning literally “a boat”). An example from a royal library is the Jong-e Eskandari, in two parts, which was assembled in Shiraz in 1410–11 for the library of the Timurid prince Eskander b. Omar Sheikh. This remarkable miscellany of quite different texts has appropriately been characterized as a “pocket library.”50 Very recently, a similar manuscript, called the Safine-ye Tabriz and compiled in 1321–23 by Abu’l-Majd Mohammad b. Mas’ud of Tabriz, has come to light. It contains a great number of Arabic and Persian texts on theology, mysticism, literature, and various sciences in prose and poetry.51

7. The Individuality of the Writer and the Poet The tendency to revive the great writers and poets of the past by making them interesting and palatable to new generations of readers has a justification of its own. It provides old texts with fresh readings, which give them a meaningful place within modern culture and make them relevant to the social and political concerns of our times. It may even be said that this is a necessity because it is probably the most effective way to save ancient literary works from total oblivion. An extreme attempt to actualize a classical poet is the edition of the Divân of Hâfez (1975), prepared by the modern Persian poet Ahmad Shâmlu, who reshaped the ghazals according to his own ideas with a complete disregard for the philological facts. This edition became very popular.

PL I/2, pp. 781–922. See further W. Hanaway in Chapter 3, and J. T. P. de Bruijn, EI2 s.vv. Mukhtārāt and Tadhkira. 50 The contents were described by Ch. Rieu, Catalogue of the Persian Manuscripts in the British Museum II (London, 1881), pp. 868–71. 51 The manuscript was published in facsimile by Abd-al-Hoseyn Hâ’eri (Tehran, 2003), together with essays by the editor and N. Pourjavady.

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Modern readers who approach classical Persian literature with expectations influenced by contemporary concepts tend to look for the person behind the author of a prose text or a poem. In fact, a small number of poets have reached the status of cultural ­heroes whose personalities are not merely perceived in the context of their own times but are believed to speak directly to us and to have something to tell about our present-day concerns. Hâfez’ Divân, for instance, has been used not only as a fâl-nâme—a tool for prognostications—but also as a volume of poems with a message for all times, whether its nature is understood as libertarian, mystical or even political. Jalâl-al-Din Rumi, known as Mowlânâ (“our Master”) to the Arabs, as Mevlana to the Turks and as Mowlavi to the Persians, is still revered as the greatest mystical teacher of Islam. To Persians and Westerners alike the quatrains of Omar Khayyâm contain the perfect formulations of a perennial philosophy of life. From the point of view of the literary historian, it is easy to denounce the anachronism of such attempts to recycle the masterpieces inherited from the past and fit them, rightly or wrongly, into the procrustean bed of today’s preconceptions. However, it is much more difficult to answer satisfactorily the question of where the classical writer or poet is to be found as a person in the works he has left to us. It should be realized that literature in pre-modern times was more clearly a social phenomenon than it is today. A literary prosework or a poem was always produced in relationship to others than the author alone. There was, first of all, the patron to whom a work was addressed, and then the people in the patron’s entourage who constituted a critically minded audience. Even outside the environment of the courts, literary works were written within communities that took a direct interest in them. The first examples that come to mind are the Persian Ismailis of the 11th century, whose foremost spokesman was the poet Nâser-e Khosrow, and, in later times, the example of Sufi communities. In cases were there are no historical indications one tends to put the blame on the imperfections of our sources rather than accepting it as a rare exception to the rule. This does not merely concern the way in which the external aspects of literature were embedded socially. Also the contents of literary works are highly marked by their conventionality. No one 36

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will take the terms of praise used by the encomiast for the sincere expression of his admiration. Equally, few will take the expression of a lover’s raptures expressed in ghazals as the utterance of his personal feelings, although many scholars of previous generations still tended to take them at face value. Panegyric poetry was not addressed to a more or less anonymous audience but can be described as an act of communication between two participants: a poet and his patron. This is therefore the most obvious place to look for utterances of a personal nature. The term “panegyric” should be taken in a wider, more generic sense including all dedications in whatever poetical form they occur, i.e., not merely in qasides but also in narrative and didactic poems in mathnavi or even ghazal forms. Although the speaking part is given only to the poet, an interchange between the two partners is in fact taking place. Passages where the poet speaks about his own immediate concerns, sometimes referred to as an “account of (one’s) condition” (hasb-e hâl), have their place in the structure of a panegyric in the form of a qaside, usually after the actual “laudatory address” (madih). The wider scope of an introduction to a mathnavi offered an opportunity to insert sections devoted to the poet’s own relatives, e.g., Nezâmi of Ganje’s admonitions to one of his children. Elegies were also a genre that could be used freely to write poems in cases of personal bereavement or losses suffered by the patron. The Divân of Khâqâni, in particular, contains several splendid specimens of this. Short topical pieces (qat’es), striking a satirical note, were a poetical small change used in the daily contact of courtiers. They provide immediate evidences for the personal conditions of a poet, but usually too little contextual information is available to appreciate fully these topical poems. Finally, there is another instance of the poet’s presence in his work: the mention of his own name, which is among the most characteristic features of Persian poetry. Its use is particularly associated with the ghazal. The convention demanded that a ghazal be concluded by a passage of one or two lines in which the name of the poet occurred. However, as a stylistic device it can be found in practically every form of poetry. Nearly without exception, this is not the given name (esm) of the poet, but a pen name as it was 37

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adopted usually at the start of a literary career. The common appellation of such a name is takhallos, a term which was used in medieval Arabic and Persian rhetorical textbooks for a transition made in a composition from one theme to another.52 However, the use of pen names as a poetical device was not, as already observed, restricted to ghazals. As a matter of fact, it can be found in the first qaside surviving in its entirety: a poem by Rudaki dealing in its prologue with the making of wine. There are two instances of the pen name in this poem, each having a different function. In the first, the name of the poet marks an important transition in the structure of the poem; in the second, Rudaki applies it to the statement of a personal matter. Both aspects play a role in the manifold applications the pen name found in later Persian poetry.53

8. Views on Poetry As classical Persian literature is confined within the horizon of Islam and its ethics, Muslim attitudes towards poetic art take priority over all other points of view. The Islamic discourse on poetry is based naturally on what the Qur’an and the Prophetic Traditions have to say on the subject. These authoritative sources show a remarkable ambivalence, however. On the one hand, there are verses in the Qur’an that make a sharp distinction between prophecy and the sayings of the poets, e.g., “We have not taught him poetry; it is not seemly to him.”54 Poetry, which was supposed to be inspired by the Jinns, was a rival to the divinely inspired words of the Prophet, and it would cast a shadow of doubt on the latter’s truthfulness if any analogy between the two were allowed. Of course, these texts 52 In modern Persian takhallos in the earlier sense is replaced by gorizgâh (literally “a place of escape”). 53 See further P. Losensky, “Linguistic and rhetorical aspects of the signature verse,” in Edebiyat 8 (1998), pp. 239–71; J. T. P. de Bruijn, “The name of the poet,” in Proceedings of the Third Conference of Iranian Studies (Wiesbaden, 1999), pp. 45–56, and the same, EI2 s.v. Takhalluṣ. 54 Sura XXXVI: 69 (tr. A. J. Arberry).

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reflect the situation of the Prophet Mohammad when he brought the Qur’an to seventh-century Arabia, but they have retained their full prescriptive value for all future generations of Muslims. On the other hand, there are other statements ascribed to Mohammad that in unambiguous terms attribute a high status to poetic speech from a religious point of view. Sacred words taken from both sources were adduced as arguments by the anthologist Mohammad Owfi when he put up a defense of poetry in the introduction to his Lobâb al-albâb. In the flowery style that befits a composition of the time, he compares poetry and its opposite, prose, to the sea and the wide open plain, respectively. Developing his argument, he returned to Arabia as it was in the days of Mohammad’s prophetic mission: At that time everyone was immersed in that endless sea of poetry. The Prophet looked into it and said: ‘This sea is a place for the monsters who indulge in the pride of their nature (nakhvat-e tabi’at).’ He shunned that sea, and did not test the waters of prosody, turning his back on all the niceties of meter and rhyme which belonged to this trade. The erudite Arabs were very proud of their Seven Odes,55 and wore them as the necklaces of all their honorable qualities. They wrote these eloquent words, however frivolous, with golden letters and hung them above the door of the Ka’ba. But when the Seven Verses56 were revealed, the Seven Odes lost their splendor. The price of poetry fell. Lines of poetry and the poems which they constituted were obliterated by the words of the Qur’an, in spite of all their eloquence; and the impotence of those who had boasted that they could bring ‘something like the Qur’an’ was put to the test and proven to be true.

This was however not the final word on poetry. Owfi, who is searching for a justification of his own collection of Persian poems, finds a solution for his dilemma that is correct from the Islamic point of view. Continuing the extended metaphor of the sea-trade he adduces scriptural evidence that makes the practice of poetry by true believers permissible after all: 55 The so-called mo’allaqât ‘suspended (poems)’, which include some of the finest qasides of the pre-Islamic Arab poets. 56 In Arabic Sab’ al-mathâni, i.e., the seven verses of the Fâteha, the first Sura of the Qur’an.

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General Introduction to Persian Literature The people who derived their capital from the treasury of the Qur’an, proceeded under the protection of the Divine word ‘except those who are believers.’ They took the word ‘Verily, there is wisdom in poetry’ as their slogan … As a result, their trading turned out to be profitable and brought them the priceless return of a good name and an excellent reputation.57

Apart from such religious scruples, there were other elements in this debate. The close ties between the practice of poetry as a profession and the courts, which we have examined above, also gave rise to ethical questions. The principal task of the court poet was to sing the praises of his patron and in doing this he could hardly avoid a large amount of flattery, hyperbolizing the patron’s virtues or even, if there were not any to be found, simply inventing them. All this was merely done for the sake of the rewards at which the poet was aiming. As we have seen, this insincerity gave shâ’eri a bad name. Key-Kâvus, who was familiar with the ways of the courts, saw little harm in the mundane duties of the poet, although he held a high opinion of poetry and classified it among the intellectual pursuits. He understood that a poet should be aware that after all he had to serve a public.58 Being concerned in particular with the use of poetry to a ruler, Nezâmi-Aruzi also took a practical point of view. One of the important things poetry could achieve was that it could bring about a catharsis, a change of mind that could incite the heart to great deeds. To illustrate this he quoted an anecdote showing how a few lines of poetry by Hanzale of Bâdghis (9th century) inspired a warrior to strive to become a ruler.59 Another line of argument in favor of poetry emphasized its metaphysical status on account of its connection with human speech and logic. Such considerations are to be found in the introductions to anthologies, e.g., in Dowlatshâh’s Tadhkerat al-sho’arâ, where it is stated that speech (sokhan) was a special gift of God to mankind, by which humans are distinguished from all other living beings. Poetry 57 Lobâb al-albâb I, pp. 6–8. 58 Qâbus-nâme, p. 187. 59 Chahâr maqâle, pp. 42–43.

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has a privileged relationship to the capacity for speech. Therefore, writing poetry is one of the highest pursuits of the soul.60 The poets themselves also frequently express their views on this particular aspect of their art. Passages on the relationship between speech, or logic, and poetry have found their place among the subjects treated in the introductions of mathnavi poems. A curious specimen is the long and intricate introduction that Nezâmi of Ganje added to the dedications of his didactical poem Makhzan al-asrâr (The Treasury of Secrets). He describes his personal inspiration by means of the allegory of a spiritual journey which in the end leads him to a confrontation with his own heart. In the description of this quest, the strongest argument for the superior character of poetry again is the connection with the metaphysical logos and the Divine word of revelation. He even goes so far as to argue that the latter association provides the poet with a spiritual status approaching the rank of the prophets. Nezâmi claims that poetry is an art form that is not really concerned with matter, although it uses all the elements of the cosmos as its raw material.61 Similar reflections can be read in the prologues of the numerous imitations of Makhzan al-asrâr. Such a high opinion of poetry gave new force to the discussion, which was already going on about the permissibility of the “mercenary” panegyrics of the court poets. Already in the early 12th century Sanâ’i reduced the conflict between his calling as a homiletic poet and the practices of professional court poetry to a choice between “the Law (of Islam, shar’)” and “poetry (she’r).” About 1200, Farid-al-din Attâr, in an attempt to harmonize this opposition, added a third term to Sanâ’i’s pun, viz., “the heavenly Throne (‘arsh),” symbolizing the goal of the mystical search, which in his view sprang from the same source as literary art and the obedience to the Law of Islam, just as the three words, i.e, shar’, she’r, and ‘arsh, shared the same letters.62 Jâmi (1414–92) took up again 60 Cf. Dowlatshâh’s introduction, Tadhkerat al-sho’arâ’, ed. E. G.Browne (Lei­den and London 1901), pp. 3–11. 61 Makhzan al-asrâr, ed. A. A. Alizade (Baku 1960), sections xii–xviii. 62 Attâr, Mosibat-nâme, ed. Nurâni Vesâl (Tehran, 1959), pp. 46–47.

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the t­ opos of Sanâ’i and Attâr in a passage of his didactic mathnavi, Selselat al-dhahab (The Chain of Gold), where he stated that without the letter eyn, which is shared by the words shar’ and she’r, one would get sharr which means “evil.” As a staunch defender of the Sunnite order in Islamic society his aim was to find a compromise between the contrasting purposes for which the Persian poets had used their art and he claimed that even panegyrics were not incompatible with the highest religious aims of literature if they were addressed to the righteous rulers of the community of b ­ elievers.63 In “a personal explanation” of his aims in the first volume of his Literary History of Persia, which appeared in 1902, Edward G. Browne made excuses for not being able to give equal attention to all aspects of such a vast subject as the literary tradition of the Persians.64 In spite of this he took it upon himself to deal single-handedly with the literature of the entire Islamic period, which spans more than a millennium, a task that took him a quarter of a century to complete. When at the opening of the 21st century a fresh attempt is made to present a comprehensive history of the Persian literary tradition such an excuse seems superfluous, as specialization has become a common and inescapable condition of modern scholarship. Even a description of the general aspects of the tradition at a sufficient level of competence can no longer be made by a single scholar. In this first volume the reader will find contributions by an international group of experts whose specialized knowledge is a guarantee that this introductory volume will provide an adequate, state of the art description and analyses of Persian literature.

63 J. T. P. de Bruijn, “Chains of Gold: Jāmī’s defense of poetry,” Journal of Turkish Studies 26/I (2002), pp. 81–92. 64 Lit. Hist. Persia, I, pp. 88–89.

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CHAPTER 2 THE ORIGIN AND DEVELOPMENT  OF LITERARY PERSIAN J. Perry

1. The Fall of Middle Persian and the Rise of Persian When the Muslim armies emerged from Arabia and embarked on their conquest of the neighboring lands, they brought with them a language that was not only their spoken vernacular but also the written language of the scripture and liturgy of the new religion to which they converted the bulk of the conquered populations. Within a few generations, whole countries (Mesopotamia, Syria, Egypt) simply dropped their own ancient languages (both in written and spoken form) and switched permanently to Arabic. In the case of Aramaic and Egyptian (Coptic), the older language survived in dialect pockets and as a written and memorized liturgical tongue, to the extent that its users retained their former religion, while totally ceding its general literary and vernacular domain to Arabic. In the case of Middle Persian, which was the language of Sasanid Iran and which continued for several decades or even more than a century after the Arab conquest, there is an apparent paradox. Among Persians, conversion to Islam and participation in the tide of conquest was more thoroughgoing than in most of the Western lands, and the written and memorized monuments of Zoroastrianism were more fully eclipsed (being preserved by a few priests in parts of conquered Persia, or carried overseas by refugees). Though at first the conquerors were obliged to assure continuity of administration by relying on officials of the former Sasanid civil service, 43

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who kept the government registers in Middle Persian, Arabic replaced it as the language of administration by about the year 700 in western Persia and in 741–42 in Khorasan. Yet the vernacular that persisted, and the literary language that arose just over two centuries after the conquest (poetry from about 860, extant prose from about 960) were not Arabic, but Persian. Within another two centuries, this language had eclipsed Arabic in the lands of the eastern caliphate, both as a contact vernacular and as the interregional literary vehicle of poetry, belles-lettres, and even (in tandem with Arabic) specialized and scientific writing, comprising history, philosophy, medicine and astronomy, excluding only mathematics. From the 13th century, classical Persian was read and written by the educated classes in regions of widely differing vernaculars, such as Central Asia, the Volga valley, India, and Anatolia. It was a catalyst in the evolution of Eastern and Western Turkish and Urdu as literary languages. Intellectuals in the Arab west (Ebn-al-Arabi, Ebn-Khaldun) took note of scholarship in Persian, and Persian was the initial language of imperial administration in British India. But apart from the initial paradox of its survival and meteoric rise, the genesis and early evolution of Persian pose some problems of documentation and interpretation that are still vigorously debated and indeed may never be satisfactorily solved. The following brief account aims at summarizing from a linguistic and sociolinguistic perspective what is known, or can reasonably be deduced, on the basis of recent scholarship, about the transition from Middle to Persian and its development into a literary language of widely acknowledged efficiency, beauty, and authority in the classical Islamic ecumene.

2. The Language Arena, ca. 570–900 Persian and its historical ancestors are divided into Old, Middle, and New (Islamic) Persian on the basis of the different stages of their development. Each stage is also characterized by a different system of writing, namely Cuneiform, Aramaic-based, and 44

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­Arabic scripts. Old Persian, derived from Indo-Iranian, a branch of Indo-European, was the language of the Achaemenid kings (ca. 560–330 bce) and was used for their imperial inscriptions carved in an ingenious cuneiform syllabary at Persepolis and on the cliff of Behistun (Bisotun), though correspondence was conducted in the Aramaic language and script as the scribes were generally Aramean. Some financial transactions and payment of rations and wages were recorded in Elamite as attested by Elamite Persepolis Tablets.1 Old Persian was succeeded by Middle Persian, written by Zoroastrians in a script derived from Aramaic and by Manichaeans in one adapted from Syriac. The transition from Old to Middle Persian is marked by an overall loss of the nominal inflections characteristic of early Indo-European languages, and considerable changes in the verbal system; however, we have no documentation of this process during the first five hundred years. Located like its ancestor in the southwestern province of Pârsa (modern Persian Fârs), Middle Persian (called by its speakers Pârsîk) followed the fortunes of the Sasanid dynasty, which in 224 ce overthrew the Parthian empire of the Arsacid dynasty and expanded into northern and eastern Persia. The designation Pahlavi, by which Middle Persian has come to be known since Islamic times, is derived from parthava applied to Parthian territory, and Pahlavi, meaning Parthian, a language spoken in Parthia (Khorasan) and related to Persian. The term perhaps referred originally to the writing system of Parthian, and was then transferred to the script of Middle Persian, which superseded Parthian over much of Persia. After Middle Persian was gradually reduced to a dead language, pahlavi and its variant pahlavâni, now meaning “heroic; pertaining to ancient Iran,” were applied to the language. 2 This has been a source of confusion in tracing the course of Persian after the Arab conquest. Several other Iranian languages used between, or contemporaneously with, these imperial outbursts of Persian are documented: they include Bactrian (written in Greek characters) in northern Afghanistan, the eastern successor state to Alexander’s empire; 1 See R. Hallock, Persepolis Fortification Tablets, Chicago, 1969. 2 A.-A. Sâdeqi, Takvin-e zabân-e fârsi (Tehran, 1978), pp. 10–11, 18–19.

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S­ ogdian, centered on Samarqand and dominating a strategic section of the Silk Route; and a variety of dialects surviving from the tongues of the Medes and earlier Iranian peoples. Many of these substrata and adstrata, as well as Parthian, evidently exerted an influence on Middle Persian. Among non-Iranian languages, Greek survived as a ceremonial language on coins and inscriptions of the Parthian Arsacid dynasty, and gave some vocabulary to Middle Persian (e.g., pul ‘a coin, money’, from obolos; sepehr, from sphaira ‘sphere’). Semitic Aramaic, an imperial auxiliary language from Achaemenian times, was the vernacular of Mesopotamia. It also provided the script in which most of the Middle Iranian languages were written. The Arabs (whose script, derived from Nabataean Aramaic, was not yet widely used) were known to the later Sasanids and their Near Eastern neighbors by the name of one of their more turbulent tribes, the Tayye’ (Syriac ṭayyâyê, Middle Persian tâzîg). A form of this, tâjik, was later applied to Muslim Iranians and became the general Persian term for Persians, as distinct from Turks, especially in Transoxiana.3 With the Arab conquest of Persia in the middle of the 7th century ce, literary Middle Persian was relegated to the fringe of Persian culture, as Arabic assumed the mantle of the written language of educated Muslims. Scholarly and devotional works (such as the Dênkart and Bundahishn) were still composed and copied, but by a shrinking religious minority in a dead language. Secular histories, romances and memorials, however, such as the Khwadây-nâmag or Book of Lords and Hazâr Afsân (the Thousand Tales) that formed the nucleus of the Thousand and One Nights, were enthusiastically translated into Arabic, in which form they have partially survived in the Islamic milieu. The contemporary spoken Persian, too, about which we have no prior information, was one of many new curiosities for the expanding literate population: its use was noted by Muslim writers and exemplified by phrases cited in Arabic prose and poetry. These fragments, together with samples of late Middle 3 W. Sundermann, “An early attestation of the name of the Tajiks,” Medio­ Iranica (Louvain, 1993), esp. pp. 164–69; C. E. Bosworth, “Tâjik,” in EIr online (www.iranica.com); J. Perry, “Tâjiki Language,” ibid.

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Judeo-Persian preserved in Hebrew characters (which clarify some features that are obscured in Aramaic or Arabic script), assist us to identify the type of Persian that formed the basis of the later literary language. At the dawn of New Persian (Persian, for short) literature, the Persian geographer Estakhri writes (in about 932, in Arabic) of his countrymen of Fârs: They have three languages: Persian (al-fâresiyya), which they speak. …; a language called Pahlavi (al-fahlaviyya), in which are written books about the Persians of old and their exploits, and in which the Zoroastrians write, and which (ordinary) Persians cannot understand without its being interpreted; and Arabic, for official, administrative and general written use.4

This is confirmed by Mas’udi and other Arab geographers and historians, and is what we would expect: literary Middle Persian, having been written for five centuries in a deficient script without spelling reform, had been outpaced by the spoken tongue as this changed in sound and structure; it had become an archaic scribal code, its official functions having been assumed by Arabic. In addition to regular phonological differences, there are contrasting verbal paradigms in Middle Persian and Persian. An analogous situation is that of the transition from Latin to Italian or French in Europe of this same period: a prestigious written language boasting classical and later (Latin) texts, used orally in formal and ritual occasions such as sermons, is paralleled by a spoken vernacular derived from it but changing incrementally in pronunciation, structure and meaning with every generation, and subject to influences from (Germanic and other) local vernaculars. Even without a catastrophic invasion, such a written language is already moribund.

4 Estakhri, Masâlek al-mamâlek, ed. M. J. de Goeje (Leiden, 1870), I, p. 137.

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3. Pârsi and Dari Neither the rise of the Romance languages in Carolingian Europe nor the emergence of Persian is as well documented as befits such momentous events. If we backtrack two centuries to a famous account in Arabic by the early Abbasid scholar, the Persian Rôzbeh (or Abd-Allâh, his adopted Muslim name) Ebn-al-Moqaffa’ (d. ca. 756), of the languages of Persia as a whole on the eve of the conquest, a more complex picture emerges: The languages of the Persians include Pahlavi (al-fahlaviyya), which the kings used to speak in their [convivial] sessions; it is so called after Pahla (rendered in old manuscripts as Bahla), the name for five regions: Isfahan, Rayy, Hamadan, Mâh Nehâvand and Azerbaijan. Another of their languages is Pârsi (al-fâresiyya), which was spoken by the Zoroastrian priests (môbadhs) and those like them; it is the language of the countryside of Fârs. Dari (al-dariyya) is the language of the cities of Madâ’en [Seleucia-Ctesiphon, the Sasanid capital in Iraq]; it was spoken by those who were at the king’s court; [its name] refers to presence at court [Persian dar ‘gate, court’]. Among the dialects of this in Khorasan and the east, that of Balkh is dominant.5

The surprise here is the implication that the speech of Balkh (near present-day Mazâr‑e Sharif in northern Afghanistan, over 1200 miles from Ctesiphon) is a dialect of Dari, the language of the Sasanid court. In a seminal article written in 1971 and several more recent essays, Gilbert Lazard interprets the passage roughly as ­follows: Ebn-al-Moqaffa’ is attempting to present his complex linguistic divisions in terms of neat geolects, i.e. one language per region, and thus confuses them for his readers with historical stages of languages and with sociolects (different stylistic registers, as between spoken and written variants). Pahlavi here means Parthian (in reference to the speech of the kings of old, i.e. the Arsacids), and/or 5 Translated here from the version in Khwârezmi, Mafâtih al-olum [written before 980], ed. G. van Vloten (Leiden, 1895), pp. 116–17.

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dialect relicts of Parthian in the central and northern Zagros region (Fahla, later known as Jebâl, which was indeed included in the western half of the Arsacid realms); in his time, the term had not yet been applied to Middle Persian. Under Pârsi he evidently subsumes both literary Middle Persian (lately the official language of the whole Sasanid empire, and in his time still a live medium among the dwindling numbers of Zoroastian priests in Persia), and its spoken register, the Iranian dialect of Fârs. This tongue was undoubtedly moving farther away from its written relative, as in the situation described two centuries later by Estakhri. Dari, of which this is the earliest mention, is more enigmatic. From the 10th century on, this term (or its variant pârsi-ye dari ‘Dari Persian’) usually designated Persian itself, in contradistinction to Pahlavi (i.e. Middle Persian). In modern times (based on the attribution to Balkh) it was adopted officially in Afghanistan as the term for the national variety of Persian. According to Ebnal-­Moqaffa’ it was the spoken language of the Sasanids’ western capital (which was before that the Arsacid capital, and stood next to the future capital, Baghdad). Lazard argues that this language must be the northern dialect of spoken Pârsi, differentiated from that of Fârs by virtue of having spread over the former Parthian domains in the wake of the Sasanid conquests and having absorbed Parthian and other influences. It was both the sociolect of the Sasanid court (a Persophone island in an Aramaic-speaking area) and the administrative and contact vernacular of the more dynamic part of the empire. As such, by the 750s it may well have spread as far as Balkh.6 Ebn-al-Moqaffa’ was a converted Zoroastrian, a native of Fârs, who subsequently lived in Basra; he may therefore be expected to have known something of the languages of these regions. His etymology for the term Dari is plausible: the word dar survives in 6

G. Lazard, “Pahlavi, pârsi, dari: les langues de l’Iran d’après Ibn al-­Muqaffa’,” Iran and Islam (Edinburgh, 1971), esp. pp. 373–80; see also idem, “Pârsi et dari: Nouvelles remarques,” Bulletin of the Asia Institute NS 4 (1990), II, pp. 239–42, and “Reconstructing the Development of New Persian,” Al’Osur al-Wostâ 5 (1993), pp. 28–30.

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the later ­Persian darbâr and dargâh ‘royal court, audience chamber’, and we have an analogy in Urdu, the language of the royal “army camp” (Turco-Persian ordu) in later India. His information on the farthest eastern regions of the caliphate, specifically Balkh, could not be other than second hand. However, his first transmitter, ­Khwârazmi, was born near Balkh, and would hardly have left uncorrected a comment by a “foreigner” on the linguistic history of his own ­region. There is independent confirmation of a palpable dialect division between southwestern and northeastern Persian at this time. JudeoPersian texts dating from at least the 10th century, some originating in Khuzistan, use forms that are often more akin to those of Pahlavi than to Persian (such as abar for bar ‘on, above’, âfarineshn for âfarinesh ‘creation’) and show other features similar to the later dialect of Shiraz or other places in southern Persia. There is also the evidence of Pâzand, a transcription of literary Pahlavi into Avestic script that was made by descendants of Zoroastrian refugees in India (“Parsis”). Pâzand, which more closely represents the pronunciation of southern (perhaps even southeastern) Pârsi at the time of the Muslim invasion, contains forms different from both classical Pahlavi and literary Persian, such as bahôd ‘becomes, is’ (Pahlavi bawêd, Early Persian bovad). Finally, there is the Persian interlinear translation of the Qur’an, known as the Qur’an-e Qods, discovered in a manuscript at Mashhad and published by a Persian scholar only in 1985. Written probably in Sistan during the 11th century, this Persian text differs substantially from the literature of Dari Persian then being produced at Bukhara and elsewhere in the north and east. It contains vocabulary used in Pahlavi, but not found in classical Persian, and verb forms (such as bahôd, above) similar to those of the Judeo-Persian and Pâzand texts.7 These texts collectively attest to the existence of a dialect group quite distinct from that which was to form the basis of classical Persian, one that retained features comparatively close to written Middle Persian (pârsîg), and extended from the southwest of 7 See G. Lazard, “Pârsi et dari: Nouvelles remarques;” idem, “Reconstructing the Development of New Persian.”

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Persia to the southeast. Furthermore, scholars have long noted ­differences between the Iranian vocabulary of Middle Persian and that of classical Persian, such as a number of Parthian and Sogdian loanwords in the latter. A comparison of parallel versions of the same Manichaean hymn in Middle Persian and Parthian reveals that the Middle Persian (Pahlavi) text is closer in syntax to that of Persian, while the Parthian text is closer in vocabulary.8 The dialect that gave birth to the Persian literary language was evidently that of the north, the language of Sasanid royal decrees and administration, which captured elements of the related languages whose territories it absorbed. Turning again to our analogy with the rise of the Romance vernaculars, we are reminded of the division in early medieval France between northern Francian (“langue d’oui,” later français), the language of the court and capital, which ultimately prevailed as the national and literary language over southern Occitan (“langue d’oc”), culturally more conservative and politically less fortunate. As regards the geographical extent of the northern dialect, there are other indications that the citizens of Balkh (hitherto in the domain of Bactrian) spoke Dari even before the arrival of the Muslim armies. Tabari records under the year 108 Q (726–27 ce) that a Muslim general, returning to Balkh after being routed in Khatlân (Khottalân) by the Eastern Turks, was jeered by the children in the streets; the words of their ditty are unmistakably Early Persian.9 The geographer Moqaddasi claims that in 985 a superior variety of Dari was spoken in Balkh. By this time, too, Sogdian—which around 720 had been the language of negotiation between the ruler of Samarqand and the armies of Islam—had to compete with Dari, at least in Bukhara (from Ebn-Howqal, who visited Transoxiana in 969). This tenacious tongue was still being written at the turn of the millennium, after it had been officially superseded by Persian under the patronage of the Samanid dynasty (810–1005). A dialect relict of Sogdian (Yaghnobi) is still spoken in the mountains of Tajikistan, east of Samarkand. 8 9

G. Lazard, “Reconstructing,” p. 28. A.-A. Sâdeqi, Takvin-e zabân-e fârsi, pp. 69–71.

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Balkh, strategically sited at the junction of routes between Persia, India, and Central Asia, was one of the three capital cities of the Sasanid Empire. It is therefore quite credible that four centuries of Sasanid rule had secured the city, like many an other, as a Persian island in the linguistic ocean of greater Persia. Persian’s penetration into the rural hinterland may have been hastened by Shapur II’s establishment of military outposts on the eastern frontiers during the 4th century ce.10 Certainly the example of the Roman military settlements on the Danube limes in Dacia, which generated a robust Romance language (Romanian) in the midst of a quite unrelated language group, attests to the feasibility of this scenario. Other Dari speakers who moved east to Khorasan were Manichaean refugees from persecution under the later Sasanids and Muslims, and Zoroastrian refugees from the Muslim Arab invasion. It was, paradoxically, the Arab conquest that achieved full Persianization of the eastern plateau and the Oxus basin. After the collapse of the Sasanid army, new waves of Persian speakers began to spread north and east: these were not in the main refugees, but rather captives and converts to Islam who joined the Arab armies of conquest, many of them finally to settle in Khorasan. These adventurers would have been speakers of Dari rather than Pârsi, since the main lines of Arab invasion moved through Seleucia-­Ctesiphon and the central Zagros passes, via Rey (Rayy) and Semnan. By the end of the Umayyad period, a century later, Persian mavâli (technically “clients” of the Arabs) were both numerous and influential, dominating the fields of scholarship and administration, in which, of course, the language used was Arabic. Off duty, however, they spoke Dari. Many Arab soldiers and settlers, from Khuzistan to Khorasan, learned to speak Persian.11 Persian women married into the highest echelons of society, including the caliphate. The language became “chic”: unassimilated Persian words, phrases and bons mots, variously transcribed, pop up throughout Arabic adab 10 A. Christensen, Contributions à la dialectologie iranienne (Copenhagen, 1930), I, p. 5. 11 G. Lazard, “The rise of the New Persian language,” CHI, IV, p. 602; A.-A. Sâdeqi, Takvin, p. 68.

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before Persian was a written language. Of scores of such cases examined by Sâdeqi, most may be recognized as spoken Dari in type. Some, notably the so-called fahlaviyyât of the poet AbuNovâs (born in 762 of a Persian mother in Khuzistan, in the Pârsi dialect area) are learned words: “nwkrwz,” representing nôg-rôz (Nowruz), reflects the Pahlavi orthography that had not yet taken cognizance of the loss of postvocalic g in the spoken tongue.12 The first Persian poetry is said to have been composed by Mohammad b. Vasif, the secretary of the Saffarid Ya’qub, according to the anonymous author of the Târikh-e Sistân, or else by Abbâs or Abu’l Abbâs, a native of Bâdghis near Herat, according to Owfi’s Lobâb al-albâb, both in the seventh decade of the 9th century.13 It was thereafter patronized by the Samanid amirs of Bukhara, and its reputation firmly established by Rudaki (d. 940). Poets in western parts of Persia soon began to emulate this prestigious verse of Khorasan. Their art had been slower to emerge because, though the Buyid rulers were ethnic Persians, the courts of those regions, both the Dari-speaking and Pârsi-speaking parts, continued to patronize Arabic poetry during the 10th and 11th centuries. Nâser‑e Khosrow, from the region of Balkh, tells us in his travel diary how at Tabriz in 1045 he met Qatrân, “a good poet, but one that did not know Persian very well,” and spent some time glossing for him the divâns of the early Khorasanian poets Daqiqi and Monjik.14 Qatrân went on to compile a dictionary (since lost) of the vocabulary of the northeast. The earliest extant Persian dictionary, the Loghat-e Fors of Asadi of Tus in Khorasan, was likewise produced in Azerbaijan about 1066 explicitly to introduce the prestigious poetical vocabulary to readers in western Persia. Asadi, himself the author of the epic poem Garshâsp-nâme, arranged his words in alphabetical order of the final letter, as a dictionary of rhymes, just as the divân or collected works of a poet is conventionally ordered; he illustrated their meaning with quotations from Rudaki, ­Daqiqi, Ferdowsi, Onsori, and about one hundred other poets, 12 A-A Sâdeqi, Takvin-e zabân-e fârsi, pp. 81–91. 13 G. Lazard, Les premiers poètes persans (Tehran and Paris, 1964), I, p. 12. 14 Nâser-e Khosrow, Safar-nâme, ed. N. Vazinpur (Tehran, 1987), pp. 7–8; G. Lazard, “The rise of the New Persian language,” p. 606.

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thus ­setting a precedent that was to dictate the content and form of the Persian dictionary for centuries. Paper, imported from China to Samarqand under Sogdian rule and subsequently manufactured locally, materially aided in this linguistic reconquest. At this juncture, western and eastern Persia were politically united under the Saljuqs (1055), and poets (and scholars) of all regions found patrons for works in Persian. Thus did the new literary language, having spread in prototype from the southwest to the northeast, flow back in its maturing form to all the regions of western Persia.

4. Arabic and Persian: A Fortunate Conjunction It has been established that the bulk of the Arabic vocabulary borrowed into Persian was incorporated as mots savants, i.e., learned words from the Arabic texts read (and written) by bilingual Persian intellectuals of the first few Islamic centuries.15 These words retained their exact spelling in Arabic, even after having trickled down to the spoken language, and do not necessarily reflect their pronunciation in Persian. Nevertheless, the first encounters between the two languages were of necessity aural and oral, and it must be assumed that many Arabic loanwords of immediate practical use (in the military, administrative, and ritual domains, amongst others) entered Persian by way of speech. Since these were orthographically normalized when the written language evolved, only a handful of pre-literate Arabisms have left a written record of their phonetic assimilation. Such are mosalmân ‘Muslim’ (perhaps from an Arabic plural), mir (from Ar. Amir ‘commander’) and its compounds mir-âb (‘irrigation supervisor’), mir-âxor (‘head groom’), mir-zâ (‘prince’), and the onomastic bu (Ar. Abu ‘father’). The loss of an initial vowel is probably typical of spoken Dari; in Persian words such as (a)yâr (‘friend’), (a)nâhid (Anahita) and the prepositions (a)bâ, (a)bar, the longer forms are those of Pahlavi. Early ­Persian poets, such as Ferdowsi, fluctuate between the two. 15 See G. Lazard, “Les emprunts arabes dans la prose persane,” Revue de l’École Nationale des Langues Orientales 2 (1965), pp. 53–67.

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Mir and bu were joined by their normalized doublets amir and abu in the literary repertory under Samanid tutelage. Persian Muslim scholars were writing in Arabic centuries before they thought it necessary to translate into or compose in Persian. This wholesale adoption of a foreign language for the sake of its superior writing system and international range is reminiscent of the adoption of Aramaic by Sasanid scribes. For scholarly purposes alone, it would have been superfluous to devise a literary language other than Arabic. However, there are important differences between the two situations. Persian Muslims of all classes—especially the rulers, who were the patrons of the scholars—had invested in the culture behind the script, and needed to learn the ways of Islam; and the Dari Persian vernacular was already established as a literary language to the extent that poetry was being commissioned in it by those same royal patrons. It is significant that the first translation commissioned by the Samanid amir Mansur b. Nuh in 963 was Tabari’s exegesis of the Qur’an. The impetus toward written dissemination of the vernacular had causes similar in Islamic Persia to those in Reformation Europe: they included the ambitions of independent provincial rulers and the expanding social scope of literacy, both expressed mainly in religious terms. The specialized vocabulary of Persian expository prose was thus bound, from the outset, to be culled from the Arabic repertory familiar to the bilingual scholars who wrote it. Persian poets, who had a head start of one hundred years, provided models for a more integrated Perso-Arabic. The proportions of Arabic vocabulary they used varied considerably with individual style, genre, and theme. Thus, of approximately 8,000 different words in the versified national epic, the Shahname (completed ca. 1010), 706 words are of Arabic origin, and occur collectively a total of 8,928 times; this yields 8.8 % of Arabic in the vocabulary, with a collective frequency of occurrence of 2.4 %.16 (Note that this abstinence cannot be seen as entirely voluntary: although Ferdowsi’s motaqâreb is a 16

M. D. Moïnfar, Le vocabulaire arabe dans le Livre des Rois de Firdausi (Wies­baden, 1970), pp. 61–66; John Perry, “Šāhnāma xi. Arabic words in the Šāhnāma,” EIr Online (www.iranica.com).

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versatile meter, it could not have accommodated any words of the patterns mofâ’ala, mofa’’ela / mofa’’ala, motafâ’el or estef’âl, which account for more than a thousand Arabic loanwords in modern Persian.) The most frequently occurring loanword, with 707 occurrences, is gham ‘grief’ (Arabic ghamm; assimilation to Persian has reduced the final geminate to a single consonant). Ferdowsi’s younger contemporary Onsori, in his eulogies modeled on the Arabic qaside, uses an impressive 32% of Arabic vocabulary. By similar calculations, eight works of the earliest Persian prose yield figures ranging from 24.22 % of Arabic and 9.64 % frequency (Bal’ami’s translation of Tabari’s history, ca. 964 ce) to 51.44 % and 26.11 % (Râvandi’s Râhat al-sodur, ca. 1200), rising in approximate correlation with the date of composition.17 The figures for Râvandi’s Saljuqid era history have rarely been exceeded in later works, and may well reflect a peak in the incorporation and use of Arabic vocabulary. (A dictionary-based inventory of Arabic loanwords in use today yields at least 8,000 words.) Conventions governing the domains of the two languages, and the selection and application of native and Arabic vocabulary in Persian, were established quite consciously. Thus Key-Kâvus in his didactic memoir (1082) counsels his son, if he would be a lyric poet, to “avoid cold and unfamiliar Arabisms (tâzihâ);” but should he become a secretary, he is advised: “If the letter is in Persian, do not write pure Persian (pârsi-ye motlaq), for it is unpleasant.”18 Literary Middle Persian was not deficient in technical and intellectual vocabulary. It had preceded Arabic in compiling a native religious vocabulary and adapting Greek philosophical and medical terms (indeed, it furnished vocabulary from these and other technical fields to pre- and early Islamic Arabic).19 It had in theory little need of an injection from a totally alien lexical base. As we have seen, however, it was not the written Pahlavi but the spoken vernacular, 17 18

G. Lazard, “Les emprunts arabes dans la prose persane.” Key-Kâvus, Qâbus-nâme, ed. Gh.-H. Yusefi (Tehran, 1967), pp. 190 and 208 respectively. 19 See E. Yarshater, “The Persian presence in the Islamic world,” in R. G. Hovannisian and G. Sabagh, eds., The Persian Presence in the Islamic World (Cambridge, 1998), pp. 47–54.

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Dari, that was the basis for the construction of Persian. In any case, the selection of lexical loans is not usually dictated by necessity so much as by questions of prestige and stylistic variation. Many of the Arabic loans in Persian are, and were from the outset, synonyms of current native terms (e.g., mariz, bimâr ‘sick’, badan, tan ‘body’, and ruh, ravân ‘soul’). This redundancy largely accounts for the lexical richness and stylistic elasticity of Persian. The natural tendency of early writers to accept Arabic uncritically is seen in the spelling with “Arabic” letters of toponyms such as Ṭâleqân and formerly Ṭahrân ‘Tehran’, which preserve early records in Arabic geography books. Other accepted Arabicizations involve a phonetic change, notably Fârs and fârsi for Pârs and pârsi, and fil for pil ‘elephant’, though some writers have always preferred the variants in p. Contrary to a common assumption, the field of (Islamic) religion is not dominated by Arabic loanwords. Scores of religious terms, from âkhund ‘cleric’ to zendiq ‘heretic’ (the latter in Arabicized form), are Persian, including the everyday terms for God, prophet, prayer, prayer-leader, fasting, angel, creation, creator, heaven, hell, soul, sin, worship, repent, forgive, etc. The process of conversion (whether of Anglo-Saxons to Christianity or Persians to Islam) naturally depended for its early success on comprehension, achieved by translation into, analogy with, and use of the language of the target population; only at a later stage were these supplemented by loanwords. Incidents are recorded of new converts being permitted to recite the Qur’an in Persian or Sogdian translation. 20 But the literature of the old religion, together with its inventory of terms without analogy in Islam (e.g., sôshyans ‘savior’, [a]mahraspand ‘bounteous immortal’), was swept into oblivion by the scale and rate of Islamization in Persia. The poet Sa’di summed it up thus when praising the Prophet in his Bustân: yatimi ke nâ-karde Qur’an dorost / kotob-khâne-ye chand mellat be-shost “An orphan who, not having fully mastered the Qur’an, / wiped out the libraries of so many creeds.”21 20 A.-A. Sâdeqi, Takvin-e zabân-e fârsi, pp. 63–64, 67. 21 Sa’di, Bustân, ed. Gh.-H. Yusefi, 2nd printing (Tehran, 1984), p. 36, b. 72.

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5. Building a Literary Language As might be expected, the bulk of borrowings from Arabic reflect the spiritual and intellectual concerns of literate converts, rather than just material culture and colonial impositions. This impression is supported by an informal comparison (as conducted by this writer) of a random sample of Arabic loans in Persian and in Spanish, whose speakers would have represented, by and large, non-Muslim subjects with a limited investment in the dominant culture. The vocabulary of material culture in Spanish was 52 % of the Arabic loan inventory, while in Persian the total was 14 %; the Arabic vocabulary of general intellectual life was 8 % in Spanish, 24 % in Persian. Use of Arabic also expanded the semantic range of native ­Persian words by means of loan translations or calques. Such are the additional sense ‘to conquer’ acquired by the verb goshudan ‘to open’, on the analogy of Arabic fatḥ; and Ferdowsi’s use (in his account of Rudaki’s verse translation of the Pahlavi Kalile and Demne) of parâgande ‘scattered’, to mean ‘prose’ (Ar. nathr) and peyvaste ‘bound (in order), serial’ as ‘verse’ (Ar. naẓm). 22 This same concern to do justice to the native lexicon spurred some writers to coin neologisms without reference to Arabic. The philosopher Avicenna (d. 1037), who wrote most of his voluminous output in Arabic, produced a medical treatise and an encyclopaedia of science and philosophy in Persian, in which he reintroduced terms from Pahlavi and invented Persian terms such as se-su (triangle), for Arabic mothallath, and peydâ’i (appearance), for ẓohur. Biruni and Mohammad Ghazâli also produced works in Persian, but like the majority of Persian scholars of the Early Persian period, including the mathematician Omar Khayyâm, they were content to write their serious work in Arabic and accept the by-product, i.e., Arabic borrowings in their Persian prose or occasional verse, as a bonus. Biruni, a native of Khwârazm (the Choresmia of Classical Antiquity) and a rigorous scientist and ethnographer, bluntly dismissed 22 Ferdowsi, Shahname VIII, ed. R. Aliyev (Moscow, 1970), p. 255, b. 3462 a: bepeyvast guyâ parâgande-râ.

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the movement to indigenize the lexicon: when a scientific text is translated into Persian, he maintains, it loses all clarity; its horizon becomes blurred and its practical application disappears. The function of the Persian language is to immortalize historical epics about the kings of bygone ages and to provide stories to tell on night watches. 23

A later author, Shahmardân b. Abi’l-Kheyr, comments scathingly in a work of astronomy (1073) on his predecessors: The most astonishing thing is that, when they write a book in Persian, they state that they have adopted this language in order that those who do not know Arabic may be able to use the book. Yet they have recourse to words of pure Persian (dari-ye vizhe-ye motlaq) which are more difficult than Arabic. If they employed the terms currently in use [i.e., the Arabic loanwords] it would be easier to understand them. 24

Conservative critics of the language reform movement in ­Tajikistan during the early 1990s complained in almost identical terms that in substituting havopaymo ‘airplane’ for the Russian loanword ­samo­lyot, and donishgoh for universitet, the Persianizers were rendering the national language incomprehensible to the man on the street. Since the Arabic vocabulary of Persian presents a readily identifiable, normalized stratum, it affords few orthographic clues to date of incorporation, provenance, and phonological or semantic history. While this holds for individual loanwords, the very rigidity of Arabic lexical morphology enables us in some cases to postulate mechanisms by which whole form classes were incorporated, potentially, into Persian. Two sound shifts in late Middle Persian were arguably conducive to the assimilation of several thousands of Arabic loanwords. These were (1) the voicing of syllable-final t as in kart > kard or magôpat > môbadh; and, (2) the loss of final g (earlier k) after a vowel, notably in most words of the large form-classes represented by dânag ‘grain’ and parig ‘fairy’ (originally a sorceress). Thus, by the time that the large, open-ended class of Arabic 23 G. Lazard, “The rise of the New Persian language,” p. 631. 24 G. Lazard, ibid., p. 632.

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nesba adjectives in iyyun were being incorporated, the semantically equivalent formative of Persian had been reduced from -ig to i, and was (as it is today) identical in sound, spelling, and sense to the Arabic suffix. This blended suffix is highly productive, and may be added directly to any class of nouns, including assimilated Arabic loanwords: e.g., tejârati (also tejâri) ‘commercial’, qahve’i ‘coffee colored, brown’ (the orthography reveals these as Persian). A more complex process arguably involves both these sound changes. Scholars have long been intrigued by the fact that loanwords terminating in the Arabic feminine ending (unlike their Arabic etymons, which use a hybrid graph, the tâ’ marbuta) appear in Persian as either at or -a (in the standard pronunciation of Tehran used in this Volume -e), written with either final t (as in dowlat ‘fortune; state’), or with silent h (as in alâqa ‘attachment’). In current Persian, of some 1450 such loans 640 end in at, and 810 in a (pronounced as /e/); this includes some 40 pairs of doublets found with both endings (80 items). In Early Persian this proportion was virtually reversed, with a preponderance of at affiliates in the inventory. This means that more than 200 original at affiliates have since dropped final t and switched to a. This lexical class is of particular importance to Persian, since the feminine ending in Arabic forms a disproportionately large body of abstracts and specialized verbal derivatives; it may be compared with Latinate endings such as ion, ate, ity in English. The dichotomy at/a, and the progressive shift at > a, are not random, and afford some significant clues to the sorting and processing of Arabic vocabulary in Persian. Lexicalization as at or a appears to be determined primarily by semantic features, and additionally by stylistic register (literary vs. colloquial). 25 The processes of selection and shift are best illustrated in the doublets. From their incorporation, the Arabic homonyms resâlat ‘mission’ and resâla ‘message, letter, treatise’ were thus disambiguated in Persian. In other cases, a more specific sense evolved from a general meaning, or a count noun from a mass noun. Thus Mohammad Ghazâli 25 J. R. Perry, Form and Meaning in Persian vocabulary: The Arabic feminine ending (Costa Mesa, 1991), pp. 195–224.

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derived from qovvat ‘strength, power’ (general, intangible) the specialized instance noun qovva ‘(physiological or mental) faculty’, which in modern Persian has evolved the additional senses ‘(military) force, (industrial) energy’ (pl. qovâ). Similar are âyat ‘a sign, a divine wonder’ (in general) vs. âya ‘verse of the Qur’an’ (a specific instance thereof). 26 The intuitive rationale for this binary sorting in Persian was passed on to Turkish, Urdu, and other neighboring languages together with the Arabic loans that they incorporated via Persian, and was subtly expanded or modified. The characteristic root-and-pattern system of Arabic lexical morphology provides for the Persian reader a sense of semantic relationships, similar to Greco-Latin prefixes and suffixes in the case of his English or French counterpart. As an illustration, the triliteral root ṢLḤ ‘(being) right, fit, proper, harmonious’, generates the following Arabic substantives that also appear in Persian, often as verbs or verbal idioms: solh ‘peace’, salâh ‘honesty, propriety, fitness’, salâh dânestan ‘to deem appropriate, see fit’, maslahat ‘proper course, expediency’, maslahat didan ‘to deem prudent or expedient’, eslâh kardan ‘to improve, correct, edit; shave’, mosleh ‘reformer’, mosâlehat ‘reconciliation’, estelâh and mostalah (pl. -ât) ‘(technical) term, idiom’. There are also the plural masâleh ‘benefits, interests; materials’ (in Indo-Persian, and hence Hindi-Urdu, ‘materials, ingredients, spices’); the participial adjective sâleh ‘fit (for a purpose), competent; a masculine proper name’; and the PersoArabic compound eslâh-nâ-padhir ‘incorrigible’. The degree to which not only individual loanwords, but their characteristic patterns, entered Persian consciousness is shown in a number of common Persian words coined on an Arabic morphological pattern from a Persian lexical base: thus kaffâsh ‘cobbler’ ( maqâle ‘discourse, essay’; mow’ezat ‘preaching, homiletic’ > mow’eze ‘sermon, homily’; marthiyat ‘lamentation’ > marthiye ‘elegy’; ta’ziyat ‘mourning’ > ta’ziye ‘funeral; ritual performance or artefact pertaining to the commemoration of Karbala’. Although the shift appears to have peaked by the 13th century, Sa’di, the classical author par excellence, still has a greater proportion of at than a affiliates in his Golestân. Since he was one of the prominent models for Indo-Persian writers, this perhaps helps to explain why the at inventory of literary Urdu is also proportionally greater than that of -a in modern Persian. Although Persian changed less radically during the period from the 13th to the early 20th century, it did see several linguistic innovations. The more momentous of these were sociolinguistic, stemming directly from geopolitical developments. The language continued to compete with Arabic for literary turf, and with Turkish for vernacular range, throughout the Iranian plateau and its three adjacent alluvial plains. Paradoxically, the territorial expansion of Persia’s Turcophone dynasts—the Ghaznavids into India, the Saljuqs into Iraq and Anatolia, the Timurids in amalgamating Central Asia and the plateau and re-colonizing India—automatically extended the range of imperial and literary Persian, the language both of diplomatic and commercial contact and of courtly prestige. At the same time, spoken Turkish increased in usage and prestige in the army and at court, the loci of power; it became advantageous for the Persian administrative elite to learn the language of their political masters and Persian poets flattered them by inserting Turkish words and phrases into their verse.33 The symbiotic rivalry of Turkish soldier-ruler with Persian poet-secretary was celebrated in a new caste division, expressed ethnically as Tork-oTâjik (soon to become a cliché meaning “all and sundry”), or professionally as the old rift between men of the sword and of the pen, khân, ‘tribal chief’, and mirzâ, ‘secretary’ (see below). In areas of heavy Turkish 33 T. Gandjei, “Turkish in pre-Mongol Persian poetry,” BSOAS 49 (1986), pp. 67–76.

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settlement such as Azerbaijan and the Oxus basin, the local speakers of Persian or other Iranian languages (Kurds, Tats, Tajiks) were partially or totally Turkicized. These parallel processes culminated from the 16th century to the th 19 in both Persia and Central Asia. The Safavid dynasty (probably Turkicized Kurds in origin) and their Turkman followers migrated from west to east, to the urban centers successively of Tabriz, Qazvin and Isfahan, while the Sheybanid Uzbeks moved in mirror image to occupy the lands and cities of greater Khorasan at Bukhara, Balkh, and Marv. Subsequent dynasties (the Qajars, the Manghits) continued the process of Turkicizing the court and encouraging their Turcophone followers to settle in the vicinity. In Persia, this did not displace Persian from its well-established niches both in literary life and in rural usage, and had little effect other than to increase the number of Turkish loanwords in the vernacular. In Central Asia, however, where Uzbek settlement in rural areas was much more pervasive, Turkicization was completed except for Tajik enclaves in the cities of Bukhara and Samarqand and among the rural population of the Pamir foothills. Up until the 1920s, classical Persian was still the language of letters and belles-lettres at the Uzbek court, and of lessons in the madreses of Bukhara; then within one generation, the Soviet delimitation of ethnolinguistic republics and its concomitant language engineering established a Persianized Uzbek as the national language of the bulk of the old emirate of Bukhara, and an Uzbekized Persian as “modern literary Tajik” for its eastern section, the Tajik Soviet Socialist Republic. We may note in passing that in the Persian of western Persia the so-called majhul ‘unknown’ (i.e., non-Arabic) vowels had merged with their homographs, ô with u as early as the 13th century, ê with i perhaps as late as the 16th; this had no effect on the orthography, though it relaxed the constraints on rhyme (new rhymes on formerly distinct syllables, such as shôr with omur, dalêr with pir constitute our evidence for these shifts).34 One perhaps earlier sound change, attributable to Turkish influence that has had an 34 J. Matini, “Tahavvol-e talaffoz-e kalemât-e fârsi,” MDADMashhad 7 (1971), p. 276; T. V. Kâmyâr, “Zabân-e fârsi dar asr-e Hâfez,” pp. 76–80.

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e­ ffect on the orthography, was the collapse, in western Persian, of the once distinct consonants represented by qâf and gheyn into a single sound.35 Since Turkish words entered Persian via the spoken language, their spelling (unlike that of Arabic loans) was not standardized, so that loans containing this phoneme may be written with either qâf or gheyn (cf. qu or ghu ‘swan’, otâq or otâgh ‘room’). These and other changes not registered by the Arabic orthography (such as the raising of final /a/ to /e/) were limited to western Persian; that of Central Asia, India and, to a lesser extent, of Afghanistan and Khorasan preserved most of the phonology, and more of the Persian vocabulary, of the early classical period. Written Persian opened its lexicon to both Turkish and Mongol invaders. The Mongolian borrowings were largely ephemeral, most of them referring to military and administrative innovations introduced between the 1250s and 1350s, such as dârughe ‘district commissioner’.36 Exceptions which took root in Persian are nôkar ‘manservant’ and the noun jelow ‘front; ahead’, which forms several common verbal and adverbal idioms, from the Mongol word for “bridle.”37 The significant sociolinguistic achievement of the Mongol conquest of Persia lies in its destruction of the caliphate (1258) and subsequent isolation of Persia from the Arab west; this accelerated the process—already begun—of rendering Arabic a dead language to Persians, ultimately shutting off the lexical fount and further reducing the domain of Arabic literature in Persia. Some 250 years later, the Safavid establishment of state Shi’ism tended further to restrict composition in Arabic to specialist doctrinal literature, encouraging a greater volume and variety of devotional, philosophical, and scientific writing in Persian. The Turkish lexical legacy has proved permanent. Many everyday terms of modern Persian are of Turkish origin, such as komak ‘help’, and kuchek ‘small’. Most, however, are prominent in the spoken, rather than the written, register. Stylistically distinctive 35 A. Pisowicz, Origins of the New and Middle Persian phonological systems (Cracow, 1985), pp. 112–14, 117. 36 G. Doerfer, Türkische und mongolische Elemente im Neupersischen (Wiesbaden, 1963), I, p. 319. 37 G. Doerfer, ibid., pp. 521 and 296 respectively.

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pairs of Persian and Perso-Arabic, vs. Turkish, terms may be identified, such as literary âheste vs. colloquial yavâsh ‘slow(ly), gently’, mamnu’ vs. qadaghan ‘forbidden’. One grammatical feature that is demonstrably of Turkish provenance has colored the language of chronicles from the 15th century on and left its mark to this day. Onomastic noun phrases referring to princes of the Turkish ruling house, e.g., Mahmud Mirzâ, were construed thus as a noun phrase of Turkish type (modifier before head), on the analogy of Mahmud Khân, Hasan Âqâ, Ologh Beg, regardless of the Persian etymology of the title. This word order contrasts with that of the typical Persian onomastic noun phrase (head before modifier), such as Khwâje Hâfez and Sheykh Sa’di. In the post-Safavid period this usage was applied to titulature using the revived title of shâh, whether the monarch was a Turk or not, and likewise in India and Afghanistan: no longer was it Shâh Abbâs and Shâh Soleymân, but Nâder Shâh, Fath-Ali Shâh, Rezâ Shâh, and Zâher Shâh. In an unconscious continuation of the Turk-Tajik rivalry, this Turkicization of royal nomenclature provoked a Persian-style pre-posing of mirzâ ‘prince’ as a devalued honorific for secretaries, as in Mirzâ Sâdeq, and the reinstatement of pre-posed (a)mir and shâh with the names of Sufi leaders, as in Mir Heydar, Shâh Ne’matollâh Vali and Shâh Rezâ (the incumbent of the shrine at Qomshe (apparently /iy/ and /û/ > /uv/). Certain words and morphemes may be read optionally as either long or short: 1 words ending in a basically short vowel written with the letter vâv: o ‘and’, (before vowel often further reduced to v-), do ‘two’, to ‘you’ and cho ‘as’ (when long, generally chun); 2 words ending in a short vowel indicated by the mute h (called hâ-ye makhfi): nouns of the type nâme (letter, book), pronouns like ke and che, the number se ‘three’, the negation na (when long also nê or ney); 3 the annex particle (ezâfe) ‑e (often not written). Doubled consonants may be optionally read as one or two consonants and certain words with originally non-doubled intervowel consonants may metri causa be read as double, e.g., shekkar for shekar ‘sugar’. A few words with long vowel may be read (and written) with short vowel, e.g., rah for râh ‘road’, rubah for rubâh ‘fox’, and so(y) for su(y) ‘direction’, the latter only when followed by ezâfe. At times transposition or elision of short vowels occur metri causa, e.g. golsetân for golestân ‘rose-garden’, and verbal forms with preverbs be- or na- (e.g., bo-gdharad, na-shkanad).16

7. Caesura Caesura (i.e., a break in the metrical structure of a half line or hemistich) is not regarded as a regular and obligatory feature of Persian prosody. There is, however, a certain tendency of introducing regularly recurring phrase ends, that could be realized as short pauses, in many of the metrical patterns occurring in Persian poetry. If we take as an example a poem in the common meter hazaj‑e sâlem, we see that it falls nicely into a pattern characterized by something like a caesura in the middle of each half-line: 16

For further details of scanning, see L. P. Elwell-Sutton, Persian Metres, pp. 4–6, and F. Thiesen, Manual, pp. 11–68, with instructive examples.

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This may be seen all through the poem, with only a slight disturbance in the line: nasihat gush kon jânâ / ke az jân dusttar dârand v - - - / v - - - // v - - - / v - - javânân‑e sa’âdatmand / pand‑e pir‑e dânâ-râ v - - - / v - - - /v // - - - / v - - -

with the overlong produced by the combination -mand-pand- falling fully in the first half.17 This type of caesura is not theoreticized in the classical tradition and it must be regarded as an optional stylistic element, if at all consciously applied. On the other hand, caesuras have been regarded as a necessary feature in the comparatively rare type of metrical patterns called “doubled meters.”18 These meters look like incomplete halves of a half line doubled or repeated, e.g.: Hâfez che nâli / gar vasl khwâhi - - / v - - // - - / v - khun bâyad-at khward / dar gâh o bigâh19 - / v - - v // - - / v - -

This example also shows a possibility of extending the rule that all final syllables of half lines are anceps also to syllables before caesura. Cases of this may also be seen in non-doubled meters, e.g., in the often rather free metrical practises of Jalâl-al-Din Rumi. It is especially noteworthy that caesuras naturally appear after internal rhymes and before so-called radifs (cf. below). For the robâ’i a tendency of introducing a caesura after the first four or five syllables

17 Hâfez, Divân, ed. P. N. Khânlari (Tehran, 1983), nr. 3. 18 L. P. Elwell-Sutton, Persian Metres, p. 88; F. Thiesen, Manual, p. 118. 19 Hâfez, Divân, nr. 410.

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has been noticed, 20 but caesuras may occur also in other positions, and they can not be considered an obligatory feature of this form. If caesuras are conceived of as ends of phrases, or at least confined syntagms, co-occurring with the end of metrical feet, their distribution might supply a possibility of finding out where the “natural” borders between Persian verse feet go. However, given the uncertainty of establishing conscious use of caesuras in general, this still seems to be an unreliable method for testing the analysis of verse feet.

8. Pitch and Stress The metrical analysis of Persian poetry is thus basically quantitative. It is in principle neither concerned with expiratory (dynamic) stress nor with tone (pitch). However, in modern recitation of Persian poetry there is an interplay between expiratory stress, quantity and pitch, so that quantity carries the required metrical structure, while a combination of pitch and stress marks the naturally (grammatically) accented syllables. In the Hâfez poem Agar ân tork‑e Shirâzi, which was quoted above, each half line falls into two equal parts separated by a caesura, and each of those parts appears to have two main grammatical stresses that may or may not fall on a metrically accented, i.e., long, syllable. In modern recitation these stresses are characterized by both pitch and dynamic accent (tórk, shirâzí, dást, dél etc.), perhaps to an even greater degree when the syllable in question is short, as in the syntagm dél‑e mâ-râ (where the vowel in del is high and stressed but short, while the ezâfe is low and unstressed but long). Unfortunately, we can not be certain about how such stress patterns were realized in the 9th and 10th centuries, but it is likely that traditional poetry, as a conservative residuum, has kept something of the intonation from a time when Persian still had a phonematically relevant opposition between short and long vowels. 20 G. Lazard, “Âhu-ye kuhi … Le chamois d’Abu Hafs de Sogdiane et les origines du robâi,” in W. B. Henning Memorial Volume (London, 1970), pp. 238–44.

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It is possible that in poems like this there is a pre-aruz substratum, a fixed number of stresses (ictus), which was probably the main characteristic of Sasanid verse. This question is also connected with music. According to the somewhat legendary traditions, Sasanid poetry was generally sung to the accompaniment of musical instruments, such as harp (chang) and lute (barbat). It is generally assumed that this was also the case with classical poetry, especially its lyrical forms. To-day this poetry is commonly read or recited, not sung, although in the unmeasured part of classical Persian singing, âvâz, ghazals serve as a rule as lyrics. 21 It is, however, not easy to draw conclusions on the classical performance from modern practice, since music is a rather quickly changing artistic medium and the modern Iranian musical system has probably changed repeatedly since the Middle Ages. Still the influence of music on Persian poetic practice and metrical arrangement must have been considerable. The strict regulation of morae might be the result of such an influence. On the other hand, whatever the system of Sasanid verse making could have been, it did not produce lines with a fixed number of morae, and still it was probably sung.

9. Special Features of Persian Rhyme and Verse Forms Already the old prosodies have substantial chapters on “the science of rhyme” (elm‑e qâfiye). 22 Like “the science of meter” (elm‑e aruz), the description of the rhyming system is taken over from Arabic prosodists and depends on the same, peculiarly Arabic consonantbased analysis. The Persian heritage includes a quite diversified Arabic terminology on the various letters involved in the rhyme and their interrelations. The difficulty is again that poetry, not least rhyme, takes place more in sound than in letters, and it is hard to 21 G. Tsuge, “Rhythmic aspects of the Āvāz in Persian music,” Journal of the Society for Ethnomusicology 14 (1970), pp. 205–27. 22 The most authoritative treatises on rhyme are: Shams-al-Din Mohammad b. Qeys Râzi, Mo’jam, ed. M. T. Razavi (Teheran, 1959), pp. 196–327; and Nasir-al-Din of Tus, Me’yâr al-ash’âr, pp. 129–60.

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see the use of this extremely complicated terminology. The fact is that the rules regulating rhyming to a great extent are the same as in Western poetry. Regular and obligatory rhymes occur at the end of half lines and full lines. They consist of at least one syllable identical in sound but not in meaning. 23 This means that the rhyming syllable can not be an identical inflectional ending or suffix. The traditional analysis starts from the last letter of the rhyming word in its basic form, which is called ravi. The ravi should be preceded by one or two letters that are identical in each rhyming position, or as a minimum the short vowel sign understood in a vowelled consonant. On the other hand it could be followed by a number of letters, up to six, as long as they are identical. 24 This means, among other things, that a final long vowel is sufficient as a rhyme, as long as it is not an ending but belongs to the basic word. For the rest of the description I think we can dispense with the technical terminology, which is carefully presented in the handbook of L. P. Elwell-Sutton, 25 and just point out some of the most important characteristics. 1 The text is seen as a coherent string; the border between words is not relevant; e.g., darvish-dust ‘friend of the poor (or the dervishes)’, is one word rhyming with the three words khwad u-st ‘he himself is’. 2 Homophones may rhyme, since they are identical in sound but not in meaning; e.g., bâz ‘falcon’, rhymes with bâz ‘again’. 3 The dynamic accent is irrelevant; e.g., kéh-i ‘you are smaller’, rhymes with mehí ‘greatness’. 4 In a few cases closely related sounds, especially /k/ and /g/, may be accepted in rhymes; e.g., shak ‘doubt’, (the duplication of the final consonant is ignored) rhymes with sag ‘dog’, and qods ‘holiness’, rhymes with ons ‘familiarity’. 26

23 F. Thiesen, Manual, p. 73. 24 Persian Metres, p. 227. 25 Ibid., pp. 225–42. 26 For instances of the last mentioned rhyme see B. Utas, Ṭarīq ut-taḥqīq (Lund, 1973), p. 129.

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5

6

7

8

Rhyme between the traditional majhul vowels, /ê/ and /ô/, with their ma’ruf counterparts, /i/ and /u/, is not considered correct; this was upheld long after the majhul pronunciation had disappeared in Western and Central Iran; e.g., shêr ‘lion’ should not be rhymed with shir ‘milk’, in spite of their difference in meaning. The sound combination khwa (modern pronunciation kho) in classical Persian makes rhymes of the type khward / bord unacceptable, something that is in principle still upheld in classical poetic style. However, exceptions to this may be found already in classical works. In classical Persian the sound /d/ was pronounced as a voiced fricative /δ/ after vowel, while Arabic loan-words would keep the pronunciation as a voiced stop. In principle that would not allow the rhyming of an original Persian word with an Arabic loan word ending in a vowel followed by /d/. This was, however, soon given up, and Jâmi (d. 1492), for instance, may be seen rhyming Persian shâdi ‘mirth’ with (semi-)Arabic nâ-morâdi ‘lack of success’. According to the Arabic rules, the last letter of the rhyming word (ravi) may be a vowelled consonant in one instance and an unvowelled consonant in another. In connection with the over-long syllable this functions well in Persian, as in the wellknown poem by Hâfez27: salâh‑e kâr kojâ- wo man‑e kharâb kojâ / be-bin tafâvot‑e rah k-az kojâ-st tâ be-kojâ “What relation is there between rectitude and a wretch like me? Look what a distance there is from one to the other!”

The rhyme may, as in this example, be followed by one or more words that are identical in the rhyming lines or half lines. This type of refrain is called radif and is a device which was obviously not taken over from the Arabs. It appears already in the earliest known Persian poems of the 10th century (e.g., by Rudaki, d. 940), and Rashid-al-Din Vatvât states in his textbook on rhetoric that 27 Hâfez, Divân, nr. 2.

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the Arabs originally did not have it. 28 It is so common in Persian poetry that it might be regarded as one of its special characteristics. At times a radif may even cover a great part of a half line, as in Jalâlal-Din Rumi’s ghazal beginning with: begu ey yâr‑e hamrâz in che shivast / degar-gun gashte-i bâz in che shivast “Say, o intimate friend, what is this manner? / You have changed again, what is this manner?”

with the syllable -âz as the rhyme and the phrase in che shivast as the radif. 29 While radif is optional, the ordinary rhymes are an obligatory feature which are more important for the distribution of the various poetic forms than the metrical patterns. The basic form is the rhyming scheme that characterizes the most typically Arabic verse form, the qaside. In this form the two first half lines (the opening beyt, called matla’) are rhyming, and then the following lines have the same rhyme all through the poem, i.e., the rhyming pattern aa xa xa xa …, up to several hundred lines. Exactly the same rhyming pattern characterizes the ghazal, in its actual form also an Arabic creation although possibly shaped under Persian influence. The rhyming pattern of the ghazal is thus also aa xa xa xa …, from seven to fifteen lines according to the general definition. In practice, however, one might meet Persian ghazals with as little as five lines as well as ghazals with more than fifteen lines.30 As a matter of fact it is at times difficult to distinguish a long ghazal from a short qaside. The same rhyming pattern also characterises the quatrain (robâ’i), on the nature of which more shall be said below. This form consists of four half lines or rather two full lines and is consequently rhyming aa xa, although a form with the pattern aa aa, i.e., rhyming 28 Vatvât, Hadâ’eq al-sehr, ed. Abbâs Eqbâl Âshtiyâni (Tehran, 1983), p. 79. 29 Rumi, Kolliyyât‑e Divân‑e Shams‑e Tabrizi, ed. Badi’-al-Zamân Foruzânfar (Tehran, 1983), nr. 345. 30 In the Divân of Hâfez, for instance, there are five ghazals with only five beyts (nrs. 96, 104, 144, 420 and 444) and one with sixteen beyts (nr. 354).

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also in the third hemistich or half-line, occurs. In the latter case it may then be designated robâ’i-ye tarâne. Finally, another short form with basically the same rhyme pattern is the qat’e (qet’e) or moqatta’e, literally “fragment,” an appellation used for relatively short occasional poems. This form has generally been defined as a poem of at least two lines with the same rhyme at the end of each line: xa xa xa … i.e., qaside rhyming without the rhyme at the end of the first half line. There is, however, some uncertainty about this. Many classical divâns also contain pieces called qat’e which have an internally rhyming first line.31 In that case the argument of what constitutes them as qat’es must rest on the contents, not on the form. A single verse is called a fard when there is no rhyming between the half lines, and mosarra’ when they do rhyme. It has generally been considered more difficult to rhyme in Persian than in Arabic, although statistics collected by Elwell-Sutton show that there is no great preponderance of Arabic words in rhyming position in the poetry actually written.32 However, difficulties of following the strict rules of qaside rhyming were obviously a reality to the early classical poets. A great number of dictionaries arranged in alphabetical order after the final letters of words testify to this (with Asadi’s Loghat‑e fors of the 11th century as the oldest extant example). The problems could be mastered, and were mastered elegantly, in poems of up to one or two hundred lines, but in a literature with traditions of epic and didactic poetry needing space not for hundreds of verses but thousands or even tens of thousand, it is obvious that the mono-rhyming system was insufficient. This may be seen as the background to the creation of a pattern of pairwise rhyming half-lines, i.e., aa bb cc dd … This yields the form called mathnavi, which in spite of its Arabic name, most probably is of Persian origin. When it appears, rarely and late, in Arabic poetry, it is called mozdavej. Shams‑e Qeys Râzi remarks that “this kind is used in extensive narratives and long 31 R. Zipoli, “A note on the Neopersian qet’e,” in A. Křikavová and L. Hřbíček, eds., Ex Oriente. Collected Papers in honour of Jiří Bečka (Prague, 1995), pp. 191–209. 32 Persian Metres, pp. 223–24.

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stories which can not easily be treated in poems with one specific rhyming letter.”33 Mathnavis may be written in most of the more common metrical patterns, but there is a strong tendency of using patterns with eleven syllables to the half line, such as motaqâreb‑e mothamman‑e mahdhuf (v - - / v - - / v - - / v-), hazaj‑e mosaddas‑e mahdhuf (v - - - / v - - - / v - -), ramal‑e mosaddas‑e mahdhuf (- v - - / - v - - / - v -), khafif‑e mosaddas‑e makhbun‑e mahdhuf (- v - - / v - v - / v v -) or sari’‑e mosaddas‑e matvi-ye maksuf (- v v - / - v v - / - v v). These are short variants of respectively the nos. 15, 1, 7, 12 and 10 on the list of meters given above. This is taken as another indication of an Iranian origin of this epic type of verse, in spite of the fact that neither pairwise rhyming nor eleven-syllable verse is found in the extant remnants of Middle Persian poetry. The ten-syllable meter hazaj‑e mosaddas‑e akhrab‑e maqbuz‑e mahdhuf (- - v / v - v- / v - -) may be mentioned as a noneleven-syllable pattern used for narrative poetry in the mathnavi form, notably in Nezâmi’s Leyli o Majnun and its imitations. Apart from the above forms based either on qaside or mathnavi rhyming, there are a number of less used mixed forms, in particular poems with various arrangements in stanzas. There is the tarji’band, which consists of stanzas of a ghazal type rhyming aa xa xa … in stanzas of five to ten lines, linked by a recurring line (­vâsete), usually with a rhyme of its own; in this case a stanza rhyming aa xa xa … bb is followed by another stanza rhyming cc xc xc … bb, and so on. It also occurs that all half lines are rhyming: aa aa aa … bb / cc cc cc … bb / dd dd dd … bb, etc. If the recurring line differs from stanza to stanza, the form is called a tarkib-band. Another form is the mosammat, in which all half lines rhyme with rhymes changing regularly, e.g., aaabb cccbb dddbb … This form is classified further according to the number of lines in the stanza as fourfold (morabba’), fivefold (mokhammas), sixfold (mosaddas) etc.34 The above-mentioned rhyming patterns are obligatory features in their respective forms. Some poets, however, show a rather

33 Mo’jam, p. 419. 34 L. P. Elwell-Sutton, Persian Metres, pp. 256–60.

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­extensive use of optional interior rhymes for stylistic purposes. Jalâl-al-Din Rumi is one of them. Let us look at one example: har nafas âvâz‑e eshq / mirasad az chapp-o râst mâ be-falak miravim / azm‑e tamâshâ kerâ-st mâ be-falak bude-im / yâr‑e malak bude-im bâz ham-ânjâ ravim / khwâje ke ân shahr‑e mâ-st khwad ze-falak bartar-im / v-az malak afzuntar-im z-in do cherâ na-gdharim / manzel‑e mâ kebriyâ-st “Every moment the voice of Love is coming from left and right. We are bound for heaven: who has a mind to sight-seeing? We have been in heaven, we have been friends of the angels; Thither, sire, let us return, for that is our country. We are even higher than heaven and more than the angels; Why pass we not beyond these twain? Our goal is majesty ­supreme.”35

The meter of this ghazal is monsareh‑e mothamman‑e matvi (no. 11 on the list of meters) with a regular caesura in the middle of each half line: - v v - / - v - (v) // - v v - / - v - (the final short of the second foot is absorbed by the pause of the caesura, even if present as the second part of an overlong). The second half line of the opening line introduces the internal rhyme -im before the caesura, which then returns both before the caesuras of the first and second half lines and at the end of the first (regularly non-rhymed) half line of a number of lines. This interior rhyme occurs in the lines 1, 2 and 3 (quoted here) as well as in lines 4, 6 and 11, while other lines introduce different interior rhymes and use them according to the same pattern. It should be noticed that the rhyming syllable -im, being a verbal ending, does not fill the requirements for a full, regular rhyme, but it is typical for rhymed prose used by early Sufi masters such as Ansâri of Herat (d. 1088). The first half line of the second line quoted above furthermore gives an example of an isolated interior rhyme: falak - malak, followed by an interior radif: bude-im.

35 Rumi, Dīvāni Shamsi Tabrīz, ed. and tr. R. A. Nicholson (Cambridge, 1898), pp. 32–37.

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10. The robâ’i and the Prosody of Folk Poetry The robâ’i, or quatrain, is a short poetic form that has a special place in Persian prosody as well as in Persian poetry in general. Already its name is somewhat contradictory. As stated above, it consists of two lines (beyts), while the designation robâ’i (derived from the Arabic arba’a ‘four’) suggests something in four parts. It may be argued that the name refers to the four half-lines, but popular versions are known both as dobeyti36 (two-liner). Apart from its rhyming pattern, aa xa, the robâ’i is characterized by a meter with two variants (cf. no 4 on the list of meters), which are unique in Persian prosody by being allowed to occur in alternation within the same poem. The robâ’i takes an intermediary position between high literature and folk poetry. Today it is at times considered the very essence of Persian poetic genius, but before the world-famous and remarkably successful renderings by Edward Fitzgerald in his Rubáiyát (1859) of quatrains ascribed to Omar Khayyâm, this form obviously had a lower status in Persia. The philosophic and epigrammatic robâ’i was originally an extemporized poem rather than a calculated artistic form of expression. It may be regarded as a learned cousin of the folk poem called dobeyti or chahârbeyti, which generally uses the hazaj‑e sâlem meter (v - - - / v - - - / v - -). This type of popular poetry is met with all over the Iranian world (including Afghanistan and Tajikistan), especially in oral tradition, often sung, and treating themes such as love, longing, wine and war. Historically, it is obviously connected with the so-called fahlaviyât poems, which we find quoted in quite early sources. Those poems are also composed in the eleven-syllable hazaj‑e sâlem meter, but already Shams-al-Din Râzi remarked that the first foot often occurs in the moshâkel variant, i.e., fâ’elâton (- v - -) instead of mafâ’ilon (v - - -).37 Another recorded variant is a first foot of four long syllables.38 These fahlaviyât, which are written in a more or less ­persianized north-western dialect, survive in the still very popular 36 A Dobeyti, however, is distinguished from Robâ’i by its meter; see below. 37 Mo’jam, pp. 104–6. 38 F. Meier, Die schöne Mahsati (Wiesbaden, 1963), p. 8.

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dobeytis that are passed on in the name of the nebulous figure Bâbâ Tâher Oryân, who is believed to have lived in the mountains of Luristan near Hamadan. Metrically, the difference between the eleven-syllable hazaj of the dobeyti and the variable, but basically thirteen-syllable, robâ’i meter is considerable. As already stated, there are indications of a specifically Iranian epic tradition expressing itself in eleven-syllable half-lines. The dobeyti would seem to be connected with that, while the robâ’i meter shows more affinity with the Persian lyrical meters grouped together as nos. 5–15 in the list of meters. The special character of the robâ’i has given rise to many speculations on its origin. The charming founding story, told by Shams‑e Qeys, about the poet Rudaki hearing a boy commenting his play with a marble ball with the words ghaltân ghaltân hami ravad tâ bon‑e gow/ku (“Rolling, rolling it goes to the bottom of the hole/alley”) is hardly accepted by anyone.39 Still, it is a common assumption that the form as such is a Persian creation that found its shape around the 10th century. Various influences have been suggested. Basing himself first of all on the quantitative character of the meter, Wilhelm Eilers concludes that the robâ’i “is Iranian spirit (Geist) in Arabic form.” 40 On the other hand, Gerhard Doerfer, adducing early robâ’i-like Persian fragments as well as Turkic poems, makes a strong case for a Turkic influence, possibly even with a Chinese background according to Alessandro Bausani.41 This is obviously difficult to prove, but considering the structural position of the robâ’i in the metrical system that was a result of the adaptation and remodelling of Arabic meters in a living Iranian tradition, one could sense a foreign element that might very well be Turkic. There is another type of folk poetry in Iran, which might have a deep historical past. That is verses without any regular quanti39 Mo’jam, pp. 112–13. 40 W. Eilers, “Vierzeilerdichtung, persisch und ausserpersisch,” WZKM 62 (1969), pp. 209–49. 41 G. Doerfer, “Gedanken zur Entstehung des rubā‘ī,” in L. Johanson and B. Utas, eds., Arabic Prosody (Stockholm, 1994, pp. 45–59. See also A. Bausani, “La quartina,” in A. Pagliaro and A. Bausani, Storia della letteratura persiana (Milan, 1960), pp. 527–78.

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tative pattern. They have generally been regarded isosyllabic, but in fact the number of syllables varies between certain limits. Thus Lorimer describes the popular verses of the Bakhtiari tribe in southwest Persia as having “a line of 12 syllables in rhymed couplets, with normally perhaps 4 stresses to the line”, but adds: “In practice the number of syllable varies from as little as 9 to as much as 14 or even more.” 42 Other types have fewer syllables and only two or three stresses to the line. This has a striking resemblance to what seems to have been characteristic for Middle Persian and Parthian poetry, namely a fixed number of stresses to the line, generally two or three, rather freely distributed over two to four times as many syllables.

11. The Role of Meter and Rhyme in Persian  Poetical Genres Persian poetical forms are defined by a combination of meter and rhyme. These forms have well-established designations: qaside, ghazal, robâ’i, mathnavi etc. At times these terms are taken as designations of genres as well. If, however, a genre is defined as a certain content combined with a certain form, it is obvious that these poetic forms cannot in themselves be taken as genres. Of course, the use of one form could be confined to a certain type of content, in which case the designations of form and genre would coincide. Roughly speaking, the qaside covers panegyrics (madh) and satire (hajv or hejâ’), the ghazal “lyrics,” the robâ’i philosophical and hedonistic epigrams and the mathnavi epics and didactic poetry, but this system disintegrated at an early stage, when, around the 12th century, mysticism was introduced as an increasingly widespread subject in all these forms. While the rhyming patterns are fixed in the various forms, the meter may vary. This gives another formal possibility of characterising a genre. As was already stated, epic and didactic poetry in the 42 D. L. R. Lorimer, “The popular verses of the Bakhtiâri of S.W. Persia,” BSOAS 16 (1954), pp. 550–51.

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mathnavi form is mainly composed in metric patterns of eleven syllables to the half line, but among these patterns there are various preferences for various epic and didactic genres. Thus motaqâreb is preferred for historic epics (with the Shahname as the dominating example) and hazaj for romances (this tradition may have been started by Gorgâni’s Vis-o Râmin). Homiletic and Sufi mathnavis are often composed in ramal or sari’, but with the work of Sanâ’i (d. ca. 1131) the meter khafif was made popular for such use.43 On the other hand, khafif remained a medium for courtly romance, as shown by Nezâmi’s use of it in his Haft peykar. On the whole, Nezâmi’s use of meters for the five epics that make up his Khamse has become exemplary, and a meter is often designated through reference to one of his poems, e.g., “vazn‑e Leyli o Majnun” for the above-mentioned hazaj‑e mosaddas‑e akhrab‑e maqbuz‑e mahdhuf (no. 3 on the list of meters). Similar characteristic uses are noticeable also among the “lyrical” meters, but here the situation is much more complicated, the metrical patterns being more numerous and the tendencies and fashions shifting faster. Deeper studies in this field might be rewarding. These uses of the metrical and rhyming patterns of the classical forms and genres were more or less constant for more than one thousand years of poetical creation. Not until the beginning of the 20th century, the formal and stylistic conventions of Persian poetry were broken up. First the conventions of themes and metaphors were deserted and then, gradually, the formal organisation. The pattern of the qaside and the ghazal was given up, making the use of rhymes and the length of lines more free. The metrical patterns remained the last bastion of classical prosody. Even poetry proclaiming itself as “free” (âzâd) for a long time exhibited a very exact application of the classical meters, concealed through the use of lines of uneven length, irregular rhymes and scattered distribution over the pages. The prosodic heritage of more than one thousand years has an overwhelming authority and it remains a strong influence also in modern poetical creation even for those who reject it. 43

J. T. P. de Bruijn, “The individuality of the Persian metre khafîf, “ in L. Johanson and B. Utas, eds., Arabic Prosody (Stockholm, 1994), pp. 35–43.

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Chapter 5 Traditional Literary Theory:  The Arabic Background G. J. van Gelder

1. Arabic Theory and Persian Literature The study of the grammar of modern western languages such as English has for a long time drawn heavily on that of Latin and Greek; its influence on terminology and concepts is still clearly noticeable. The existence of a well-established ready-made framework of ideas and terms offered many advantages and, inevitably, some considerable disadvantages when applied to a foreign system having its own, often rather different categories and rules. Grammar is concerned mainly with words and sentences; the same process of borrowing may be observed in the study of linguistic structures transcending the compass of the sentence, in fields of study that may be called, with terms that show some overlapping, stylistics, rhetoric, and poetics. Traditional Persian literary scholarship presents a rather similar phenomenon in that it has adopted, and to some extent adapted, much from the Arabic tradition. This is understandable, not only in view of the existence of a rather diffuse but extensive body of Arabic critical and theoretical concepts and terminology at a time when Persian literature was reborn and developed, but also since many of those who produced poetry and works of theory and criticism in Arabic were themselves Persians. It is obvious that Arabic and Persian literature have much in common and that there is some common ground to build on. It is equally obvious that there are also considerable differences. It will be interesting to investigate how and to what extent Persian literary scholarship made use of Arabic ideas, was influenced 123

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by it and reshaped it for its own purposes. The interrelationships between Persian and Arabic in this respect are not merely a matter of scholarship, for literary scholarship in its turn may, to some extent, influence and shape literature itself. Many literary critics and theoreticians were themselves creative poets or writers of artistic prose. In this chapter a brief sketch will be given of the Arabic tradition—or perhaps one should say traditions. Compared with the study of language, the main branches of which are phonetics, morphology, syntax and lexicography, that of literature is rather diffuse, at least in its early stages. This is, of course, a direct consequence of the fact that their respective objects of investigation differ: it is rather easier to define a sentence or a linguistic phenomenon than a “work of literature” or a literary feature. Arabic grammar was an extremely important and relatively well-defined discipline, and countless are those persons who were professional grammarians or are called naḥvi ‘grammarian’ or specialist in (especially) syntax, whereas being a “literary critic” or “literary theorist” was hardly a profession and usually an extra, a kind of side-interest of grammarians, poets, or any erudite person with a literary bent. In due course, especially after the 11th century, a more or less standardized discipline of stylistics and rhetoric was developed and taught by means of text books with their endless series of glosses, commentaries, super-commentaries, compendiums and versifications. This “scholastic” treatment of stylistics and rhetoric is much concerned with the linguistic aspects of “literariness” and cannot therefore be readily transplanted to another language. It does not comprise everything that could be called “literary scholarship,” for it leaves out, for example, much of what we would call poetics, as well as the study of literary genres. For these topics one should turn, even in the “scholastic” period, to other writers; there existed always more than one tradition. The term “rhetoric” also calls for comment, because compared with the Graeco-Roman tradition the element of persuasion, in public or judicial contexts, is almost absent in the Arabo-Persian tradition. Of the five (Western) classical parts of rhetoric, or its stages of composition, viz. inventio, dispositio, elocutio, memoria and pronunciatio, it was the third, eloquence, that received by far the most attention of Arabs and Persians. 124

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2. Origins and Early Developments The first Arabic works that could with some justification be called works on poetry and poetics were written in the 9th century ce. However, the history of Arabic literary criticism goes back to a much earlier period. There are various reports, incorporated in later works, from pre- and early Islamic times, of discussions and opinions on particular lines of poetry, poems and poets—forms of practical and applied criticism certainly not amounting to a systematic discipline, but nevertheless implying underlying ideas on the form, the essence and the functions of poetry. Occasionally, poets themselves show an awareness of these matters explicitly in their poems. It is clear, moreover, that there existed a number of technical terms, especially for prosodic features and defects, which were taken over by those who developed the sciences of metrics and rhyme, starting with the great grammarian Khalil b. Ahmad (d. 791). The formal aspects of poetry, meter and rhyme, like grammar, are more easily studied and shaped as a unified discipline than the less tangible matters of stylistics and poetics. Throughout the history of Arabic literature the study of prosody (’elm al-’aruż ‘metrics’ and ’elm al-qâfiya or ’elm al-qavâfi ‘rhyme’) has maintained itself as a branch in its own right, relatively uniform and stable, with countless authors and treatises which offer very little that is new. Although it may be combined with the treatment of other fields of literary scholarship such as stylistics and the study of imagery, it is very often found in separate treatises concerned with metrics, the part on rhyme often forming an appendix to this. Much of its methodology, concepts and terms may be found in the study of Persian prosody, which had to make some adaptations, however, because Persian poetry has its own prosodic and metrical characteristics and forms of rhyme unknown to Arabic poetry. Yet the basic characteristics are remarkably similar. Both Arabic and Persian traditional poetry are quantitative, based on patterns of short and long syllables while word stress, though present, plays no part; in both Arabic and Persian poetry end rhyme is an essential feature.1 1 On Arabic and Persian prosody see further Chapter 4 of this volume.

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Poetry has always been considered by the Arabs as the highest form of human literary production. Obviously, there is one other form, neither human according to Muslim consensus nor properly a genre because sui generis, which in a sense is supremely literary. The doctrine of the inimitability of the Qur’an (e’jâz al-Qur’an) was developed by theologians from the 9th century onward but has a firm basis in the Qur’an itself, in those passages that challenge opponents or doubting people to produce similar texts (the verses II: 23, X: 38, XI: 13, XVII: 88). Although there were several opinions as to precisely which aspects of the holy text made it inimitable and unique, a general consensus was reached according to which it was its style or its “literariness” that was the primary aspect. Influential monographs on e’jâz al-Qur’an are al-Nokat fi e’jâz al-Qur’an (Salient Points on the Inimitability of the Qur’an) by Rommâni (d. 994) and E’jâz al-Qur’an by Bâqellâni (d. 1013). The fact that the Qur’an could not, and should not, be emulated did not prevent the flowering of the study of its language, style and imagery. Such activities were prompted by philological and ­theologicoexegetical considerations alike; these fields are often closely related and not rarely combined in one person. In a sense the first work on stylistics is that by the famous philologian Abu-’Obeyda (d. 825), who wrote his Majâz al-Qur’an on difficult expressions of the holy text and who listed in his introduction nearly forty stylistic and syntactic features, all of which to some extent could be explained by means of periphrasis and paraphrase, in order to conform to standard usage (e.g., cases of ellipsis, the use of the plural for the singular and vice versa, syntactical inversion, metonymy and synecdoche, etc.). The interests of theologians (especially the “rationalist” Mo’tazelites) and literary scholars coincided in the study of figurative speech, which turned out to be useful in explaining those passages in the holy text that would seem to describe God in anthropomorphic terms. If the Qur’an received much attention from linguists and those interested in literary style, poetry did not receive any less. The codification of the classical Arabic language (grammar, orthography and lexicon) is based to a far greater extent on the large quantity of pre- and early Islamic poetry, which was eagerly col126

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lected and recorded, than on the Qur’an. As soon as the generation of the great Umayyad poets, such as Akhtal, Jarir, Farazdaq, Dhu’l-Romma and Komeyt, had passed away in the first half of the 8th century, it became obvious that poetry was changing under the influence of the flourishing urban civilization. Henceforth the ­better-known poets were no longer nomads or semi-nomads but city-dwellers, such as the Umayyad caliph-poet Valid b. Yazid (d. 744), whose poetry marks a new direction, or Bashshâr b. Bord (d. 783), who was not even an Arab but a Persian, and proud of it; he is often called the first “modern” (moḥdath) Arabic poet. The changes did not fail to leave their mark on scholarship. The grammarians, much though they might appreciate “modern” poetry, did not recognize it as a valid source of evidence for grammatical and lexicographical usage. Those more interested in poetry for its “poetical” characteristics became aware of the differences with an earlier age, among them a more frequent and more conscious employ of rhetorical figures, on the levels of phonetics, syntax, semantics and imagery. This complex set of features of the new poetics, with its heightened awareness of the medium, its delight in poetic conceits and new metaphors, was called badi’ ‘novel, original’ at an early stage. Especially controversial was the great poet Abu-­Tammâm (d. 846), on account of his sometimes rather contrived style and “difficult” metaphors; standing for the typical “artful” poet he is often contrasted with his younger contemporary, the “natural” poet Bohtori (d. 897). Some awareness of these changes is noticeable in the important works of two great ninthcentury writers, Jâḥeẓ (d. 868–69) and Ebn-Qotayba (d. 889). The books of the former are unsystematical but rich sources for the history of Arabic literary criticism, for instance his work on Arabic eloquence and oratory al-Bayân va’l-tabyin (Clearness and Clarification). The latter did not only write on Qur’anic stylistics in his Ta’vil moshkel al-Qur’an (The explanation of difficulties in the Qur’an) and on difficult expressions and motifs in early poetry in his Ketâb al-ma’âni’l-kabir (The Great Book of [Poetical] Motifs), but also a Ketâb al-she’r va’l-sho’arâ’ (Book on Poetry and Poets) in which he deals with ancient and modern poets and which has a general introduction on poetry. 127

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A short but seminal work on the topic of badi’ was written by ’Abd-Allâh b. al-Mo’tazz (d. 908), Abbasid prince and, for one unhappy day, a caliph, himself an important poet. Among the several probable motives for composing his treatise, called al-Badi’, was the desire to show that these “novel” features in modern poetry by Abu-Tammâm and others was not quite so novel, and anticipated not only by earlier poets but also found in the Qur’an and other highly respected prose utterances, notably those of the Prophet, his kin and his Companions. Ebn-Mo’tazz set an example that was followed throughout the centuries, not only because the word badi’ became the designation of the branch of literary scholarship that was primarily concerned with figures of speech and stylistics, but also because his method became popular: the enumeration of a rather loosely ordered series of figures and tropes (their number growing steadily in the course of time), each of them briefly defined and then illustrated with examples taken from poetry old and new and from prose, including Qur’an, hadith, and brief aphorisms and pithy sayings by people of all kinds, from anonymous early Bedouins to eminent scholars and viziers. The basis of this short treatise are five tropes or figures: metaphor (este’âra), paronomasia (tajnis, also called jenâs), antithesis (moṭâbaqa or ṭebâq), epanadiplosis (radd a’jâz al-kalâm ‘alâ mâ taqaddamahâ, often called radd al-ajoz ‘alâ ’l-ṣadr) and “the dialectical manner” (al-madhhab alkalâmi), to which some twelve stylistic “embellishments” (maḥâsen al-kalâm) are added, including, for instance apostrophe (eltefât), feigned ignorance (tajâhol al-’âref), hyperbole (al-efrâṭ fi’l-ṣefa), simile (tashbih) and “beautiful beginnings” (ḥosn al-ebtedâ’ât). This obviously heterogenous list, together with many illustrations which became textbook examples, was adopted and extended by numerous authors in the course of the centuries. Although, as we shall see, some attempts were made to create order and system in the ever-growing number of badi’ features, many authors—often themselves poets rather than scholastics—were less concerned with the rigor of scholarly classification than with simple enumeration in order to show the potentialities of literature. The culmination of this tendency is reached in the tradition, begun by the poet Ṣafi-alDin al-Ḥelli (d. 1349), of the badi’iyya commentaries. A badi’iyya 128

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is a qaṣida in praise of the Prophet, each line of which illustrates one or sometimes two kinds of badi’; the commentary, swelled by numerous quotations in verse and prose, usually has the character of a literary anthology rather than a scholarly study. This last remark is valid for a number of other works which, though lacking scholarly rigor, give useful insights into the ways in which the Arabs thought about literature and literariness. Ebn-Abi’Own (d. 934) was the first to compile a book on simile or poetic comparisons (al-Tashbihât), a collection of fragments and epigrams ordered thematically. An anthology that is also arranged thematically, but does not restrict itself only to comparisons, is Divân alma’âni by Abu-Helâl al-Askari (d. after 1010). These and similar works are useful in showing the “poetic universe” of Arabic literature. Important in this respect are also the great encyclopaedic anthologies that are sometimes called “adab encyclopaedias,” such as ’Oyun al-akhbâr (Prime Sources of Reports) by Ebn-Qotayba, al’Eqd al-farid (The Unique Necklace) by Ebn-Abd-Rabbeh (d. 940), Moḥâżarât al-odabâ’ (Colloquies of the Literate) by al-Râgheb alEṣfahâni (middle of 11th century) and Rabi’ al-abrâr (The Spring Time of the Righteous) by Zamakhshari (d. 1144). Other anthologies and compilations are not arranged according to themes and motifs but according to poets, along the lines of Ebn-Qotayba’s al-She’r va’l-sho’arâ’, mentioned above. This work had an important precursor in Ṭabaqât foḥul al-sho’arâ’ (The Categories of the Master Poets) by Ebn-Sallâm al-Jomaḥi (d. 845), which has an introduction on the problem of the authenticity of early poetry. The most important work in this category is the incomparably rich Ketâb al-aghâni (Book of Songs) by Abu’l-Faraj al-Eṣfahâni (d. about 970). In all these works, indispensable for the study of Arabic literary theory, such literary criticism or theory as they contain is found only implicitly or unsystematically, scattered in brief passages. The first preserved works that are truly works on poetics proper are Naqd al-she’r (The Criticism of Poetry) by Qodâma b. Ja’far (d. after 932) and ’Eyâr al-she’r (The Standard of Poetry) by Ebn-Ṭabâṭabâ (d. 934); of an earlier work, by al-Nâshe’ al-Akbar (d. 906) only fragments are known. Qodâma systematically deals with 129

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the interaction of those aspects that define poetry, viz. “meaning” (ma’nâ), “(linguistic) expression” (lafẓ), meter and rhyme; on this basis he discusses the good qualities and defects of poetry, in order to arrive at a sound basis for practical criticism. The rigorous distinction between lafẓ and ma’nâ—‘word/expression/form’ and ‘meaning/motif/content’, respectively—is characteristic of much of Arabic literary theory. While Qodâma seems to write especially for the would-be critic, Ebn-Ṭabâṭabâ, himself a poet, rather addresses the would-be poet, interested as he is in the process of poetic creation; whereas Qodâma is clearly influenced by the analytical methods of Greek logic, Ebn-Ṭabâṭabâ’s approach is more essayistic. The influence of his ’Eyâr al-she’r on later authors is less obvious than that of Qodâma, but it may be discerned, for instance, in the final chapter of Shams-e Qeys’s Persian poetics, al-Mo’jam fi ma’âyir ash’âr al-’Ajam. 2 It should be noted that the words naqd and ’Eyâr in the titles of both Arabic works, as well as ma’âyir in the Persian work, are derived from the terminology of the testing of gold or silver currency. The metaphorical domains from which many Arabic terms of stylistics and poetics are derived are those of jewelry and textiles (“weaving” speech is an old motif). It should be mentioned in passing that the old and partly pre-Islamic terminology of metrics is linked with that of tent-building (beyt ‘tent/ verse’ etc.).3 Both Qodâma and Ebn-Ṭabâṭabâ had considerable influence on later writers with their ideas and their terminology, even though their methods were not emulated. Some later works dealing exclusively with poetry are structured on very different lines. Practical criticism is found in a few large-scale books on particular controversial poets, such as al-Movâzana bayn she’r Abi-Tammâm va’l-Boḥtori (The Poetry of Abu-Tammâm and Bohtori in the Balance) by al-Âmedi (d. 981) and al-Vasâṭa beyn al-Motanabbi vakhoṣumeh (The Mediation Between Motanabbi and his Opponents) by ’Ali b. ’Abd-al-’Aziz al-qâżi al-Jorjâni (d. 1001). ­Motanabbi (d. 2 See on this work Chapter 6 of the present volume. 3 The terminology of Arabic and Persian prosody is further discussed in Chapter 4.

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965) was and is considered by many the greatest Arabic poet in Islamic times, yet he did not lack detractors and much criticism, often partisan and polemical, centers around him. Large parts of these books, and indeed of much of Arabic literary criticism, deal with the tracing of parallels, dependences, borrowings or outright plagiaries between poets. To this topic whole monographs are devoted and an extensive terminology was developed, often subsumed in the general term sareqât (literally, ‘thefts’). Among the more general works on poetry, al-’Omda (The Support) by the North-African poet Ebn-Rashiq (d. 1065 or some years later) stands out as a very useful encyclopaedia dealing with many aspects of poetry, such as its functions, status, form, genres, stylistic features and related topics. In all this the attention of the critics, of whom Ebn-Rashiq is a good representative, is usually focused on short units: one or a few verses that show a particular stylistic feature or literary motif. Although recent literary studies have demonstrated that longer poems were often carefully constructed as well-organized wholes, critics and theoreticians have relatively little to say on the techniques and strategies employed to achieve this. Just as Arabic poetry is, as far as can be ascertained, largely an indigenous Arab creation which took little if anything from older poetic traditions such as Greek, Hebrew, Syriac or Persian, so traditional Arabic literary theory is mainly indigenous too. It is true that the rise of scholarship in general in Arabic-Islamic culture owes much to the previous Hellenistic and Iranian civilizations. But the Greek elements in the Arabic linguistic tradition are controversial and slight, and in literary studies, grounded as they are in philology and linguistics, they are all but invisible. Nevertheless, there existed another tradition, apart from traditional Arabic literary scholarship. When Greek works on science, logic and philosophy were translated, there also appeared Arabic versions of Aristotle’s Poetics and Rhetoric. These texts remained difficult to understand, partly because of defective translation and partly because Greek poetry was unknown: the Arabs showed no interest at all in the poetry of other nations, believing their own poetry to be vastly superior. Yet the mere respect for Aristotle ensured at least 131

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a certain acquaintance with his ideas in some intellectual circles. The impact of Aristotle’s two works on traditional Arabic literary theory remained slight, yet some authors consciously attempted to reconcile the two traditions. The great Aristotelian commentator Ebn-Roshd (Averroes, d. 1198), in writing his paraphrase of the Rhetoric and the Poetics, tried to find Arabic parallels and examples, while using Arabic terminology, whereas his predecessor Ebn-Sinâ (Avicenna, d. 1037) had not bothered to do this. When Ebn-Roshd followed the earlier Arabic translator of Aristotle’s Poetics in making panegyric (madiḥ) and invective (hejâ’) the near-equivalents of “tragedy” and “comedy,” respectively, this was bound to lead to confusion. A more promising approach, from the viewpoint of Arabic literary history rather than the history of philosophy, was that of a poet born in Spain and active in North Africa, Ḥâzem al-Qarṭâjanni (d. 1285). His remarkable Menhâj al-bolaghâ’ (The Method of the Eloquent) attempts to reconcile traditional Arabic theory with what he knew from Aristotle through Ebn-Sinâ. Although, as appears from the above, some important works are devoted exclusively to poetry, and poetry dominates much of the practical and theoretical discussion of Arabic literature, it would be wrong almost to identify literary theory and criticism with poetics and the criticism of poetry. Seen in a broad perspective, what interested Arab critics most of all was not the study of poetry or prose as such, or the genres produced in either form, but something that may be called “literary style” or “stylistics.” In this it did not matter greatly whether the scrutinized texts were taken from poetry, the “rhyming prose” (saj’) of the pre-Islamic soothsayers, the eloquent utterances by early Bedouins or the Prophet and his contemporaries, epistolography, or, of course, the Qur’an. This attitude, visible already for instance in al-Badi’ by Ebn-Mo’tazz, is dominant in many later works, including Ketâb al-Ṣenâ’ateyn by Abu-Helâl al-’Askari, whose title refers to “The Two Arts” of poetry and prose; its original title was, it seems, Ṣan’at al-kalâm (The Art of Speech), which even more clearly demonstrates that his subject matter was something common to all literary products: eloquence, or beautiful style, often called balâgha or sometimes faṣâḥa, as in Serr al-faṣâḥa (The Secret of Eloquence) by Ebn132

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Senân al-Khafâji (d. 1074). An important work on the “two arts” is also al-Mathal al-sâ’er fi adab al-kâteb va-l-shâ’er (The Current Proverb: On What Prose Writers and Poets Need to Know) by Żiyâ’-al-Din b. al-Athir (d. 1239). Rendering the word kâteb here as “prose writer” obscures much of its meaning, for the word means, above all, a high official in civil administration, particularly the chancellory scribe or secretary (Persian dabir), whose task it was to draft official letters in ornate, often rhymed, prose. Books instructing him in this art (called ṣen’at al-ketâba ‘the art of [letter] writing’ or ṣenâ’at al-enshâ’, ‘the art of [prose] composition’) were written from the 9th century onward.

3. The Scholastic Study of balâgha Qur’an, prose and poetry—but above all poetry—formed the subject matter of the two books by someone who is by many considered the most perceptive writer on stylistics and criticism in Arabic: ’Abd-al-Qâher al-Jorjâni (d. 1078). His Dalâ’el al-e’jâz (The Proofs of [the Qur’an’s] Inimitability) is, pace its title, not primarily a work concerned with the religious doctrine concerning the Qur’an as a miracle, but presents a series of wonderful essays on what might be characterized as the stylistic aspects of syntax and semantics. ’Abd-al-Qâher was a grammarian by profession, but he went beyond the traditional study of morphology (’elm al-ṣarf) and syntax (’elm al-naḥv), which largely ignored the semantics of syntax. Part of the Dalâ’el deals with figurative speech and metaphor, but ’Abd-al-Qâher wrote at greater length on these topics in another important work, his Asrâr al-balâgha (The Secrets of Eloquence). This is a subtle study of poetic imagery and the role played in it by the intellect and the imagination. In both works he criticized the traditional dichotomy of lafẓ and ma’nâ, advocating instead the simultaneous and inseparable study of both concepts together in what he termed naẓm ‘composition’ (literally ‘stringing together’), a term also used for (making) poetry as distinct from (making) prose (nathr, lit. ‘scattering’). 133

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’Abd-al-Qâher’s works are intrinsically important enough to merit attention. Their significance becomes even greater still since they lie at the basis of the scholastic study of “eloquence,” ’elm al-balâgha, after they had been remolded by later writers. ’Abdal-Qâher wrote for connoisseurs, his style being impassioned and the structure of his books being somewhat loose and unsystematic. With the growing importance, from the late 11th century onward, of the madrase and the “scholastic” treatment of the disciplines incorporated in the curriculum of the madrase, the need arose for “textbooks.” ’Abd-al-Qâher’s ideas, which had already been employed by the great Zamakhshari in his Qur’an commentary al-Kashshâf (The Discoverer), were compressed into textbook format by another famous Qur’an commentator, Fakhr-al-Din al-Râzi (d. 1209) in his Nehâyat al-ijâz fi derâyat al-e’jâz (The Utmost Brevity: On Knowing the Qur’an’s Inimitability). However, another attempt became far more influential: that by Sakkâki (1229) in his Meftâḥ al’olum (The Key of the Sciences). This book is a compendium of all the branches of ’elm al-adab except lexicography, viz. (I) morphology, (II) syntax, (III) the sciences of ma’âni and bayân, followed by appendices on logic (’elm al-estedlâl), metrics and rhyme. It is the third part, on ma’âni and bayân, which became very popular, overshadowed only by a version even more compressed but somewhat more accessible in style, by al-Khaṭib al-Qazvini (d. 1338), entitled Talkhiṣ al-Meftâḥ (The Condensation of the Key). There is a very extensive corpus built on Sakkâki and Qazvini, consisting of commentaries, super-commentaries, glosses and versifications.4 From the time of Sakkâki onward terminology is more stable. The ’elm al-ma’âni and ’elm al-bayân cover the subjects discussed by ’Abd-al-Qâher in his Dalâ’el and Asrâr al-balâgha, respectively; together they are called ’elm al-balâgha. The term faṣâḥa, literally ‘(linguistic) purity’ (compare the expression al-’arabiyya al-foṣḥâ ‘correct, or classical, Arabic’), had been used as a near-synonym of balâgha ‘eloquence’; henceforth it is reserved for the level of phonemics and phonetics (“euphony” rather than “eloquence” in 4 On Qazvini’s Talkhiṣ and its precursors, see William Smyth, “The Making of a Textbook,” Studia Islamica 78 (1993), p. 99–115.

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general). The study of badi’, the traditionally rather unsystematic study of tropes and figures, was partly incorporated in the various appropriate sections of ma’âni and bayân; a number of remaining features belonging to badi’ was relegated by Sakkâki to an appendix attached to the section on bayân. Qazvini allowed more space to badi’ than Sakkâki and with him we find a tripartition: ma’âni – bayân – badi’. It should be noted in passing that ma’âni has (appropriately) many meanings: its meaning in this context, ‘the stylistic aspects of sentence structure’, has nothing to do with ma’âni in the sense of ‘[poetic] motifs or ideas’. Here follows a synopsis of the contents of Qazvini’s Talkhiṣ. 1. An introduction on terminology and basic concepts, such as faṣâḥa and the broader term balâgha ‘eloquence’, to be studied under the headings of ma’âni, bayân and badi’. 2. The ’elm al-ma’âni, which is defined as the science that studies the forms of Arabic speech in conformance with the demands of the speech situation. The first chapters deal with the stylistic and semantic aspects of “predication” (al-esnâd al-khabari). It is to be noted that the terms for “subject” and “predicate” usual in naḥv or formal grammar (such as mobtada’ and khabar) are replaced in ’elm al-ma’âni by mosnad elayh and mosnad, respectively. Attention is given to the function of elision (hadhf) or deviating word order (taqdim va-ta’khir). Forms and functions of types of utterance are discussed: statements and non-statements (enshâ’), which include commands, questions, requests, wishes, rebukes. The section on al-faṣl va-l-vaṣl deals with the semantics and syntax of sentence connection. The subjects of the last chapter are concision (ijâz), its opposite, amplification (eṭnâb), and the intermediate called musâvât ‘adequacy’. It will be seen how close the connections are with linguistics, yet the ’elm al-ma’âni does not greatly overlap with ’elm al-naḥv and is in fact its sequel. Until recently, Western students of the Arabic grammatical tradition have unjustly ignored the contribution of ’elm al-ma’âni, wrongly considering it to belong to “rhetoric” rather than to linguistics. 3. The ’elm al-bayân, defined as the study of how to express a given idea (ma’nâ) in different ways, is particularly concerned with 135

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­ oetic imagery. The various chapters deal with simile (tashbih), p non-figurative vs. figurative speech (al-ḥaqiqa va-l-majâz), metaphor (este’âra) in its many forms, and metonymy, synecdoche and other forms of allusion (kenâya). 4. The ’elm al-badi’, defined as the study of the embellishments of speech, is subdivided into two parts: figures that concern “meaning” (badi’ ma’navi), i.e. semantic features such as antithesis or hyperbole, and those concerning the expression or wording (badi’ lafẓi), including paronomasia, prose rhyme (saj’) and various syntactic features. An appendix (khâtema) is devoted to al-sareqât al-she’riyya (plagiary and other forms of borrowing in poetry). A final section is also relevant mainly to poetry: it points out the importance of three places in particular in any text: beginning, transition from the introductory part to the main part, and ending. In fact it appears that Qazvini, as well as his predecessors and followers, are concerned almost exclusively here, not with any text, but with the polythematic panegyric qaṣide, in which an opening captatio benevolentiae is essential and where the transition (takhalloṣ or khoruj) from the introduction to the panegyric part needs special care.

4. From Arabic Legacy to Persian Theory The works of ’Abd-al-Qâher Jorjâni, Râzi, Sakkâki and Qazvini were written by Persians or at least in Persian-speaking areas. Although these works and their derivates came to dominate almost the whole of the Arab world, the more unsystematic tradition exemplified by the works on badi’ remained popular. Ebn-Khaldun, writing in North Africa towards the end of the fourteenth century, distinguishes between the western and the eastern parts of the Arabo-Persian world: the westerners cultivate especially the ’elm al-badi’.5 Both sides are interested in literary theory, but the 5 Ebn-Khaldun, The Muqaddimah. Tr. F. Rosenthal (Princeton, 1967), III, pp. 337–38.

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westerners prefer literature and the easterners theory. One should not conclude from this, of course, that easterners, or Persians, are any less concerned with literature than the Arabs. To the Persians, Arabic was, after all, the language of learning including eloquence, and of religion, including e’jâz al-Qur’an. It is no coincidence that the first works on stylistics and balâgha that are written in Persian are more akin to the “western” tradition: Râduyâni’s Tarjomân albalâgha (The Interpreter of Eloquence) and Rashid-al-Din Vaṭvâṭ’s Ḥadâ’eq al-seḥr fi daqâ’eq al-she’r (The Magical Gardens: On the Subtleties of Poetry) are works on badi’, the former work having been inspired by a similar work written in Arabic in the extreme east of the 11th-century Muslim world, al-Maḥâsen fi l-naẓm va‑lnathr (Stylistic Embellishments in Poetry and Prose) by Naṣr b. al-Ḥasan al-Marghinâni.

5. The Deficiencies of Arabic Theory Both schools, that of badi’ and that of scholastic balâgha, in their concentration on stylistics and rhetoric, tend to neglect some important elements of poetics and literary criticism, although some authors do their best to incorporate at least some of these. The “essence” or nature of poetry, together with its functions, is also often discussed, not rarely by contrasting poetry, favorably or otherwise, with prose. Such passages or treatises often amount to a defense of poetry, deemed necessary in view of the religious or moralistic objections to verse, especially that which deals with love, sex, wine, and satire. The study of poetic genres or modes and themes, was taken up by Qodâma, Ebn-Rashiq and many others. There are numerous attempts at listing and subdividing the aghrâż (literally, ‘purposes’, singular gharaż) of poetry, also called fonun (literally ‘kinds, branches’), the main ones being madiḥ (panegyric, eulogy), rethâ’ or marthiya (elegy, lament), hejâ’ or hajv (invective, satire), nasib and ghazal (love poetry, the former specifically when introducing a polythematic poem in an elegiac-amatory mood). These terms may be applied to whole poems or parts of poems; 137

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each ­separate line may in fact have its own “purpose.” Similarly, the term qeṭ’a (literally, ‘piece’) can be applied to a fragment of a larger poem but very often refers to an independent short poem, an epigram, or any poem that is not a qaṣida, the formal, usually polythematic, ode. There remained some blind spots: some themes and subjects, such as mystical, religious or didactic verse were either ignored or dismissed by the critics and theorists. Although Arabic literature is rich in narrative forms, narrative poetry, which became so important in Persian, did not form part of Arabic “polite literature,” and was largely ignored by the critics. Finally, Arabic criticism is rather self-centered: although one was aware of the existence of poetry and eloquence in other languages such as Persian or Greek, almost no interest was shown.

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Chapter 6 Persian Rhetoric:  Elm‑e badi’ and elm‑e bayân N. Chalisova The panegyric came to me naked It was my splendor and ornaments that dressed it in shirt and mantle. Daqiqi

1. The Persian Theory of Rhetoric Embellishment The taste for decorativeness is well known to constitute one of the most important elements of the creative consciousness and literary expression in classical Persian poetry.1 It is also known to cause serious problems to the Western reader in the encounter with Persian Literature. From Horace’s confession Persicos odi, puer, apparatus (My son, I loathe Persian pomp) to Sir William Jones’ decision to omit in translation the “conceits, which would appear unbecoming in an European dress,” the lamentations on the richness and figurativeness of Persian style as alien to European sensibilities are numerous2 and, as R. A. Nicholson put it, “(o)bviously English 1 2

Cf. E. Yarshater’s opinion on the decorative tendency as one of the four general features of Persian Literature in E. Yarshater, ed., Persian Literature (Albany, 1988), pp. 18–19. For a dramatic history of the attempts by European scholars and poets to make the figurative language of Persian poetry sound both adequate and palatable in translation, see H. Ghomi, The Fragrance of the Rose (Göteborg, 1993), pp. 17–87.

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verse cannot convey the full verbal sense of oriental poetry without lapsing into grotesque doggerel.”3 This external impression correlates with the favorite similes and metaphors in which poetry is being described by medieval Persian poets and critics themselves. It is presented as a beautiful slave lavishly decorated with gems and jewels, as a chaste bride in a rich bridal dress, as a skillfully ornamented title page in a manuscript. The poet is advised to be “like a skillful painter” and “like a master jeweler who increases the elegance of his necklace by beauty of combination and proportion of composition.” 4 No wonder that the doctrine of rhetorical figures turned out to be the very core of Persian literary theory, while in surrounding traditions—e.g., the Sanskrit, the Greek, the Latin and to a certain extent even the Arabic—it served only as a complement to other parts of the literary canon. The fact that the Persian theory of rhetorical embellishment, or elm‑e badi’, was borrowed from Arabic textbooks on literary theory is well established and in this sense its Arabic origin is beyond any possible doubt.5 But if we choose to survey the situation in the near prehistory, it turns out to be much more complicated. First of all, it was mainly due to the formative Persian influence during the early Abbasid period (middle of the 8th to the first quarter of the 9th century ce) that Arabic verses were enriched by new (badi’) and as yet unknown modes of poetic expression.6 At that time the preIslamic jâhiliyya tradition converged with the refined poetic and 3 R. A. Nicholson, Selected Poems from the Dīvāni Shamsi Tabrīz (Cambridge, 1898), p. ix. 4 See the English translation of the conclusion (Khâteme) to Shams-al-Din’s Mo’jam in J. W.Clinton, “Shams-i Qays on the Nature of Poetry,” Edebiyât NS 1/2 (1989), p. 107. 5 An outline of Arabic literary scholarship and elm‑e badi’ is given in Chapter 5 of this volume. 6 The complex interrelation between Arabic and Persian poetry at that time, based on reciprocal influences, is described in B. Reinert, “Probleme der vormongolischen arabisch-persischen Poesiegemeinschaft,” in G. E. von Grunebaum, ed., Arabic Poetry. Theory and Development (Wiesbaden, 1973), especially pp. 71–82.

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musical court traditions of Sasanid Iran in the creative activity of such poets of Persian origin as Bashshâr b. Bord (d. 783), and AbuNovâs (d. 814). They had introduced into Arabic poetry the stylistic and rhetorical novelties which were later summarized by theoreticians under the heading of badi’ (“a new [style]”); and Bashshâr b. Bord, the most Persian among the “modern” poets (moḥdathun), came to be the most reputable author of poetic examples (shavâhed) in the Arabic treatises on elm al-badi’. According to Ebn-Rashiq, Bashshâr was the first among the new poets to use the badi’ style, and all the other great masters just followed him.7 During the ensuing centuries, when the traditional literary theory of the Arabs was being shaped, Persian scholars in their turn became active participants in the process. Such prominent figures as Ebn-Qoteybe (d. 889), Qodâma b. Ja’far (d. 948), Jorjâni (d. 1078), and Zamakhshari (d. 1144) rank high in Arabic philology and their works are considered important stages in its conceptual history. In a sense, the Persians borrowed from the Arabs the same method of linguistic analysis of poetry they had earlier helped to create. Thus it would be more correct to describe the early history of Arabic elm al-badi’ in terms of the collective participation of Arabs and Persians, rather than in terms of borrowing and influence. Poems in Persian were, from the very beginning (end of the 9th to the beginning of the 10th century), written on the basis of the rules of metrics (aruz) and rhyming (qâfiye) presented in Arabic treatises, and were embellished by poetic figures. The Persian poets modeled their verses on the established Arabic canons. Just as during the first centuries of the caliphate, the Persians took part in the collective process of creating the literary rules, they now became, together with the Arabs, their users. During the 11th century Persian poetry gradually moved from the relatively simple expressive forms of the Samanid and early Ghaznavid artists towards the sophisticated mannerism of the writers of qasides at the Saljuq court. We witness an increasing use, not only of rhetorical devices, but also of their names in poems, e.g., by Farrokhi (d. 1037), and Onsori (d. 1039), testifying to the poets’ good acquaintance 7

Ebn-Rashiq, Ketâb al-Omda (ed. Cairo, 1964), p. 238.

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with literary theory. Writers of didactic prose also stressed that a theoretical knowledge about literature was essential. For instance, in the Qâbus-nâme (written about 1082), Key Kâvus lists twentythree devices on which successful verses should be built, and advises the employment of more metaphors and hyperboles.8 First attempts to apply Arabic literary theory to describing Persian poetry were also probably made during the 11th century. Jalâl Homâ’i, in his sketch of the history of badi’, mentions the Mokhtasar by Manshuri of Samarkand, a contemporary of the Ghaznavid Sultan Mahmud, containing a short explication of the badi’ devices as well as a later commentary to it, the Kanz al-gharâyeb, authored by a certain Khorshidi. Several treatises on poetry were compiled by the Qarakhanid poet Rashidi of Samarqand (fl. first half of the 11th century). One of them was called Zinat-nâme (The Book of Embellishments).9 However, the texts themselves did not survive. The rise of the national literature in the 10th–11th centuries, and its gradual transition from bilingualism to monolingualism, caused the emergence of its self-evaluation as an independent literary tradition. The confines of a theory which was Arabic, both in its language and in its object, became too narrow for Persian literature. This, as well as the general infatuation of the court poets with the new Arabic badi’ style10, became the main stimulus towards creating a literary theory of their own. On the verge of the 12th century Mohammad b. Omar Râduyâni made a first serious attempt to fill in the theoretical gap in the tradition and to adjust the science of badi’ to the Persian material. He translated the doctrine of badi’ into Persian and wrote a book with the significant title Tarjomân al-balâgha (The Interpreter of Eloquence).

  8 Key-Kâvus b. Eskandar, Qâbus-nâme, ed. G. H. Yusofi (Tehran, 1967), pp. 189–90.   9 J. Homâ’i, Fonun‑e balâghat va senâ’ât‑e adabi (Tehran, 1975), p. 23. On the sources in which the earliest Persian books on badi’ are mentioned see also Modarres‑e Razavi’s introd. to Shams‑e Qeys, Mo’jam (Tehran, 1959), pp. bâ and jim. 10 On the “triumph” of the new Arabic style in Persian poetry see A. J. Arberry, Classical Persian Literature (London, 1958), p. 23.

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This treatise starts the tradition of badi’ literature in the Persian world, which was developing during the whole classical period. Two rigid stereotypes have for a long time governed the European assessment of this tradition: first, that it is an exact molding of the Arabic science, and, second, that it remained almost unchanged in subsequent treatises. In the last decades of the 20th century, new research has moved towards overcoming these stereotypes.11 Discovering the dynamics of development and the specifically Persian features in such a highly normative tradition is only possible while taking into account its specific methodological foundations. Arabic literary theory, as one of the components of the so-called “Arabic sciences,”12 was largely based on the authority of tradition, i.e., on the basic texts of Arabic Muslim culture: primarily, pre-Islamic poetry, the Qur’an and the prophetic tradition (hadith nabavi). They became the basic sources of normative examples for imitating and repetition in poetic practice. Complementing the corpus of authoritative poetic examples by more contemporary citations was considered an important means of developing the theory. New examples often enriched the empiric understanding of the described phenomena and thus played a role in theory not less important than the theoretical explanations proper. A verbal explication of the device is not at all considered necessary in badi’ treatises. It is often lacking or only minimally present, while the definition of a term is frequently reduced to the word’s etymology since the general meaning of the word chosen as a label determines the very essence of the designated notion. This is to be compared with the traditional definition in Arabic treatises through explaining what the word means in language (fi’l-logha),

11 See e.g., B. Reinert, “Probleme;” R. Musulmankulof, Persidsko-tadjikskaya klassicheskaya poetika, X–XV vv. (Moscow, 1989), passim; N. Yu. Chalisova in the introd. to Shams al-Din, Svod pravil persidskoy poezii (Moscow, 1997), pp. 26–30; W. Smyth, “Early Persian Works on Poetics,” Studia Iranica 18 (1989), esp. pp. 44–46. 12 On the subdivision of Muslim sciences into Arabic and non-Arabic see G. E. von Grunebaum, “Muslim World View,” in G. E. von Grunebaum, ed., Islam (London, 1955).

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and as a technical term (fi’l-estelâh).13 As a natural sequence of this approach, the scholarly tradition moved in the direction of developing a system of terminology, i.e., choosing the correct names for the phenomena being studied and described. A mere change of name sometimes implied a reinterpretation of the device. Beside the terms and titles, the order of the material was also of considerable significance. It reflected the hierarchy of the described phenomena and their systematic interrelationships. Ebn-Khaldun (d. ca. 1406), for instance, considered that Sakkâki (d. 1229) had brought the theory of poetry to its conclusion, having cleared up the essence of the problems, corrected individual statements, and put the chapters in a definite order.14 Changing the sequence of the exposition thus could also implicitly reflect conceptual shifts. Thus, if it is judged by its inner standards, a projection of the badi’ doctrine upon Persian poetry could not but result in changes integral to the very structure and spirit of the theory.

2. Râduyâni’s Tarjomân al-balâgha The treatise Tarjomân al-balâgha was known for many centuries only by name. Due to an erroneous identification by the 15th century anthologist Dowlatshâh, it was attributed to the poet Farrokhi. It was only after Ahmed Ateş, in the late 1940s, found a unique manuscript of the Tarjomân and published it with his own preface, that that name appeared in scholarly studies.15 Biographical information about Râduyâni is extremely scanty, but A. Ateş derived some evidence from the text of the treatise: he was born in East Turkestan, in the vicinity of Farghana, and spent some time there, so he must have been connected with one of the eastern cultural centers. He wrote the treatise on the verge of the 12th century, 13 On the development of Arabic technical terms see L. Massignon, Essai sur les origines du lexique technique (Paris, 1968), esp. p. 23. 14 Ebn-Khaldun, Moqaddema (Cairo, 1904), p. 458. 15 Râduyâni, Tarjomân al-balâgha, ed. with a preface (Önsöz) and an introd. (Giriş) by A. Ateş (Istanbul, 1949).

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more precisely, sometime between 1088 and 1114.16 According to Ateş, Rashid‑e Vatvât was the last person who had seen this book, eight hundred years ago.17 This is why the Tarjomân influenced the subsequent history of the Persian interpretation of badi’, not directly, but only insofar as it was the foundation of the treatise on badi’; Rashid‑e Vatvât’s Hadâ’eq al-sehr is acknowledged by the tradition as exemplary. In the preface to his book Râduyâni points out that all he ever read about the types of rhetoric (ajnâs‑e balâghat) and the varieties of poetical technique (aqsâm‑e sanâ’at) was written in Arabic. His contemporaries, while professing to be experts in this art, had a poor knowledge of it, and were unable to construct metaphorical expressions (majâz) and “stand outside the circle of what is right.” 18 That is why he decided to translate the basic information about the contents of rhetoric (balâghat) from Arabic into Persian. His work was intended to provide guidance for those who wished to contend for the art of poetry; he related in several chapters all the poetical figures (badâye’) that he had encountered and with which he was most familiar. He adds that he followed Nasr b. al-Hasan ­Marghinâni and took his treatise Mahâsen al-kalâm19 (early 11th century) as a structural model, and his comments as an example (mithâl). Neither the Arabic Mahâsen nor the Persian Tarjomân are theoretical compositions but rather practical guides for beginner poets. The authors, however, explain the necessity of studying the science of poetical figures in different ways. Marghinâni writes in his preface that one who has not devoted part of his life to the study of this science [sc. of speech embellishments] is unable to understand the inimitability of the Qur’an, to taste the sweetness of its words and, finally, to refute its detractors. 20 Râduyâni, on 16 Ibid., Giriş, p. 16. 17 Ibid., Önsöz, p. V. 18 Ibid., pp. 2–3. 19 Marghinâni, al-Mahâsen fi’l-nazm va-’l-nathr, ed. G. J. van Gelder (Leiden and Istanbul, 1987). 20 See Rashid‑e Vatvât, Sady volshebstva, tr. N. Yu. Chalisova (Moscow, 1985), p. 173; also Marghinâni, Mahâsen, p. 67.

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the other hand, states that the main reason for studying it is the ­ ecessity of acquiring the ­craftsmanship of Persian poets. In Aran bic theory, the language of poetry, however beautiful, still ranked lower than the “inimitable” language of the Qur’an, and the exegesis of the Qur’an was one of the most important stimuli for the development of the Arabic theory of poetry. 21 Persian scholars were not confronted with such task. 22 Therefore, while sharing the same Islamic canon, Persian literary consciousness was much more secular from the very start. It’s only concern was literature, and, particularly, poetry. Râduyâni’s treatise consists of a small preface and seventy-three chapters describing fifty-four badi’ devices. The author does indeed follow Marghinâni in his general exposition, but almost doubles the number of devices. He adds both figures known in Arabic works, but omitted in the Mahâsen, and new figures reflecting the tastes of the Persian public;23 such are ta’ajjob (expression of feigned surprise), hosn al-ta’lil (phantastic etiology), morâ’ât al-nazir (constructing an image from semantically related words), al-kalâm al-mohtamel be-’l-ma’nayn al-zeddayn (speech with possible contrary meanings each of which can be understood, e.g., both as praise and as vilification), so’âl-o javâb (modeling the verse as question and answer), playful figures, and exploiting the peculiarities of Arabic graphics (such as movassal, moqatta’, modavvar, aks, movashshah). A whole group of new devices reflect the paradigmatic role of the Arabic tradition. These are molamma’ (verses with alternating Arabic and Persian lines), tarjame (translation of Arabic beyts by Persian verses), as well as devices consisting in versification of the hadith, Arabic proverbs, and wise sayings (tarjamat al-akhbâr va’l-amthâl va-’l-hekma), in providing parallels between Persian par21 See W. Heinrichs, “Literary Theory: the Problem of its Efficiency,” in G. E. von Grunebaum, ed., Arabic Poetry (Wiesbaden, 1973), pp. 30–32, where Qur’anic exegesis is numbered as second among the four main stimuli which have influenced the development of Arabic literary theory. 22 For comments on the freedom of Persian scholars from hermeneutic concerns, see W. Smyth, “Early Persian Works,” p. 38. 23 Râduyâni, Tarjomân, Giriş, pp. 39–42.

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ables (afsâne) and the verses (âyât) of the Qur’an (taqrib al-amthâl be-’l-abyât), 24 and in rendering the meaning of the Qur’anic verses in Persian verse (fi ma’nâ al-âyât be-’l-abyât). The last chapters in fact deal with establishing parallels between the Qur’anic tradition and Persian folklore, and with a poetic translation of the Qur’an into Persian. Râduyâni preserves the Arabic terms for figures (which is characteristic for the whole subsequent history of badi’) and provides Arabic names for the newly introduced figures. But in several cases he argues against the preceding Arabic traditional appellations and “corrects” the names. To note the most important and confusing changes: eshteqâq (literally, ‘splitting’, i.e., employing within one beyt words derived from the same root) is listed as moqtazab (literally, ‘cut off’), and radd al-ajoz alâ’l-sadr (returning from the end to the beginning, employing one and the same or similar words in the beginning and in the end of a line) is listed as motâbeqe (juxtaposition); this term is mentioned also as a possible alternative by Marghinâni. Contrary to this, the antithesis, denoted as motâbeqe in the principal Arabic treatises, is called motazâdd in the Tarjomân, which is motivated by the argument that this name is preferred by Persian speakers (pârsi-guyân), while the secretaries (dabirân), and Khalil b. Ahmad, prefer the term motâbeq (p. 31). Râduyâni in fact uses the term balâghat as a synonym of badi’, calling individual figures (san’athâ) parts of, or “belonging to,” balâghat. In the opinion of A. Ateş, he noticeably completes and expands ­Marghinâni’s explanations of figures, in a number of cases commenting on the essence of the device in particular beyts. 25 24 Râduyâni is discussing in this chapter the affinity between Persian afsânes (proverbial sayings), and the âyât‑e Qur’an (p. 121), but the title of the chapter runs fi taqrib al-amthal be-’l-abyât (not âyât), while in the author’s table of contents of the book fi taqrib al-amthâl be-’l-akhbâr is mentioned (p. 6). This confusion is meaningful, as the topic of the chapter has a ring of heresy about it. 25 See Râduyâni Tarjomân, Giriş, p. 39; Rashid-al-Din Vatvât, Sady volshebstva (the Russian translation of Hadâ’eq al-sehr), the commentaries on saj’ (p. 179, note 92), eltefât (p. 188, note 225), tashbih (p. 190, note 245 f.), and jam’ va’l-tafriq va’l-taqsim (p. 197, note 390).

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In several instances Arabic terms are supplied with Persian equivalents (cf. mânande-kardegân, as a label integrating moshabbah ‘the comparable’, and moshabbah-behi ‘comparandum’, in the chapter on comparison). Râduyâni’s inclination to translation can be traced even in such details as mentioning the name of the founder of badi’ theory as pesar‑e Mo’tazz (instead of Ebn-Mo’tazz). Râduyâni addresses his book to dabirân and poets, and adduces examples only from Persian poetry. He repeats many times that in order to understand the essence of a device or of some of his theses the reader requires scrupulous contemplation/scrutiny (ta’ammol), and himself offers some conclusions based on such a scrutiny of individual devices within the theory of poetic embellishments. Thus, he highly regards the tarsi’ figure (rhythmic and syntactic parallelism of the beyt’s hemistichs), because “not every mind’s net is capable of catching it, and not every man’s thought can reach it” (pp. 7–8). And if the tarsi’ figure is combined with tajnis (paronomasia, the use of homonyms or similar words), such a device will refine both the form and the very poetic idea. The metaphor (este’âre) is called “a fresh leaf in the garden of rhetoric” (p. 40), while the device al-madh al-movajjah (double praise) is said to be considered “new among the figures” (gharib‑e san’at) by the rhetoricians and to be likened to double-sided brocade. Motazâdd (antithesis), in Râduyâni’s opinion, is a device so beautiful and so widespread that its examples could be given infinitely (p. 35). On the contrary, the mojarrad device (composing verses with intentional omission of some letters) is more adapted to Arabic than to Persian, because Persian has few letters (harf) and words (kalemât va alfâz). The “small number of letters” is perhaps due to the fact that in Râduyâni’s time not all Persian consonants were graphically represented. The poverty of the New Persian language (Pârsi or Dari) was also noted later as the reason why distinguished people among the Ajam (sc. the speakers of other languages than Arabic) resorted to adorning their writings with Arabic words and ex­pressions. 26 26 Shams‑e Qeys, Mo’jam, ed. by M. Qazvini and Modarres-Razavi (Tehran, 1959), pp. 297–98.

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Râduyâni shows considerable independence in treating the figure of comparison (the Mahâsen contains only its name and a few examples). He demonstrates his acquaintance with the terminology of philosophers and logicians who commented on Aristotle’s works, subdividing the comparison (tashbih) into the comparison based on appearance (surat) or on one of the attributes (sefât), such as motion and quiescence, haste and delay (p. 44). Completing the description of comparison, he follows Jorjâni in noting its semantic proximity to the metaphor (este’âre). In his words, the metaphor is a comparison without the word used in its direct sense (haqiqi), while the comparison is a metaphor without perplexity (ezterâb) (p. 54). While describing the five types of comparison in accordance with the Arabic badi’ traditions, Râduyâni notes that the most eloquent among them is tashbih‑e ma’kus. He explains the essence of the device referring to the logicians: “The poet weighs opposite things against each other, and ascribes the attribute of one of them to the other, and vice versa. The logicians (manteqiyân) call this an inverted syllogism (qiyâs‑e aks).” The device is illustrated by the famous beyt of Onsori (pp. 52–53): From the hooves of the riders and the dust of the army The earth became moonfaced, and the moon became earth-faced.

The Tarjomân contains the early formulation of the Persian attitude towards the use of figures (this topic will become mandatory in the later tradition). Râduyâni writes that while studying the figures of speech one should not forget that the easier (sahltar) and simpler (bi-takalloftar) the discourse (sokhan) is, the better (p. 111). But great masters such as Onsori are capable of using a great variety of figures in their qasides and still not deviate from the road of their naturalness (tab’) (p. 68). However, the main innovative merit of the author of the Tarjomân was no doubt his choice of illustrative lines of verse and authoritative examples, many of which migrated from one treatise to another during later centuries. The most quoted poet is the laureate of the Ghaznavid court, Onsori (more than seventy examples). He is, at considerable distance, followed by three poets of the 10th century: Monjik of Termez (twenty-four examples), Qamari, and 149

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Rudaki (eighteen examples each); and another two poets of the 11th century from the Ghaznavid circle: Farrokhi (twelve examples), and Zeynabi, also known as Zinati (ten examples). The corpus also includes scattered lines belonging to many other poets of the 10th11th centuries and a host of anonymous beyts. Râduyâni views the Persian poetical tradition as a gradual advancement. In the chapter on talâ’om (‘smoothness’, the requirement that all lines in a poem should be equally sweet and beautiful), he writes that the predecessors (motaqaddemân) were the beginners, evidently referring to the poets of the 10th century; since beginning is harder than following, in some of their verses magnificent lines alternated with awkward ones (p. 34). The ones who came after them took over their work and among them Onsori reached the summit of craftsmanship. The old poets composed occasional lines with complicated figures, but these were accidental (see the discussion of the taqsim device, in the Tarjomân, p. 69), while the one who got to use the badi’ figures knowingly and skillfully was again Onsori. Râduyâni tends to combine within a single chapter quotations from 10th and 11th century poets. Thus, out of thirty-nine chapters containing examples from Onsori, twenty-five also include lines belonging to one of the three most frequently quoted 10th century poets (Rudaki, Monjik, Qamari), while most of the remaining chapters also incorporate quotations from early poetry. This distribution of poetic illustrations resembles the system of quotation in early Arabic poetics (pre-Islamic poets and the mohdathun poets). Râduyâni has perhaps followed the logic of his Arabic predecessors, demonstrating a gradual reinforcement of the position of badi’ in Persian poetry by the very arrangement of quotations. He mentions specifically Onsori’s skillful application of the taqsim device (‘distribution’, mentioning first the objects and next their attributes). He points to his composition of whole qasides with this figure (p. 69), in addition to his brilliant ability to use the figure of feigning ignorance (tajâhol al-’âref, p. 79), and his skill at ­saturating the verses with wise thoughts expressed in beautiful badi’ figures (kalâm al-jâme’, ebdâ’, pp. 132–33). These remarks reflect not only the characteristics of Onsori’s style, but to a large extent the general stylistic preferences of most poets of the Ghaznavid circle. 150

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By choosing almost exclusively Persian examples, by introducing a whole group of devices related to translation from Arabic into Persian, and by providing Persian equivalents for Arabic terms, Râduyâni’s ideal is Persian literature written in Persian; but the he was ahead of his time. His treatise was composed during the formative period of the Persian artistic tradition, when several models of further development were being tried out. 27 And the model that became productive in the history of the science of badi’ was the one proposed in the treatise Hadâ’eq al-sehr (The Gardens of Magic), which took the Tarjomân as its foundation, but not as a pattern for imitation. 28

3. Vatvât’s Hadâ’eq al-sehr The author of the Hadâ’eq, Rashid-al-Din Vatvât (d. ca. 1177 or 1182), was a court poet and high official of the Khwârazmshâhs. In his time, he was known both as a crafter of epistolary composition, and as the author of Arabic and Persian poetry and brilliantly skilled in poetic technique. But the generations that followed him got to know him chiefly as the author of a popular textbook on poetic technique, a concise masterpiece that included everything necessary and excluded everything that belonged to Arabic theory only. In the preface to the Hadâ’eq, Vatvât conveys that he wrote the book by the commission of his patron, Khwârazmshâh Atsiz, who showed him the Tarjomân al-balâgha (he does not mention Râduyâni’s name). Having read the book, Vatvât decided to amend the choice of examples and make his own work free from the defects and fallacies present in Tarjomân. He characterizes Tarjomân as a book describing the figures (badâye’) of Persian poetry, while the Hadâ’eq is presented as a book studying the beauties (mahâsen) of the poetry and prose of both Arabic and Persian. 29 27 On the formative period of Persian poetry see J. T. P. de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry (Leiden, 1983), p. XI. 28 Rashid-al-Din Vatvât, Hadâ’eq al-sehr, ed. by Abbâs Eqbâl-Âshtiyâni (Tehran, 1929). 29 Ibid., p. 1.

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Starting from two immediate sources—the Persian Tarjomân and the Arabic Mahâsen al-kalâm30—Vatvât combines the explication of devices with illustrations in such a way that his readers can simultaneously become acquainted with the Arabic methods of describing artistic speech, with the classic examples from the Qur’an, hadith and Arabic poetry constituting the foundation of these methods, and with the Persian examples, both following and challenging the Arabic tradition. The treatise consists of a short introduction; fifty-five chapters, each describing a single badi’ figure and its varieties; a sort of appendix explaining some general concepts of literary theory, and several less important poetical devices. All in all, Vatvât examines sixty-three badi’ figures (including the eight figures in the ­Appendix). The Hadâ’eq does not yet distinguish between the figures based on the phonetic aspect (lafz), and those based on meaning (ma’nâ). Nevertheless, it distinguishes figures used in both prose and poetry from those used only in verse. In the former case, the explanatory part of the chapter is usually intended for both secretaries and poets, while in the latter case only poets are addressed. Thus the devices known already from Ebn-Mo’tazz’ Ketâb al-badi’—with traditionally fixed illustrations from the Qur’an and the hadith, such as este’âre, tajnis, motâbeqe or motazâdd—are extended by Vatvât onto both varieties of literary writing. Some later figures like hosn‑e ta’lil or so’âl-o javâb, as well as many specifically laudatory devices (madh‑e movajjah, mohtamel‑e zeddeyn, e’terâz‑e kalâm), are related to poetry alone. All in all he discusses twentyeight figures for both prose and poetry, and thirty-five figures for poetry alone. The contents of the Hadâ’eq are in fact the contents of the Persian version of ’elm al-badi’ itself, and a thematic arrangement of the figures in the Hadâ’eq gives an idea of the basic directions in traditional literary writing and of the stylistic propensities of the classical period. The artifices, joined and described under the title of mahâsen, are rather heterogeneous, their only common charac30 Râduyâni, Tarjomân, Giriş, pp. 41–42.

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teristic being the share of each in beautifying the literary language. In most cases, however, an embellishment turns out to be connected with the introduction of some additional phonetic, graphic, lexical, semantic, or syntactic ordering of speech. The group of figures based on different variants of literal similarity is rather small: tajnis (paronomasia), eshteqâq (usage of words derived from a common root), and maqlub (anagram). However, as in Arabic treatises, these figures are presented in great detail (seven varieties of tajnis and four varieties of maqlub), which is no doubt due to the elaboration of this topic within traditional Arabic grammar. The figures mentioned are thematically joined by two more devices based on the repetition, within one beyt (or two adjoining ones), of a single word, either with the same or with different meanings. These are the six varieties of radd al-ajoz (differentiated by the position of the repeated word within the line), and mokarrar (repetition). The theory of badi’ is closely connected with other subdivisions of poetics, and many figures included in Vatvât’s treatise are in fact additions to these subdivisions, providing complementary means of cadence and rhyming not prescribed by the theories of meter and rhyme. These are tarsi’ (words similar in cadence and rhyme symmetrically arranged within the beyt), saj’ (rhyme in prose and added incomplete rhyme in verse), e’nât (rhyme with some additional condition or complication), tazmin al-mozdavaj (additional rhyming of adjoining words within the beyt), dhu’l-qâfiyatayn (double rhyme, with penultimate words of the beyts also rhyming with each other), mosarra’ (rhyming of the two hemistichs within the beyt), moraddaf (using a radif after the rhyme), and motalavven (a line that can be read in two different metres). Another two figures, dealing with violating the principle of monorhyme and adding new stanzaic forms by introducing additional rhymes, can be also added to this group. These are mosammat (according to Vatvât its basic Persian variant prescribes a separate rhyme for every five hemistichs of the beyt, while the sixth one carries the basic rhyme of the poem), and tarji’ (division of the qaside into several parts with different rhymes with a ‘refrain’ after each part). 153

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The group of devices designed to provide additional semantic relations include the antithesis (motazâdd or motâbeqe), the metaphor (este’âre), seven types of comparison (tashbih), and the hyperbole (eghrâq fi’l-sefa). They are, however, described in different places of the treatise without any attempt to connect them to each other. Similarities and differences between the comparison and the metaphor are not mentioned at all. Vatvât does not yet follow the tradition initiated in Abd-al-Qâher Jorjâni’s Asrâr al-balâgha to treat tropes collectively and distinctly from other badi’ figures. A well-developed aspect of speech embellishment is the syntax of poetry. A whole number of artifices included in the Hadâ’eq are in a certain way connected with syntactic shaping of the poetic idea. These are: e’terâz al-kalâm qabla-’l-tamâm (switching within the line from one idea to another and back again); tajâhol al-’âref (constructing the line as if doubting its contents); so’âl o javâb (constructing one or several lines as questions and answers); jam’ o tafriq o taqsim (shaping the poetic idea by establishing a feature common for the described objects, or by describing differences between them, or by enumerating first the objects and next their attributes—six varieties); tafsir‑e jali(y) o khafi(y) (one line lists the actions of the person praised, while the other, serving as a commentary, lists the objects of those actions); ta’ajjob (a sort of a rhetorical question); and hosn-e-ta’lil (phantastic etiology, establishing causative relations between two known poetic ideas). Three figures deal with the formulation of the poetic idea as a quotation from another poet’s verses (tazmin) 31, and the inclusion into the line of a proverb (ersâl al-mathal) or two proverbs (ersâl al-mathaleyn). Closely related is the device al-kalâm al-jâme’ (including gnomic observations, edifications and complaints). In Vatvât’s opinion this device is a characteristic of most of Mas’ud‑e Sa’d‑e Salmân’s poems (d. 1121), especially those that he composed in prison, surpassing all other Persian poets in this style (p. 82).

31

Vatvât does not describe tazmin as a syntactical dependency of one beyt on another, though in the Tarjomân that second kind of tazmin is explained as well as the first.

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Vatvât considers speech embellishments to be necessary for an educated person in all genres of poetry and prose, but the genre par excellence demanding embellishment is the panegyrical qaside, and several figures demonstrate syntactic means of reinforcing the laudation. These are: al-madh al-movajjah (praising one quality reinforced by praising another one); ta’kid al-madh be-mâ yoshbeho ’l-dhamm (asteism, reinforcing the praise by apparent vilification, e.g., “he is a sea of generosity, but at the same time a mountain of placability”); and estedrâk (another variety of asteism, when the line starts with apparent vilification, but turns out to be laudatory). Vatvât recommends not indulging in the latter device because the patron’s spirits may be hopelessly spoiled by the wrong beginning. Another four figures deal with the necessity to care about the sentiments of the qaside’s addressee. These are: the devices designed for special embellishment of the first beyt of the qaside (hosn‑e matla’); the line wherein the poet moves from the introduction to the praise (hosn‑e takhallos); the final line (hosn‑e maqta’); and the line containing the petition (hosn‑e talab). The beauty of the first line guarantees the patron’s favor, the beauty of the transition attracts the attention to the laudation itself, the final line is pronounced last and stays in memory, and the elegance of the petition ensures the fulfillment of wishes. Tradition especially valued the art of transition (takhallos)—the art of intertwining lyrical or natural motives with laudatory motives within one line. An acknowledged master of such transitions was Onsori, and Vatvât notes that in this respect he stands as high among the Persians as Motanabbi did among the Arabs (p. 32). The treatise provides much discussion of playful devices that were popular among the court secretaries, allowing them to show their skill in exploiting the possibilities of Arabic graphics. Vatvât enriches this group (also available in the Tarjomân) with several innovations, introducing the devices raqtâ (ordered alternation within words of letters with dots and without dots), and kheyfâ (alternation of words consisting of letters with dots and words consisting of letters without dots). A detailed description is also given for devices providing various means of extracting additional meanings from the text. These are: mosahhaf (laudation turns into 155

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v­ ilification after a change of diacritic signs); movashshah (some letters, words or parts of the poem, when combined, reveal an encrypted text); loghaz (an enigma, constructed as a series of questions and called chistân in Persian); mo’ammâ (riddle); and ihâm (amphibology, double entendre, a kind of word-play based on a single word with a double meaning). One of Vatvât’s most significant innovations is the chapter on moraddaf (using radif after the rhyme). He notes that this figure is used primarily in Persian poems, while the Arabs do not have it; only the mohdathun-poets sometimes used it in order to complicate their verses. Contrary to this, most Persian verses are provided with radif (p. 79). With his description of ihâm the author of the Hadâ’eq entered the history of Arabic badi’ as well. He was the first among Persian and Arabic authors to use the term ihâm with respect to this figure, thus providing a model to the later descriptions of it in both languages.32 In the Hadâ’eq, ihâm is defined as a figure aimed to throw the hearer into doubt. To do that, the author uses in his prose or poetry some words with a double meaning, one obvious (qarib) and the other less obvious or rare (gharib). When these words reach the recipient, his mind catches the obvious meaning, while it is the rare one that is intended. The numerous Arabic and Persian illustrations of ihâm in the Hadâ’eq include a story supporting Vatvât’s pioneering work in naming the device. Once the poet Anbâri, who had fallen in love with a young boy, recited to Vatvât a verse of his own: “This young baker’s apprentice, despite such abundance of bread, does not regale us with a single slice (lab).” The word lab, naturally understood as a slice of bread after a baker had been mentioned, also means “lips,” providing the implicit sense: “does not welcome us to his lips.” Anbâri was ignorant of the term for such a mode of expression and was enlightened by Vatvât about it’s proper name (pp. 41–42). Vatvât was also among the first authors to describe the mo’ammâ or riddle figure. In the biography of Vatvât, included in his Haft 32 S. A. Bonebakker, Some Early Definitions of the Tawriya (The Hague and Paris, 1966), p. 31.

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eqlim (completed in 1593), Amin Râzi mentions that he was the one who invented the art of poetic riddles. Later the popularity of this genre increased so much that Shams‑e Qeys in his Mo’jam included mo’ammâ into the categories (ajnâs) of poetry, and in the 15th century special treatises were already devoted to various types of riddles. The Hadâ’eq does not abound in comments on the comparative characteristics of Arabic and Persian poetry. To what was already mentioned above we can add the evaluation of the device morâ’ât‑e nazir or tanâsob. According to Vatvât, there are few Arabic or Persian verses written without this figure, but the degrees of its elegance are quite varied (p. 35). He also notes a special manner of Persian poets who tend to finish their panegyric qasides by a “prayer for immortality” (do’â-ye ta’bid), according to the pattern “until X comes about, may you be Y” (p. 33, the chapter on hosn‑e maqta’). On the whole, Vatvât concentrates on figures which refer to the phonetic aspect (lafz) of poetic discourse; those that he describes in much detail, and with numerous quotations, are varieties of tajnis, radd al-ajoz alâ’l-sadr, and the like. The arrangement of figures in the treatise takes into account the plans of his two nearest predecessors, Marghinâni, and Râduyâni, but is also based on the authority of the preceding Arabic tradition (going back to Ebn-Mo’tazz’s Ketâb al-badi’ ); on the importance of a figure for poetics as a whole (the oldest and the most important figures, like tajnis and saj’, being examined first); and on the principle of analogy, formally similar figures being placed next to each other. The interaction of these principles creates the complex and seemingly random composition of the Hadâ’eq. Two thirds of his book consist of quotations, 514 in all: 145 from Arabic prose (mostly from the Qur’an and the hadith); 160 from Arabic poetry (most frequently cited being Motanabbi and Hariri); 37 from Persian prose; and 172 from Persian poetry (with Vatvât himself, Onsori and Mo’ezzi heading the list of quoted authors). The Arabic quotations are mainly borrowed from the illustrations to the Mahâsen, as well as from the corpus of conventional Arabic poetic examples. Almost all the Persian examples of the 10th century are taken from the Tarjomân, as well as 157

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most of Onsori’s poems. The corpus of examples is completed by Vatvât’s choice, basically from Ghaznavid authors, and from his own poems.33 Compared to other Persian treatises on poetics, the Hadâ’eq is distinguished by the fact that prose, especially Arabic prose, is considered a genuine variety of literature. Both in this treatise and in his other works Vatvât emphasizes the unity of the Arabic and Persian literary traditions; Persian poetry is interpreted as practically bilingual. He is, however, mostly concerned with qaside poetry written in Persian.

4. Shams‑e Qeys’ Mo’jam The description of badi’ figures was continued almost a century later in the most complete and analytical Persian composition on poetical theory, the book of Shams-al-Din Mohammad b. Qeys of Ray, or Shams‑e Qeys for short. The treatise was begun in Marv around 1217, finished in Shiraz around 1232, and entitled alMo’jam fi ma’âyir ash’âr al-’ajam (A Compendium of the Standards of Persian Poetry).34 Shams‑e Qeys initially had written his book in Arabic and intended it to be a description of both the Arabic and Persian traditions. If not for the Mongol invasion, which caused him to flee to Shiraz, his name probably would have been added to the already long list of writers on Arabic poetics. In the introduction to his book, after describing the misfortunes of his journey to Shiraz, Shams‑e Qeys relates that, when he resumed the work on the Arabic text of the Mo’jam, his Shiraz colleagues expressed their dissatisfaction with Persian poetry being discussed in Arabic:

33

For more details see Rashid‑e Vatvât, Sady volshebstva, Introduction pp. 61–68, and the commentary. 34 On Shams‑e Qeys’ biography and the history of the composition of the Mo’jam, see M. Qazvini’s introduction in Shams‑e Qeys, Mo’jam, pp. hâ–yâ (reprinted from the first ed., London, 1909).

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Persian Rhetoric  … as the rules adopted by authors of such works prescribe the inclusion of Arabic poems and, when needed, Arabic passages in Persian compositions, but not the inclusion of Persian poems and critical analyses of the Dari language in Arabic compositions. That is why khwâje imâm Rashid [Vatvât], the kâteb (secretary), having conceived the idea of describing the intricacies of the art of Arabic and Persian poetry, … took the Persian language as the foundation for his book Hadâ’eq al-sehr fi daqâ’eq al-she’r, … because he knew that this would increase its value and the desire of most people to study it. Since every person who has mastered the school of the Arabic language preserves the ability to understand Persian, but not every Persian-speaking (fârsi-gu) poet is skilled in Arabic.35

After this reference to his predecessor Vatvât—presented as a statement of his scholarly colleagues—Shams‑e Qeys concludes his preface by saying that he yielded to the persuasions and, having made an extract from his Arabic composition, included into his Persian Mo’jam everything related to the Persian (Dari) language and Persian poetry.36 Thus the Mo’jam continues on the one hand the tradition of describing the science of badi’ with respect to Persian poetry, which had already been undertaken in the Tarjomân and the Hadâ’eq, but on the other hand makes a new start, in as far as Shams’ treatise distinguishes itself from Arabic scholarship within the history of its own creation. He also makes a new step to domesticate the Arabic literary theory, translating his own composition from Arabic into Persian and adding some important aspects of Arabic poetics previously unexplored in Persian books on badi’. The treatise includes a biographical preface; two parts (qesm) dedicated respectively to metrics (fann‑e aruz) and to the rhymes and criticism of poetry (elm‑e qâfiyat va naqd al-she’r); and a conclusion (khâteme) dealing with the process of versification and with the varieties of poetic borrowings and plagiarism (sareqât‑e 35 Mo’jam, pp. 23–24. 36 On Shams‑e Qeys’ decision to complete his work in Persian, in connection with broader developments in Persian literature and the problem of literary identity, see W. Smyth, “What’s in a Name?”, pp. 294–97.

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she’r). The theory of rhetorical figures and devices of speech embellishment is described in the sixth section of the second part of the treatise, entitled “On the beauties (mahâsen) of poetry and on a small part of the embellishment devices (sanâ’ât‑e mostahsen) employed in poetry and prose.” Some figures (e.g., tazmin) are mentioned also in the fifth section, among the description of the vices of poetry. In discussing the figures of badi’ under the heading of “criticism of poetry,” Shams‑e Qeys follows his famous Arabic predecessors such as Qodâma b. Ja’far, author of the Naqd al-she’r and Ebn-Rashiq, author of al-Omda fi mahâsen al-she’r va adabeh va naqdeh, a well known and authoritative treatise in the scholarly centers of the Islamic Middle East. His acquaintance with the Omda is noticeable, for instance, in such an important passage of the Mo’jam as the definition of poetry.37 Shams‑e Qeys also had a closer predecessor in what concerns the structure of composition and the set of problems discussed, a representative of the Azerbaijan philological school, Khatib‑e Tabrizi, the author of the Ketâb al-kâfi fi’l-aruz va-’l-qavâfi (late 11th to early 12th century).38 In the first part of the treatise, dedicated to metrics, Shams‑e Qeys mentions his own work entitled Ketâb al-kâfi fi’l-aruzeyn va-’l-qavâfi, which must have been the very compendium that was later, in Shiraz, divided into the Mo’jam and the Mo’rab.39 The names and structures of both compositions are almost identical. Tabrizi has sections on metrics, on rhymes, on the poetic faults and on the means of embellishing the verses. The latter section, just as in Shams‑e Qeys’ treatise, includes information from elm‑e ma’âni and elm‑e bayân. There are a lot of coincidences in details: e.g., Tabrizi mentions some figures which are present in

37 See, e.g., S. A. Bonebakker, The Kitāb Naqd al-ši’r (Leiden, 1956), Introd., p. 59. 38 Khatib‑e Tabrizi, Ketâb al-Kâfi fi’l-’aruz va-’l-qavâfi, ed. al-Hasani H. Abd-Allâh (Cairo n.d.). For the characteristics of this treatise see G. Allahverdiyev, Trud Khatiba Tabrizi “Ketâb al-kâfi fi’l-aruz va-’l-qawâfi” (Baku, 1992). 39 On the title of the combined Arabic-Persian version of the Mo’jam, see M. Qazvini in Shams‑e Qeys, Mo’jam, p. yâ.

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the Mo’jam, but absent in the works of Shams’ Persian predecessors, namely, tafvif, takmil, estetrâd, and tafri’. This allows us to surmise that the book of Tabrizi served as a model for the Mo’jam, just as the book of Marghinâni served as the Arabic prototype for Râduyâni’s Tarjomân. Still another model for Shams‑e Qeys to follow was undoubtedly the treatise of Sakkâki (d. 1229), Meftâh al-’olum, “the canonized textbook of rhetoric in the East.” 40 The author of the Mo’jam, however, did not imitate Sakkâki in the structure of his book and did not include sections specifically treating elm‑e ma’âni (the study of semantic aspects of syntax) and elm‑e bayân (the study of direct and indirect modes of expression). The question why ma’âni and bayân were restricted to Arabic scholarship throughout the whole classical epoch deserves attention by itself. Persian scholars certainly knew this area of the humanities quite well, but left no compositions of their own about it. One of the possible explanations may be the absence of a contemporary Persian grammatical tradition and the “habit” of applying grammatical knowledge basically to Arabic, the language of the Islamic sacred book. The basic categories of bayân, which are metaphor (este’âre), comparison (tashbih), circumlocution (majâz), allusion (kenâye), as well as the three modes of expression, i.e. extensive (etnâb), concise (ijâz) and middle (mosâvât), are discussed in the Mo’jam among the devices of speech embellishment in poetry. Compared to Sakkâki, Shams‑e Qeys shifts the emphasis from a discussion of the ways of expressing meaning to a discussion of the ways of poetic beautification, from discovering the rhetorical function of the devices to searching the poetic one. Therefore, Shams‑e Qeys’ treatise was not a textbook of rhetoric but rather a guide in poetics for the following generations. Shams‑e Qeys composed his treatise as if following the plan of Vatvât. The latter had written in the preface to the Hadâ’eq that some day he was going to compose a book dealing with all the

40 H. Ritter, Über die Bildersprache Niẓāmīs (Berlin and Leipzig, 1927), p. 5, note 1.

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­ ivisions of poetics: metrics, variants of meters, rhymes, and the d merits and faults of poems (Hadâ’eq, p. 2). This is the program that was executed by Shams‑e Qeys. The section of the Mo’jam devoted to figures is largely based on the example of the Hadâ’eq.41 But under the pen of Shams‑e Qeys the Persian science of badi’ acquired a completely different configuration. First of all, the style of explication in the Hadâ’eq is brief and concise, while in the Mo’jam it is detailed and extensive. The set of figures overlaps only partially. Shams‑e Qeys starts a section by remarking that he will discuss only the most significant figures. He considerably reduces the list of devices pertaining to the specification of the forms of poetic embellishments. He does not dwell on saj’, mentioning it only while explaining tarsi’, does not include a special treatment of eshteqâq, scarcely notes radd al-ajoz (giving its name in an untraditional form: radd al-sadr elâ ’l-ajoz). In Vatvât’s poetics an important place is reserved for the four types of maqlub (partial or full palindromes). They are described at the beginning of the treatise, right after such important devices as saj’, tajnis and eshteqâq. Shams‑e Qeys only cursorily mentions them while describing the riddles in the final chapter on the categories of poetry. Figures based on Arabic graphics are in Vatvât’s book carefully classified in accordance with the restriction types relevant for various letter classes. The only figure of this type included by Shams‑e Qeys is towshih (verses wherein a new sense can be extracted from letters or words which are marked in a particular manner), which is illustrated by a number of sophisticated examples in the shape of a tree, a parallelogram and a complicated geometrical figure. All other “graphic” devices are placed after the discussion of categories of poetry, in the last chapter of the section devoted to figures, where the author deals with motakallaf and matbu’, the mannerism and the naturalness in poetry. He precedes his discussion by saying that when the poets, wishing to overcome

41

See the strong arguments in favor of Shams‑e Qeys’ good acquaintance with the Hadâ’eq in Q. Tuyserkâni, Bahth dar bâre-ye Ketâb‑e Hadâ’eq al-sehr (Tehran, n.d.), p. 26.

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their rivals in a poetic contest, resort to figures of this type, they cannot escape awkwardness and unnaturalness (p. 432). On the other hand, Shams’ list of figures is enriched by many devices of semantic beautification, as well as by synthetic figures designed to harmonize both the form and the sense. He is much more detailed than Rashid‑e Vatvât in explaining the essence of important tropes like metaphor (este’âre) and hyperbole (eghrâq). The chapter on metaphor starts from an explication of the science of bayân, wherein this device is subsumed under majâz (trope), opposed to utterances with a direct sense. The author emphasizes that este’âre is just one of the many types of majâz, used in all languages and occurring in poetry and prose of various peoples (pp. 365–66). Shams‑e Qeys also provides a quite detailed analysis of poetic examples, showing that particular occurrences of metaphor within a beyt, besides expressing a trope, may at the same time achieve other figures (such as hyperbole, ambiguity and comparison), depending on the character or structure of the poetic meaning. The discussion of este’âre in the Mo’jam is supplemented by its additional variety tamthil, omitted by Vatvât, which adduces an analogy or an illustrative image in order to explicate the meaning. Another instructive example of a different approach to the treatment of tropes and figures is the discussion of hyperbole. Vatvât confines himself to a remark that “something is described with considerable exaggeration reaching extreme limits” (Hadâ’eq, p. 73), and immediately proceeds to quote examples. Shams‑e Qeys notes that this is the name for exaggeration and excess in laudation, vilification and other types of description (p. 358). He skips the problem of measure and limit in exaggeration and proceeds to a detailed description of the refinement (adab) aspect of the figure, i.e., the correlation of the degree of laudatory exaggeration with the rank of its addressee. This topic was traditionally discussed in Persian didactic compositions recommending that panegyrics observe the rank of the praised person. The description of hyperbole in the Mo’jam as the skill to “tell everyone what becomes him” is the longest in the treatise. This topic is continued in the chapters on hosn‑e matla’ (beauty of the beginning), hosn‑e maqta’ (beauty of the ­conclusion), lotf‑e 163

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takhallos (elegance of the transition) and adab‑e talab (courtesy of the petition). Such attention towards hyperbole is far from being accidental. The qaside remained the main poetic genre for Shams‑e Qeys, just as for his predecessors in the science of badi’, but the Ghaznavid poets are replaced in his book by Saljuq poets, the most frequently quoted being Mo’ezzi (d. between 1124–27), with 31 examples, and Anvari (d. about 1187), with 68 examples, who are celebrated for their ability to combine vertiginous hyperbole with “inimitable simplicity” (sahl o momtane’) of expression. Comparing the two treatises leads to an evident conclusion, that while Vatvât dwells mostly on figures of formal phonetic and graphic similarities, Shams‑e Qeys mainly discusses the group of devices connected with metaphorical expressions, various semantic and syntactic parallelisms and harmony of form and meaning.42 Shams‑e Qeys’ special interest in the problem of the stylistic unity and arrangement of the poem as a whole, and not just within a single beyt, was reflected in his interpretation of the device of tafvif (literally ‘lining’).43 This figure, previously absent from Persian badi’ treatises, starts the list of figures. It prescribes uniformity of style and manner in the whole qaside, and it recommends a harmonious combination of all poetical elements (meter, rhyme, wording, ideas, poetic figures), both horizontally, i.e., within the beyt, and vertically throughout the entire qaside.44 This figure is illustrated by only four examples, but together they amount to 86 beyts, since it is applicable and appreciated only on a wide poetic scale. The description of figures is concluded by Shams’ remark that it is the chapter on tafvif that really contains conditions for skillful and natural (matbu’) poetry. 42 Details in N. Yu. Chalisova in Shamse Qeys, Svod pravil persidskoy poezii (Moscow, 1997), introd., pp. 37–40. 43 Cf. J. W. Clinton, “Esthetics by Implication,” in Edebiyât 4 (1979), pp. 73–96, where Shams‑e Qeys’ approach to the unity of the poem, as expressed in the Khâteme of his book, is analyzed. 44 Atâ-Allâh Hoseyni, Badâye’ al-sanâye’, ed. R. Musulmankulof (Dushanbe, 1974), pp. 169–71, compares several traditional definitions of tafvif.

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Shams‑e Qeys devotes the final chapter of the section on figures to motakallaf va matbu’. There he explains his views on the correlation of a poetic style creating an impression of naturalness (matbu’) with the use of poetic devices. In his opinion all the poetic devices and figures listed in previous sections, and presented as commendable means of embellishment, belong to varieties of the artificial (motakallafât) in poetry, attainable only through sharp attention and deep contemplation.45 Shams‑e Qeys renounces the traditional Arabic idea of takallof as the excessive use of rhetorical artifices (with natural verse being called matbu’, as opposed to masnu’, rhetorically embellished verse). He proposes to label also as natural verses in which takallofât are employed with elegance and a feeling of measure. He probably means that in such a case, due to the poet’s craftsmanship, artificial poetic devices are perceived as natural creations of the language. In later books on badi’ (e.g., in Hoseyni’s Badâye’ al-sanâye’) the utmost limit of poetic art was called “inimitable simplicity,” and authors of poetic anthologies bestowed this epithet on the style of a number of great poets, particularly Sa’di. In a sense this stylistic characteristic, as the superior aim of the Persian poets’ creativity, presents an analogy with the notion of e’jâz (the inimitability of the Qur’an) in the Arabic tradition, except that unlike e’jâz, the former is an achievable goal in principle.

5. The qaside-ye masnu’ Starting with the 12th century, however, a poetical genre without any restrictions on artificiality is also gaining more and more popularity, the so-called artificial qaside (qaside-ye masnu’). One of the earliest is a poem by Qavâmi Motarrezi (fl. end of the 12th century), entitled Badâye’ al-ashâr fi sanâye’ al-ash’âr, the very name of which emphasizes its relationship with the famous book

45 Mo’jam, p. 432.

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of Vatvât.46 One of the most famous artificial qasides was written by Salmân‑e Sâveji (d. 1376). Its 160 beyts contain 120 conspicuous and 281 concealed figures, while fragments of the poem especially marked by colored ink may be combined together and read in different meters.47 Such qasides, designed to excite the reader’s admiration of the poet’s poetical skill, served also as specific badi’ textbooks for beginners.48

6. Commentaries of the Hadâ’eq Among the Persian treatises on poetics Vatvât’s Hadâ’eq carried the palm until the beginning of the 15th century, after which the Mo’jam emerged as its rival. The critics and poets compared the two books, acknowledging Vatvât’s “merit of priority” (fazl‑e taqaddom) in relation to Shams‑e Qeys, but admitting the latter’s comprehensiveness and fresh insights, as well as his abandonment of the pro-Arabic orientation in quotation of verse illustrations. Two famous commentaries of the Hadâ’eq appeared in the 14th century, Daqâ’eq al-she’r (The Niceties of Poetry) by Ali b. Mohammad Tâj‑e Halâvi and Haqâ’eq al-hadâ’eq (The Truths of the Hadâ’eq) by Sharaf-al-Din Râmi (fl. second half of the 14th century).49 Both authors provide only Persian verse examples. In the 15th century Hoseyn Vâ’ez Kâshefi (d. 1504), author of the extremely ornate Anvâr‑e soheyli (The Lights of Canopus), compiled a compendium of poetic genres and forms, figures and rhyme entitled Badâye’ al46 See E. G. Browne’s commentary on this poem, accompanied by numerous analogies from an English book on rhetoric from the 16th century, in LHP, II, pp. 46–76. 47 On the tradition of the qaside-ye masnu’e in Persian poetry see Z. Safa, Târikh‑e adabiyyât, v. 4 (Tehran, 1985, 3rd ed.), pp. 183–86; O. F. Akimushkin, “K voprosu o tradicii ­zhanra iskusstvennoy kasidy v persidskoy poezii,” In Iran (Moscow, 1972), pp. 158–68. 48 The most famous qaside-ye masnu’s are listed in Sharaf-al-Din Râmi of Tabriz, Haqâ’eq al-Hadâ’eq, ed. Sayyed M.K. Emâm (Tehran, 1962), introd. p. 7. 49 Both ed. by Seyyed M. K. Emâm (Tehran, 1962).

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afkâr fi sanâye’ al-ash’âr.50 The first chapter of this book, devoted to figures (sanâye’), is the last to follow Vatvât’s line of describing figures and tropes without any attempt at a structural division. Kâshefi describes more than two hundred devices and varieties, introducing numerous subtypes for already known figures, but scarcely not adding any new ones.51

7. Hoseyni’s Badâye’ al-sanâye’ According to Modarres‑e Razavi, Shams‑e Qeys’ Mo’jam failed to become famous when it appeared and did not receive due attention from contemporary scholars. Like Râduyâni’s Tarjomân it was ahead of its time, and its real acknowledgement, through the composing of commentaries on it and short versions of it, as well as frequent quotation from it, began only in the 15th century and is primarily connected with the name of Atâ’-Allâh Hoseyni (d. 1513).52 His treatise Badâye’ al-sanâye’ (The choicest of Embellishing Figures), devoted entirely to figures of badi’, is based both on the authority of Shams‑e Qeys and on theoretical works of Arabic authors of the 13th-14th centuries, mainly on Sakkâki and his commentator Khatib Qazvini (d. 1338), repeatedly quoted in the treatise as the author of the Izâh.53 The main feature of Hoseyni’s approach to badi’ is the systematization of the figures, as well as the discussion of the Persian philologists’ attitude towards the sciences of ma’âni, bayân and badi’. In the introduction to his book he explains that the Arabic scholars had divided the beauties of speech into two types: essential ­beauties (zibâyihâ-ye dhâti), similar to the natural beauty of the beloved 50 See Vâ’ez Kâshefi, Badâye’ al-afkâr, ed. R. Musulmankulof (Moscow, 1977). 51 See R. Musulmankulof, Persidsko-tadjikskaya klassicheskaya poetica (Moscow, 1989), p. 15. 52 See Modarres‑e Razavi’s introduction to Mo’jam, pp. yâ-tâ to yâ-hâ. Hoseyni’s text was edited in Tadjikistan by R. Musulmankulof (Dushanbe, 1974). 53 Khatib‑e Qazvini, al-Izâh, ed. M. Abd-al-Mon’em Khafâji (Beirut, 1971).

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ones, and accidental beauties (zibâyihâ-ye arazi), similar to the ornaments that they wear. The former type is described in the elm‑e balâghat, which is, due to the abundance of topics, subdivided into ma’âni and bayân. The latter type is subordinate to rhetoric (elm‑e tâbe’‑e balâghat), and it is called elm‑e badi’. Hoseyni goes on to say that the connoisseurs of Persian poetry had combined the most commonly used essential beauties (namely, tashbih, este’âre, kenâyat) together with the accidental beauties. They called both categories jointly sanâye’, and their description the science of the figures of badi’ (’elm‑e san’athâ-ye badi’i).54 Hoseyni continues by describing the figures in chapters devoted to the embellishment of form (lafz), of sense (ma’nâ), and the joint embellishment of form and sense e.g., tafvif, motâbeqe, morâ’ât‑e nazir, tansiq‑e sefât, hosn‑e matlab, hosn‑e maqta’ and other devices connected with semantic and syntactic parallelism). The chapter on semantic devices is in its turn divided into two parts. The second part—entitled “Description of figures that the Arab experts in eloquence call essential embellishments of speech, but the Persian connoisseurs of poetry place among the figures”—contains a description of seven types of comparison: metaphor, tamthil (analogy), kenâye and ta’riz (allusion), beside three more described in a separate paragraph, and considered to be poetical figures only in the Persian poetic tradition. These are ta’ajjob, sehr‑e halâl (lit. ‘permissible magic’, using a word that can be semantically related to any of the other words in a given beyt) and târikh (chronogram). Hoseyni enriches the description of tropes by using the treatises of Sakkâki and Qazvini. Thus, unlike most other Persian works, his treatise contains a discussion of the limits of permissible exaggeration in a hyperbole. In Badâye’ al-sanâye’, the mobâlaghat is subdivided, in accordance with Khatib Qazvini’s classical system, into tabligh (literally ‘causing to arrive’), a description plausible (momken) according to common sense and everyday experience; eghrâq, a description plausible, but not encountered in everyday experience; and ­gholov 54 Hoseyni, Badâye’ al-sanâye’, p. 12.

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(literally ‘exceeding bounds’), a description both unimaginable and not encountered in everyday life. The device is discussed from the point of view of untruth in poetry, and the two first types of hyperbole are acknowledged as acceptable. Words such as gu’iyâ (literally ‘as you would say’)/guyâ (‘as it were’) are regarded as an auxiliary instrument intended to keep the hyperbole within the limits of credibility, e.g., in the line “The custom of generosity has disappeared from the world, as if (gu’iyâ/guyâ) no one had ever heard about it.” 55 This is to be compared with the Arabic kâda test, recommended by Arabic theoreticians, i.e., a possibility to rewrite the acceptable hyperbole using the verb kâda ‘to be close [to doing something]’.56 Such an attention to theoretical aspects which several centuries before had been discussed in Arabic treatises, and restricting the rampant freedom of exaggeration, may be regarded as an indirect reflection of a change in literary tastes. In the 15th century the panegyric qaside noticeably yields to the ghazal, and excessive use of hyperbole is replaced by other strategies of poetic expression.

8. Postclassical Treatises The tradition of compiling treatises continued during the postclassical period, up to the beginning of the 20th century; an example is the commentary written on the Hadâ’eq al-sehr by the poet Mirzâ Abu’l-Qâsem Farhang (d. 1892). The number of figures increased considerably with the times, but mainly as a result of the scholastic subdivision of devices already known earlier. It was these later studies that were introduced into the European discussion by Western scholars of the 19th century. Francis Gladwin used the Majma’ al-sanâye’ by Nezâm-al-Din Sâleh (written in 1650) for his Dissertations on the Rhetoric, Prosody and Rhyme of the Persians (Calcutta, 1801). The chapter on badi’ figures in the ­dictionary Haft 55 Ibid., pp. 101–4. 56 See W. Heinrichs in EI2, s.v. Mubālagha.

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qolzom by Qabul Mohammad (ed. Lucknow, 1822) was translated by Friedrich Rückert; this German translation, entitled Grammatik, Poetik und Rhetorik der Perser, was first published in 1827–28 and then revised by W. Pertsch (Gotha, 1874). One of the very few treatises following in the footsteps of Atâ’-Allâh Hoseyni’s Badâye’ al-sanâye’ and describing the tropes separately as the subjects of the science of bayân, was the Hadâ’eq al-balâgha, written in the middle of the 18th century by Shams-al-Din Faqir of Delhi. It served as the main source for Garcin de Tassy’s Rhétorique et prosodie des langues de l’Orient Musulman (Paris, 1873).

9. Concluding Remarks Many of the figures shaping the foundation of the science of badi’ have parallels in other developed traditions of poetics, particularly in the Greek, Latin and Sanskrit traditions.57 It has been noted that the Greco-Roman tradition was mainly oriented towards rhetorical purposes, whereas the Islamic tradition was more closely connected with literature.58 A comparative analysis of the Arabic and Persian systems of badi’ reveals, however, that while Shams‑e Qeys, the most analytical author representing the latter system, had chosen exclusively the poetic language as his object and as a stimulus to develop his theoretical discourse, the former system was more oriented towards expressive devices of speech in general and was in particular stimulated by the exegesis of the Qur’an. Throughout the centuries of its development, Persian poetry was increasingly resisting the Arabic canons of description, which still remained predominant. This resulted in a gradual change in the list of figures as well as the mode of their presentation.

57 G. E. von Grunebaum, “Die aesthetischen Grundlagen der arabischen Literatur,” in Kritik und Dichtkunst (Wiesbaden, 1955), pp. 130–50; W. Heinrichs, Arabische Dichtung und griechische Poetik (Wiesbaden, 1969). 58 See J. T. P. de Bruijn, in EIr, s.v. Badī’.

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The set of figures was modified in the course of adapting the Arabic language-oriented theory to the poetic practice of an IndoEuropean language. Some adjustments were also conditioned by the growing differences between the Arabic and Persian poetic conventions. In the course of time, some poetical figures changed their status and were gradually transformed into leading aesthetic principles: tanâsob, hosn‑e ta’lil, and ihâm became the dominating strategies in the poetic world of the ghazal. The early adaptation and development of the science of badi’ and, on the other hand, the lack of treatises on the science of bayân reflect a somewhat paradoxical situation: an intense attention to the arrangement of the poetic language paralleled by a lack of national linguistic consciousness: during the classical period, Arabic remained the language par excellence in all the branches of linguistic analysis. The Persian science of badi’, theoretically completed as early as the 15th century, is still important today.59 It is taught to modern philologists in Iranian universities, and to students of classical Persian literature all over the world, because it still provides both a convenient tool for describing the refined language of Persian poetry and a body of knowledge indispensable for anyone who strives to become its genuine connoisseur.

59 Cf. J. Homâ’i, Fonun‑e balâghat (Tehran, 1975) as an example of a modern textbook on badi’.

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Chapter 7 Poetic Imagery R. Zipoli Persian poetry has a rich repertoire of images organized in a highly structured system. Within this system the images are characterized by a strict code with regard to both their content and the way they are interrelated. The system developed in a literary tradition determined by specific socio-cultural factors and governed by strict compositional rules: a knowledge of some extra-textual events as well as of textual features is therefore indispensable for an accurate interpretation of its imagery. The earliest Persian poetry that has survived in any quantity dates from the 10th century, and was composed under the influence of the dominant tradition of Abbasid Arabic poetry.1 This tradition endowed Persian poets with a legacy of well-organized content and form. Consequently, the early Persian poets also took most of their imagery from the Arabic predecessors. There was no lack of innovations and adaptations, however. For example, some elements from the pre-Islamic Persian past were developed. The modifications were generally of aristocratic inspiration, providing further proof that this poetry was born in the “palaces,” far from any popularizing context or influence. The poet, in fact, was often a companion to the sovereign, or was in his employ, and his fortune depended on his royal patron. He had to be very careful to respect court power, and one of his principal duties was to immortalize the name and fame of the ruler. The poet was thus a professional at the service of the king, skilled in the various aspects of composing poetry such as met1 See Chap. 13.

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rics, rhetoric, rhyme, etc. Moreover, he had often mastered several other disciplines such as astronomy, music, history, and geography. This knowledge enabled him to make his poetry sound learned by drawing on notions taken from these disciplines. The poet had to have a thorough knowledge of the past poetic tradition as well as the contemporary style. A mastery of the tradition was indispensable for success as a poet, although he had to be careful not to lapse into slavish imitation. Significantly, there was a wide-ranging debate, documented in the treatises on poetry, about the concepts of “imitation” and “reworking” of poems by other poets. 2 Starting from the premise that poetic concepts are a common heritage and not the private property of individual authors, the critics stressed the difference between an enhanced reworking of the old themes and straightforward imitation, which amounted to plagiarism. To give an idea of the difference between imitation and reworking, we can consider the description of the rain in three poets belonging to the Khorasanian style: the rain is compared by Farrokhi (d. 1038), in line with Onsori’s (d. 1040) picture, to tears and pearls falling from the clouds, while Manuchehri (d. 1041) describes it differently, as drops of milk falling into the mouth of tulips seen as babies.3 The imitation was condemned, whereas enhanced reworking was considered a constructive approach based on the correct use of the traditional legacy, namely, a temporary appropriation of the inherited themes: the poet who offered the best treatment of a theme was recognized as the outstanding author of that theme. Following the same logic, when the theme was “expropriated” by another poet who did better, the latter’s treatment was considered the outstanding version. In this way the texture of tradition was layered according to taste and innovative skill. Another extra-textual factor connected to the cultural legacy and useful in framing the imagery of Persian poetry was a climate of flouting social and ethical conventions, bordering on impiety. Persian poets adopted this attitude from their Arabic ­predecessors. 2 See Shams-e Qeys, Mo’jam (1959), pp. 464–76. 3 See Onsori (1984), p. 150, p. 261; Farrokhi (1984), p. 145, p. 171; Manuchehri (1977), p. 34.

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Among the popular motifs in pre-Islamic Arabic poetry (the ­model for the subsequent Islamic tradition) was carousing with wine. There also existed the memory of sumptuous drinking and entertainment parties in the royal palaces of ancient Persian kings. In the Arabic poetry of the early Islamic period, especially the early Abbasid poetry that preceded the birth of New Persian poetry, these motifs were greatly developed and often repeated. References to feasts and profane banqueting became almost routine. In these poetic contexts, Christian and also Zoroastrian tavern keepers proffered abundant wine.4 The anacreontic motifs, that is, light, drinking motifs, were thus increasingly enriched with profane and religiously condemned elements. Seen against the background of Muslim piety, such poetry often appeared to be blasphemous and the object of scorn by the guardians of orthodoxy. Like all the other standard elements, these constraints were transmitted to Persian poetry. Paradoxically, the scandalous language of the profane themes was used and appreciated by men who prized the prevailing religious customs, both poets and sovereigns usually being devout believers. We may thus speak of a heterodox approach in manners, an “ethics of the profession,” as it were, dictated by the rules of conduct imposed by the tradition on the poetic art. This adherence to the formal rules, initially only conventional, assumed the tones of a sincere and inspired belief with the spread of mystical poetry in which heretical references were used to describe a level of esoteric approach and knowledge that went well beyond the formal and canonic adherence to the rites and ordinances of official religion. This development drew on the repertoire of existing images, bestowing on them, however, new mystical meanings. At a textual level, Persian poetry was primarily characterized by a strict observation of rules and structures, which involved all aspects of literary discourse from grammar and rhetoric to metrics, rhyme, and other formal elements. According to the classical Persian critics, the language had to be clear, correct, elegant, accurate, appropriate, well measured, and with no flaws, lacunae, or excesses. Long years of study were needed to enable the poet even4 See F. Harb (1990).

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tually to produce flawless lines with seemingly effortless ease. The poetic art was considered in terms of both content and form. These two aspects had to be combined in perfect harmony, but with an awareness of their different roles and importance: the content, that is, the themes and motifs, was practically fixed by tradition, with few strictly new topics admitted, while the form (language, rhetoric, rhyme, etc.) provided the main context for changes and adaptations. In this framework, the poem was seen as an organic set of elements. Words, hemistiches, and lines were interdependent and harmoniously related like the parts of a body, although in ghazal (short lyric poems), individual lines most often had not only their own syntactic independence but also a kind of semantic independence. The aim of writing court poetry was primarily to celebrate the patron, to elicit admiration for the poet, and to dazzle the listener: all poetical devices were employed to this end. Another important feature, highlighted mostly by Western scholars in modern times, is the static, fixed, and stylized aspect of Persian poetic imagery, and the fact that some of the rhetorical devices serve chiefly a decorative purpose: as such the poetic imagery is far removed from any emotional connotations. From this point of view, one of the key principles is the tendency to combine subjects on formal and chromatic grounds: we thus have a beautiful face compared to the moon, red cheeks compared to tulips, fascinating eyes compared to a narcissus. Continuing with the textual field, we will now consider some aspects of the content of Persian poetry. Although composed against the background of a shared courtly and learned legacy, each genre (panegyric, lyric, epic, didactic, satirical, etc.) has its own thematic specifics with a differentiated repertoire of imagery. These repertoires should be studied initially as separate sub-systems and then seen as contributing to the general system in the overall structure of poetic production. For example, the three sources traditionally recognized as being of fundamental importance for thematic inspiration in lyrical poetry: anacreontic, erotic, and the description of nature (the latter mainly focused on spring scenes) are less important in epic poetry. Compared to lyrical poetry, epic poetry places greater emphasis on dramatic and narrative elements. Another clear 175

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example of such differences is that satirical poetry enjoys the most freedom from the thematic code of other genres, and therefore innovations are more readily introduced in it. At times the formal structure of the genre itself determines the development of thought and imagery. A quatrain, for example (no matter what the genre), is obviously too short to generate complex and elaborate images. A common turning point in the thematic development of all genres came with the introduction of mystical reflection into poetry. This phenomenon did not lead, however, to a substantial change in the by then consolidated system of imagery. There was only a change in register, and mystical poetry adapted the existing legacy, genre by genre, to its own use. In such poems, mystical love replaced profane love by infusing the received stylized images with new symbolic meaning while the vocabulary and basic themes stayed the same. What we have described above is the set of textual and extra­textual factors that exercised the greatest influence over the imagery of Persian poetry. Before starting to analyze this imagery, I would like to underline that my description is of an introductory nature and therefore cannot claim to provide a wide-ranging and detailed account of all Persian poetic imagery. The restriction of space obviously makes it necessary to be selective and also to reduce to a minimum the remarks on the chosen images, omitting literary, historical, and geographical references. Similarly, I have listed only the most common of the many mystical meanings of the terms presented. The scheme adopted here reflects the current state of studies in the field.5 The few works dealing with the imagery of Persian poetry are undoubtedly useful for introductory purposes, but as a rule they describe mainly the images deemed to be of key importance, and therefore impart a selective vision of the 5

Key works on the subject, also used in building this inventory of images, are R. Afifi (1993–94); A. Bausani (1959); idem (1960); J. von Hammer­Purgstall (1818); F. Meier (1963); Râmi (1946) and tr. Cl. Huart (1875); H. Ritter (1927); idem (1955); A. Schimmel (1984); idem (1992); M. R. Shafi’iKadkani (1979); S. Shamisâ (1987); idem (1998). Two specific and systematic analyses are C.-H. de Fouchécour (1969); M.-N. O. Osmanov (1974). See the Bibliography for details.

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scope of Persian poetic imagery without analyzing its synchronic and diachronic contexts. Here too, I have had to compromise and offer simply a preliminary inventory of literary images with short comments. The images6 chosen are presented alphabetically according to the transcribed form of Persian words, followed by the translation in single quotes (e.g., Mey ‘wine’), except for proper names (e.g., Hallâj), unless their English equivalents differ from their Persian forms (e.g., Yusof ‘Joseph’). When there are several terms for the same image, the most representative term is selected (e.g., for wine, mey rather than bâde, sharâb, or mol). The transcribed Persian words appear only as headwords and not within the descriptions. To provide a general idea of the subject, the images are divided into four broad semantic categories, each divided into fields (and, where necessary, sub-fields), in which the related words are listed in alphabetical order. When an image shares features from several fields or sub-fields, it is assigned to what is deemed to be the main field. The most significant images are treated in individual paragraphs under the relevant fields or sub-fields: for example, Âhu ‘gazelle’ under “Animals.” Images considered to be of minor importance are treated together with similar ones in collective paragraphs without giving the corresponding Persian words (e.g., ambergris and musk are grouped together under “Perfumes and cosmetics”). To supplement the headwords of the inventory, I have given an alphabetical list of some other images below. Although not assigned an individual paragraph, they are nevertheless important: their basic features are described in the course of paragraphs for other images or in collective paragraphs. The following list contains the necessary references to the paragraphs where they are described; for example, kharâbât ‘ruins’, is mentioned under Mey and in the collective paragraph about “Places around the court,” while zangâr ‘rust’ is mentioned under Sabz, Khatt, and Âyine: 6 In addition to a direct reading of the texts, for the choice of images I have referred to the basic texts cited in note 5 and Persian repertories dedicated to individual poets, such as P. Ahur (1984) for Hâfez, and M. Rastagâr (1974) for Ferdowsi.

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A list of the images that are subsumed under other images âb-e hayât ‘Water of Life’ → Dahân, Zanakhdân, Mey, Eskandar, and Khezr; Âzar → Âtesh and Ebrâhim; châh ‘well’ → Mâh, Zanakhdân, Yusof, Angels, and Rostam; dharre ‘mote of dust’ → Âftâb; Eblis → Âtesh and Âdam; ganj ‘treasure’ → Joghd and Mâr; khâr ‘thorn’ → Gol (-e sorkh); kharâbât ‘ruins’ → Mey and Places around the court; Mâni → Countries and peoples, and Heresy and scorn; moshk ‘musk’ → Âhu, Kâfur, Lâle, Siyâh, Khâl, Khatt, Muy, Perfumes and cosmetics, and Countries and peoples; panbe ‘cotton’ → Mâh and Âtesh; Pir-e moghân ‘Zoroastrian wine-seller’ or ‘tavern-keeper’ (lit. ‘the magian mentor’) → Mey, Sâqi, and Heresy and scorn; Qâf → Anqâ and Simorgh; Sâmeri → Musâ; sâye ‘shadow’ → Homâ, Âftâb, Âb, Khatt, Muy, and Sham’; shekar ‘sugar’ → Magas, Tuti, Sefid, Dahân, and Countries and peoples; shir ‘milk’ → Sefid, Dahân, and Farhâd and Shirin; sim ‘silver’ → Narges, Susan, Yâsaman, Sky, Planets, Stars, and Constellations, and Zanakhdân; Ya’qub ‘Jacob’ → Bâd and Yusof; Zâl → Simorgh, Sefid, and Rostam; zangâr ‘rust’ → Sabz, Khatt, and Âyine; Zardosht ‘Zoroaster’ → Sarv, Âtesh, Mey, and Heresy and scorn; Zoleykhâ → Yusof; zonnâr ‘infidel’s girdle’ → Muy, Fabrics and clothes, Shaykh San’ân, and Heresy and scorn. NB. For ease of reference, the Persian equivalents of the above are mentioned in the text, in parentheses after their English translations.

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Inventory of Persian Poetic Imagery The Natural World Animals Âhu ‘gazelle’ The gazelle lives in the Central Asian steppes and Persian plains. Conceived as a solitary animal, nature makes it particularly well suited for representing the beloved. Its instinct to flee the lion also brings to mind the beloved’s behavior as he continually attempts to avoid being captured by the lover. This figurative value is also evoked in the description of how the gazelle, the paragon of a prey, manages to turn the tables and capture its predator/lover. Like the beloved, the gazelle has languid black eyes. An important and greatly celebrated motif is musk (moshk) produced in the navel of the “musk deer,” a type of gazelle, usually conceived as a native of Khotan, in northwestern China. Anqâ An Arabic variant of the Hellenistic phoenix, this mythical bird was believed to live on the slopes and peaks of the legendary Mount Qâf. Impossible to catch or even approach or see, it is the symbol of what exists in the mind alone: its name is known but not its characteristics. It may generally be interchangeable with the Simorgh and is contrasted with the fly. Aqrab ‘scorpion’ Because of its black color, twisted tail, and the pain it causes, the scorpion is used as an image for the beloved’s curls. Bâz ‘falcon’ The image of the falcon (there are several kinds, but one of the most famous is the royal falcon: shâhbâz) occurs usually in the context of falconry. The hooded falcon perches on the falconer’s arm and, when the hood is removed, it flies off to swoop down on its prey 179

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(usually pheasants, partridges or pigeons); then, at the sound of the drum, it returns to its perch. The figure of the falcon thus alludes to the concept of “return” (the homonym adverb bâz contributes to this idea in some verbal syntagmas: e.g. bâz âmadan ‘to return’), symbolizing the very popular idea in Persian culture of the soul caught up in the net of the world and trying to flee and return to its original heavenly nest. The falcon is also the symbol of the dominance of love (there is a parallel between the prey and the broken heart) and an energetic, haughty, and independent character who will not lower itself to mundane attractions. Living on remote heights, it also symbolizes inaccessibility. Bolbol ‘nightingale’ The nightingale is the classic spring bird and is the opposite of the autumnal crow. Because of its passion for the rose, it is at the center of a recurrent love theme in Persian poetry (occasionally with mystical connotations). The nightingale is the symbol for the sincere and totally devoted lover; its singing symbolizes the passionate cry of the heart of the unsuccessful and suffering lover, but the rose never responds to its amorous attentions and often mocks it, thus expressing the self-sufficiency, haughtiness, or disdain typical of the image of the beloved in Persian poetry. There is a significant play on words whereby the nightingale is associated with the term niyâz ‘yearning’ and the rose with nâz ‘coquetry’. In describing the love between the nightingale and the rose, poets exploit realistic elements: the early morning song of the nightingale (often compared for its beauty to the songs of famous singers or the melody of instruments) is a disconsolate love call and sometimes serves as a call to all lovers to reach for wine; the red of the rose alludes to the bleeding heart of the lover or the fire burning in the lover’s heart; the short-lived bloom and the fading of the rose symbolize the ephemeral condition of the object of love, and its indifference to the courting nightingale; the breeze caressing the rose brings the fragrance of the beloved to the lover and is envied by the nightingale. It also should be noted that the words for ‘nightingale’ and ‘rose’, bolbol and gol, respectively, rhyme in Persian. 180

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Fâkhte ‘ring-dove’ The ring-dove lives in the cypress tree and is inseparable from it. This is interpreted as signifying its love for the cypress. Its features are a dark collar (a symbol of fidelity) and its song – ku, ku – meaning in Persian “where? where?” and seen as evidence of a passionate call for the object of love or exclaiming over the disappearance of days of glory. The song of this bird is sometimes described as an invitation to pray, and the cypress is described as a minaret. Fil ‘elephant’ The elephant is described as a powerful battle animal and as such is sometimes connected with the “Sura of the Elephant” (Sura CV) in the Qur’an. It stands for high mountains, threatening clouds and stormy waves, and is contrasted with the weak and insignificant ant. It is associated with chess because one piece, the bishop, has the form of an elephant and bears its name. Of Indian origin, the elephant’s longing for home mystically expresses the soul’s desire to return to its origins. Again in a mystical context, there is a story used to symbolize the impossibility of describing God: each of several blind men touches a different part of an elephant and gives a different description of the animal. Hodhod ‘hoopoe’ The hoopoe has variegated plumage and a crest like a crown. In the Qur’an (Sura XXVII: 22) the bird is described as a messenger between Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. This very popular motif in Persian literature also appears in mystical poetry. In Attâr’s Manteq al-tayr there is a famous description of the hoopoe as the guide of birds in their spiritual journey to find their king, Simorgh. Because of its functions as a messenger and guide, the hoopoe is often associated with the breeze, the typical go-between for the lover and the beloved. Homâ Homâ is a mythical eagle-like bird. Its shadow (sâye) has magical powers: anyone sheltering under it will become a king. It eats only bones, not seeking flesh or other means of sustenance, symbolizing 181

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its independence as well as the moderation and humility underlying its power. It is contrasted with sinister birds such as the owl and the crow. Joghd ‘owl’ The owl is an inauspicious, sinister bird living in ruins and, as such, is at times connected with treasure (ganj), traditionally found in ruins. It is contrasted with the nightingale and the Homâ. Kabk ‘partridge’ The partridge’s elegant, mannered strut evokes the gait of the beloved. Its song is like a peal of laughter. The darker hues in its plumage standing out against its white breast receive special attention: they are compared to stains of pitch or ink. Also mentioned are its fretting, weakness, and the ease with which it falls prey to other birds (such as the falcon). This aspect gives rise to comparisons with the heart of the lover or the enemy defeated by the king. The partridge is sometimes described together with the pheasant. Kabutar ‘pigeon, dove’ The pigeon is celebrated for its fidelity to its partner as well as to the places it frequents. In addition to its classic function as a messenger, the pigeon is also trained to play games and race. It is seen as an easy victim for birds of prey (such as the falcon), and thus used to allude to typical victims described in Persian poetry, such as the lover and the enemy of the patron. It lives in hushed towers set in tranquil surroundings. The pigeons in the sanctuary of Mecca are particularly well respected, loved and inviolate, and killing them is considered a crime. Khar ‘donkey’ The donkey is one of the less noble animals in the bestiary of Persian poetry. Its sexual eagerness and stupidity make it particularly well suited to representing the baser human instincts. Consequently, the image of the donkey is often used in satirical or invective verse. The donkey on which Jesus rode, but was abandoned when Jesus ascended to Heaven, symbolizes in some contexts the abjectness 182

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of the body as opposed to the nobility of the soul. In some other contexts the donkey is a symbol of modesty and forbearance. Magas ‘fly’ The fly is described as becoming stuck while walking on sugar (shekar) or choking while guzzling syrup. In these contexts it often stands for the black mole near the lips of the beloved. When the fly rubs its legs (either together or on its head), it evokes a typical gesture of repentance and regret. A symbol of fragility, smallness, and insignificance, it is captured in the spider’s web and is contrasted with the Anqâ. Mâhi ‘fish’ Fish are mentioned as the constellation Pisces. According to an ancient myth, a fish is also the foothold for the bull supporting the earth between its horns (hence the alliterative expression az mâh tâ mâhi ‘from the moon to the fish’ for the entire length of the universe). In a mystical context, the fish stands for the “complete man” (ensân-e kâmel), totally immersed in the sea of knowledge. Poets also recount the story of Jonah and the fish. Mâr ‘serpent’ According to popular tradition, it was the serpent that tempted Adam and Eve, but it is more often remembered as the custodian of treasures (ganj) hidden in ruins. Among its characteristics is poison. The snakestone (an object found in the back of the serpent’s head) is supposed to be an antidote to its poison. Poisonous serpents are said to become blinded by the sight of emeralds. Proverbial serpents grew from the shoulders of the mythical tyrant Zahhâk in Ferdowsi’s Shahname, while in the Qur’an (Sura XX: 17–21; XXVI: 32) Moses’ rod is transformed into a serpent. Figurative use is made of serpents to describe the beloved’s tresses. Sometimes the snake charmer is an image for an expert deceiver. As a dangerous reptile, the serpent is contrasted with the ant (mur, with which mâr forms an alliterative pair). Mur ‘ant’ The popularity of the ant in Persian poetry is chiefly due to the story in the Qur’an (Sura XXVII: 17–19) linking it with Solomon: 183

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an ant complains to Solomon that his advancing army would crush his companions, and the powerful sovereign gives heed to the ant. This motif is used to represent the generosity of noble souls and the contrast between two incommensurable positions. The contrast is also illustrated by the modest but sincere gift, a locust’s leg, which according to tradition the ant brings to Solomon. Again in terms of contrast, the ant is described as being crushed by horses and elephants, while its puniness is contrasted with the dangerousness of the serpent (mâr, with which mur forms an alliterative pair). Because of its color and size, the ant stands for the mole and the down on the beloved’s face. It also symbolizes industry and farsightedness: dâne-kash ‘seed hauler’, a frequent epithet for it, goes back to the Avesta. Parvâne ‘moth’ The motif of the moth and candle symbolizes a love relationship, sometimes with mystical connotations. Attracted by the light and heat of the candle, the moth flutters around the flame before being fatally drawn into, and thereby united, with it. This “immolation” symbolizes the lover’s aspiration to lose himself in the beloved. The variations by Persian poets on the theme of “candle and moth” are almost innumerable. Qomri ‘turtle-dove’ The turtle-dove has the same basic features as the ring-dove (see Fâkhte). On the subject of the turtle-dove’s fidelity, some claim that when the male dies the female will not search for a new partner. Sag ‘dog’ According to Islam, the dog is a ritually impure animal. Contact with it invalidates prayer, and anyone touching a dog must wash to re-acquire ritual purity. The dog is a symbol of many negative qualities: filth, ugliness, quarrelsomeness, wrath, falseness, and errantry. In general, it represents the baser human instincts. When the dog belongs to the beloved, however, it is tolerated and even envied (the lover dreams of sharing with dogs the duty of guarding the beloved’s house) or worshipped (the lover is happy to rub his face on 184

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the trail of the dog guarding the quarter of the beloved and to feed it his heart). In different contexts, a dog represents utmost fidelity even when it is abused. The story in the Qur’an (Sura XVIII) of the Seven Sleepers and the dog that chose to accompany them in their centuries-long sleep has provided a positive connotation for the dog as it exhibits its patience and faithfulness. (In the Zoroastrian tradition the dog is a positive figure, its presence required in some rituals). At times mention is made of the rabid dog and the fact that those bitten by one will shun water. According to some mystics, sinners will be transformed into dogs on Judgment Day. Samandar ‘salamander’ Some traditions consider the salamander to be a bird or a winged horse (there is sometimes mention of its wings) that can withstand great heat and live in fire. In this context, it sometimes symbolizes the lover in the midst of the flames of passion. Shir ‘lion’ The lion is the symbol of strength and courage and, in some specific contexts, of royal power: the king is often described as a lion (but also as a hunter of lions). The lion is contrasted with the fox, gazelle, and lamb. Its peaceful co-existence with the lamb is meant to evoke an atmosphere of great serenity and peace. The poets also mention the constellation of the Lion (Leo), and lions are depicted on walls, carpets, and standards, and carved on tombstones. The word lion is included in many names for Ali, the first Imâm, and as such is frequently cited in Shi’ite inspirational poetry. Simorgh ‘a miraculous bird of large proportions’ In the pre-Islamic Persian tradition this mysterious bird was said to have healing powers and was associated with the Tree of Life. According to the Shahname, the Simorgh nested in the inaccessible peaks of the Alborz (Elburz) Mountains, where it reared with its children the infant Zâl (future father of the hero Rostam), who was abandoned by his father Sâm on the slopes of those mountains because it had been born an albino and Sâm considered this a shame. When, after an admonition in a dream, the remorseful Sâm came to 185

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reclaim his grown-up son, the Simorgh returned him along with one of his miraculous variegated feathers so that Zâl could summon Simorgh for help by burning the feather in case of danger. Later in the story, the fabulous bird assisted in the birth of Rostam and helped the hero in important battles. In mysticism the Simorgh is the symbol of the deepest spiritual reality, as is illustrated in Attâr’s Manteq al-teyr, where the Simorgh is described as the king of birds living on the mythical Mount Qâf situated at the edge of the world and separated from the earth by an impenetrable region. When the birds make the long journey across seven valleys to reach his presence, they learn that the Simorgh, their ultimate destination, is none other than themselves. This is confirmed in linguistic terms: of the birds setting off on the journey only thirty arrive at their destination, and “thirty birds” in Persian is si morgh. The Simorgh is often an image for the sun. It is conflated with the Hellenistic phoenix and may generally be interchangeable with the Anqâ. Tadharv ‘pheasant’ The finely colored plumage and elegant gait of the pheasant are reminiscent of the beloved. It is associated with the partridge and peacock and contrasted with the crow. The pheasant is described as an easy prey for the falcon. Tâvus ‘peacock’ Originally from India, the peacock is mentioned primarily because of its magnificent colors which often symbolize the splendor of a variegated garden. The beautiful patterns on the tail feathers are compared to eyes and moons. In contrast with its beautiful feathers, the peacock does have two faults: its ugly feet and its screeching voice. In mystical poetry it often represents the attachment to vain and proud earthly appearances. It is an image for the sun in opposition to the crow, which symbolizes darkness. The peacock is sometimes described together with the pheasant. Tuti ‘parrot’ The parrot supposedly learns to speak in front of a mirror while someone behind the mirror pronounces some words; seeing its re186

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flected image and hearing someone speak, the parrot believes it is making the noises and so begins to imitate them. This situation is sometimes described by mystical poets metaphorically to illustrate how a disciple learns the mysteries of spiritual life from his master. On the grounds of its eloquence, the parrot is seen in didactic literature as a master, also at times a censor of customs. The parrot is also celebrated on account of its appetite for sugar and it is often described as “sugar-chewing (shekar-shekan),” which alludes to the “sweetness” of its speech. It also symbolizes imitation and mindless simulation. The parrot’s country of origin is considered to be India. Zâgh ‘crow’ An inauspicious black bird with blue-green eyes and a sinister voice, the crow lives in inhospitable places, feeds off carrion, and is associated with winter and darkness. This last feature makes it the opposite of the “sunny” peacock. The beloved’s black hair is likened to its feathers. A harbinger of separation, the crow is contrasted with positive birds such as the nightingale in voice, the Homâ in presaging fortune, and the pheasant in gait. Plants and Flowers The typical place where plants and flowers grow is the garden, although there is also mention of fields, meadows, plains, slopes, and mountains. In the garden’s fragrant atmosphere and along the breeze-cooled banks of its streams, wine is quaffed and music heard. The garden is thus the ideal setting for amorous encounters and stories involving the poet and the beloved, or the nightingale and the rose. Because of its beauty, the garden is described as Paradise and a temple full of idols; it is also used to allude to the beloved’s face. The garden is associated with other natural scenes such as the star-studded sky, or with artifacts such as fabrics and clothes adorned with precious stones. Anâr ‘pomegranate’ The red grains of the pomegranate are an image for various ­elements: blood, wine, tears (red with blood), the mouth, some ­precious 187

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stones (ruby, carnelian, gold, coral, etc.), and fire (one of the Persian words for fire is nâr, which is also a variant of anâr, thus giving rise to a homonymous pair). Its red flower represents the beloved’s cheek, while the fruit is used to describe breasts and, when open, the smiling mouth or a heart revealing secrets. Arghavân ‘Judas tree’ The red flowers of the Judas tree bloom in spring and, because of their color, are associated with wine, rubies, the victim’s blood (be it from love or war), and the beloved’s lips and cheeks. It is contrasted with the yellow saffron. Banafshe ‘violet’ The violet blooms in Spring and has a strong scent. It is described along with the rose, tulip, hyacinth, and jasmine, and is also combined with them metaphorically: the violet represents the down on the beloved’s face, the face is described as a rose or tulip, while the hair on the face is compared to hyacinth and jasmine. It is also an image for the beloved’s curls. The dark blue color and curved stem lend it the shape of a stooping blue-frocked ascetic or a person bent over in mourning and lament (the color of mourning is blue). The envy of the rose is often mentioned as a cause of the violet’s mourning. It is also likened to a kneeling enemy. The violet is a symbol of humility, fragility, and simplicity. Gol (-e sorkh) ‘rose’ This is the flower most often mentioned by Persian poets. It blooms in Spring and, because of its delicateness, fragrance, and red color it is the typical image for the beloved’s cheeks. On the grounds of its red color various elements are associated with it: wine (the rose is cup-shaped), gems and precious substances (ruby, carnelian, gold, coral, etc.), blood (shed by the victims of love or the martyrs of the faith), and fire (it burns the nightingale’s nest; for Abraham’s fire/rose garden, see Âtesh). Because of the nightingale’s passion for the rose, the flower is a symbol of love and beauty. In this context, it is described as a book in which the nightingale reads its painful love story. The rose represents infidelity because of its ephemeral 188

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life (its withering and falling petals also evoke the rending of shirts by desperate lovers), and it symbolizes the self-sufficiency typical of the beloved (it often mocks the nightingale). In its brief life the rose invites the poets to celebrate pleasure and so is connected with music and drinking: gol rhymes with bolbol ‘nightingale’ and mol ‘wine’. In addition to the nightingale, many other elements enhance the theme, such as thorns (khâr), dew, breeze, rosewater, and rosebuds. Thorns are inseparable from the rose: they envy but also protect it and survive after it fades. Stuck into the heart of the lover, the thorn contrasts with the rose used to describe the face of the beloved. The association of the rose with the thorn that grows on its branches serves as a parable for pleasure and pain going together. Unlike the nightingale, dew is accepted by the rose, which, however, bathed by dew, loses its purity (“to have damp skirts” means “to be sullied, to be contaminated” in Persian); dewdrops are also associated with pearls adorning a ruby cup (the corolla of the rose) or tears of pain (the nightingale’s tears contrasted with the smile of the rose). The breeze (especially the morning breeze) caresses the rose and carries its fragrance. Rosewater is seen as the tears of the person in love with the rose-cheeked beloved (the cheeks have the same color as the fire required to distill rose water). The rosebud is identified with a heart full of blood, or lips on the point of kissing or smiling. In figurative and natural contexts the rose is often associated with the violet, tulip, hyacinth, and jasmine (see Banafshe). For mystics, the rose was a manifestation of supreme beauty, e.g., divine beauty. There is wordplay between golshan ‘rose-garden’ and golkhan ‘the furnace of the bathhouse’, used to stress the contrast between a pleasant situation (the sweet flames of the rose) and a painful one (dry leaves and petals are burnt in the furnace). Kâfur ‘camphor’ Camphor is the name of a tree and the substance extracted from it. The substance is shiny, white, fragrant, rather insoluble but, most importantly, it relieves pain and has a tranquilizing effect. One of its properties, mentioned mainly in satirical verse, is the power to subdue the erotic urge when eaten or simply sniffed. Because of its shiny white color, often mentioned in contrast to black musk 189

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(moshk), it is an image for the complexion of the beloved, white hair, snow, and daybreak. Indian camphor is famed for its high quality. Kâh ‘straw’ Straw is considered in terms of its lightness and as such is opposed to the mountain (kuh, with which kâh forms an alliterative pair). As straw is easily scattered by the wind it is used as an image for the prince’s defeated enemies. Its yellow color stands for the pallor of the defeated or of the lover’s face. It is also mentioned as something of little worth used to feed animals (donkeys and cattle), but if struck by lightning flares up with inconceivable energy. When burnt, it gives off irritating smoke. Important compounds of kâh are kahrobâ, literally ‘straw-robber’, a term for the reddish-yellow amber resin that when rubbed attracts straw (used to represent the beloved), and kahkashân, literally ‘drawing straw’, the term for the Milky Way, so called in Persian because it evokes chaff scattered on a surface. Lâle ‘tulip’ The term lâle originally had the general meaning of a poppy-like wild spring flower but later it was specifically associated with the tulip. Because of its red color, it is mentioned by poets in association with the beloved’s cheeks or lips, fire, ruby, wine, blood, and coral. Again, because of its color, or on account of the black spot in the middle of its petals which recalls burning or a heart burned by passion, the tulip is a symbol for suffering and martyrdom, and as such is planted on graves. On account of its cup-like form and red color, it is described as being full of wine or as being made of rubies and coral. The black mark inside the petals, known by the technical term dâgh (the same word is used for the brand on animals), together with the petals evoke the heart affected by passion (also of a mystical kind) or the stain of sin, but also the duplicity in a person (red in the face and black of heart). The black mark is sometimes identified with the mole on red cheeks, and with scented musk (moshk). In figurative and natural contexts, the tulip is associated with the violet, rose, hyacinth, and jasmine (see Banafshe). 190

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Narges ‘narcissus’ The narcissus is a fragrant flower that blooms in Spring and Autumn. Shaped like an open eye, it is commonly used to represent the eyes of the beloved which are often conceived as being languid, intoxicated (mast), or ailing (bimâr), to convey their artful and coquettish beauty and attractiveness. It is also used for a blind eye (because it is white). Its two hues suggest precious metals: the white outer petals allude to silver (sim) and the internal part of the corolla is as yellow as gold. Raz ‘grapevine’ The grapevine is referred to at the time of the Autumn harvest when its leaves are yellow and blown away by the wind. In this context, it is subject to personification: the peasants tear bunches of grapes away from the grapevine, like children from their mother, while wine is the “daughter of the grapevine.” Sanowbar ‘pine tree’ Growing on the banks of streams, the slender and undulating pine tree is a metaphor for the beloved, particularly his graceful stature. Sarv ‘cypress’ The cypress has an important place in Persian poetry. It was a sacred tree in pre-Islamic Iran and connected to the prophet Zoroaster (Zardosht) who, according to legend, planted a cypress in Kâshmar, which grew to an unusual height. It is the typical symbol for the beloved’s stature (sarv-e ravân is a “walking cypress”), both for its slender tall shape and its sinuous movements caused by the wind. An often mentioned type is the sarv-e âzâd ‘noble cypress’ (poets play on the double meaning of âzâd as both ‘noble’ and ‘free’), a straight tall tree whose epithet suggests a sense of independence expressed by the lack of fruit, therefore of restraints, and by the fact that the cypress is evergreen and therefore immune from decay. The cypress grows on the banks of streams and is inhabited by the ring-dove or turtledove, which are described as being in love with the tree since they never abandon it. When the call of the ring-dove is compared to a prayer, the cypress is described as a minaret. 191

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Sepand ‘wild rue’ When thrown on a fire, the smoke of wild rue is an antidote to the evil eye. In some mystical poetry, the wild rue crackling on the fire and disappearing is seen as the courageous devout man who, after grasping the truth and revealing it, enters silence, e.g., death (see Hallâj). Because of the way it crackles, jumps, and then vanishes in the flames, it is generally used to allude to agitation, dancing, and haste. Its round berries on the fire are used to describe moles on red cheeks. Sonbol ‘hyacinth’ The hyacinth is a spring flower. Its fragrance and curly petals (but also its color, given that the most common type is dark blue) make it particularly suited to representing tresses, curls, and down on the beloved’s face. It is mentioned together with the violet, rose, tulip, and jasmine, both in descriptions of gardens and in metaphors for the face (see Banafshe). Susan ‘lily’ The lily blooms in Spring. Its tongue-shaped form and its “silence” allude to the authentic lover who, although able to speak, chooses to remain silent. The shape also represents an unsheathed sword against enemies, and a needle (the Persian word for needle, suzan, forms an alliterative pair with susan), sometimes used to stitch elegant clothes for the garden. Its silver (sim) color and scent lead to its association with the beloved’s bosom. Yâsaman ‘jasmine’ Jasmine is a Spring flower. Because of its silver (sim) color it is used as an image for teeth, pearls, and stars. Its delicate fragrance means it is identified with hair. On account of its color and fragrance it stands for the face (especially the chin), the neck under the ear (bonâgush), and the bosom of the beloved. In both figurative and natural contexts, the jasmine is associated with the violet, rose, tulip, and hyacinth (see Banafshe).

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Precious Substances Aqiq ‘carnelian’ Carnelian is a precious stone, the best of which was reputed to come from Yemen. It is considered to be lucky and, consequently, is often used in amulets and seals. Because of its red color, it is an image for wine, the blood tears of lovers, and the mouth and the cheeks of the beloved. Dorr ‘pearl’ According to the Islamic Persian tradition, the pearl is formed by a raindrop reared in an oyster (sadaf) on the seabed. This transformation implies a long journey toward perfection, and is adopted as a symbol for the mystical path: vapor leaves the sea, its home, to rise up towards the clouds where it is transformed into rain drops which then fall back into the sea. There are two alternative endings to the motif: the journey metaphorically ends in the drop being welcomed by the oyster, the “silent heart” where it is transformed into a pearl; or the mystical destination is simply a return home and, therefore, the raindrop merges totally with the sea of its origins. Linked to the first interpretation is the image of the expert diver: the person capable of gathering precious pearls from the depths, in contrast with lazy, aimless people safe on the shore. The pearl is a classic metaphor for tears (which are seen as pearls strung on the eyelashes), and for words in verse (the individual lines in a poem are seen as pearls on a string), but it is also used to describe teeth, white flowers, and dew on petals. La’l ‘spinel or ruby’ The ruby is a precious, usually red, stone found in large quantities in Badakhshân (in Tajikistan near Pamir). In descriptions of nature it stands for a number of flowers such as those of the Judas tree, pomegranate, and rose. Because of its red color and its beneficial effects (see below), the ruby is used to describe wine and the lips of the beloved. It is also an image for fire and the blood red tears of lovers. In mystical poetry there is a recurrent legend concerning the ruby: originally a common stone, it is transformed into a gem 193

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after absorbing the sun’s rays for a long time. This image is used to describe the slow and difficult maturation of the spirit towards its perfection. Among the ruby’s miraculous powers are wish fulfillment, and the protection from certain diseases such as the plague. In traditional medicine, small quantities of powdered ruby (mixed with other minerals such as gold) were administered as a kind of tranquilizer. The word yâqut indicates a superior class of ruby. Zar ‘gold’ In descriptions of nature, gold stands for the sun and the central yellow part of the narcissus. According to traditional medicine, gold was crushed and mixed with ruby to obtain a kind of tranquilizer. In mystical works, the alchemist’s claim to transform base metals into gold is adopted as a symbol for the path to the purification of the soul. Reference is often made to its greater or lesser purity. There was a legendary kind of soft gold owned by the Sasanid King Khosrow II Parviz who molded various forms with it. Zomorrod ‘emerald’ The green color of the emerald means that it is associated with elements in the garden (grass, leaves, etc.), and with the down on the beloved’s face (described by poets as being “green,” e.g., young and tender). According to ancient tradition, the emerald has miraculous healing powers and is used to blind poisonous snakes. In mystical works it is connected with the spiritual guide who blinds the evil instincts of his disciples. The Sky, Planets, Stars, and Constellations Astronomy and astrology were highly developed sciences in the medieval Muslim world. There are thus many references to the planets and the stars in Persian poetry. Among the planets, Jupiter is mentioned for its auspicious influence; but the fact that its AraboPersian name also means “customer” is exploited by poets to convey the hope that the prince (as auspicious as Jupiter) will purchase their poems. Saturn, the guardian of the spheres, is the most inaus194

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picious planet and, as such, is linked to the color black, hence the metaphorical name for it: “the Hindu of the sky.” Venus is the celestial musician and dancer capable of making even Jesus dance to her beguiling melodies; the brightness of Venus is compared to that of a silver (sim) die. The most popular constellations are the Pleiades, whose decorative aspect in the shape of a necklace is stressed, and Ursa Major, whose Arabic name Banât al-na’sh ‘Daughters of the Bier’ (in Persian it is called Haft owrang ‘the Seven Thrones’), refers to the two groups of stars in the constellation (four stars form the “bier” and three are the “daughters”). Ursa Major appears only in the middle of the night and, unlike the Pleiades, its stars are described as being far from each other. Poets also mention the Milky Way (see Kâh). The celestial vault is often mentioned as a whole and described with two colors: blue (like the sea) and green (like the garden). There are nine spheres: seven of them are connected to different planets, one is the sphere of fixed stars, and one is the sphere moving all the others. Among the negative qualities of the celestial vault are cruelty (the sky is compared to a millstone), and unreliability (the sky is described as a great wheel), while its positive qualities are grandeur and loftiness; it is also mentioned in relation to the vault in the royal palace, the prince’s shield, the cup, and a curved person. In descriptions of the night sky, the stars are compared to brilliant flowers: the star Soheyl (Canopus) shining over Yemen is renowned for its brightness. The most important elements in the sky, however, are the sun and the moon. Âftâb ‘sun’ It symbolizes majesty, brilliant beauty, and munificence. It is described as the king of planets, and its rays are swords or arrows. A classic motif connected with the sun is that of dust motes (dharre): seen against the light, these particles seem to dance on the rays as if attracted by a magnetic force in the attempt to reach the sun. This image is used in mysticism to describe the dance in honor of the beloved. The theme of the sun is often linked to the idea of vitality because of the light and heat it dispenses. Along the same lines, the sun is compared to Jesus and, more generally, to a healer. Its alchemical effect on stones (see La’l) means it is a symbol of both 195

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generosity and cupidity. The sun is likened to the falcon, to the peacock, to gold, and to a candle. It represents the face of the beloved or praised person, and also a cup of wine in a prince’s hand. It is often described in contrast to shadow (sâye) which is a symbol of humility since it is attached to the earth, but also of steadfastness since it cannot be detached. Mâh ‘moon’ The moon is described in its various phases. The full moon is the classic image for the face of the beloved; in this case the moon’s halo is the down on the face. The new moon stands for the cup, the beloved’s eyebrow, the pattern on the peacock’s tail, and the horseshoe, and is described by the letters dâl and râ. The appearance of the new moon announcing the end of Ramadan, the month of fasting, is the sign for a great festivity. The moon’s movement across the sky recalls the prince’s journeys: the moon is brighter than the stars, just as the poet’s patron is superior to other princes. Two important stories about the moon are the miracle of the splitting of the moon by the Prophet Mohammad, and the trick played by the false prophet Moqanna’ who made a fake moon rise from a well (châh) in Nakhshab (this moon is thus mentioned as a symbol of a false and worthless action). According to legend, moonlight damages cotton (panbe) and linen; in this case it becomes an emblem for the power of love to make hearts suffer. The moon is associated with the candle both because of its light and because when it disappears from the sky the candle is put out. For the expression az mâh tâ mâhi, see Mâhi. Other Natural Elements Âb ‘water’ and water elements One of the Four Elements with air, fire, and earth, water is found in various images. Rain, especially spring rain, conveys fertility and prosperity, although there is also mention of floods causing damage and misfortune. The sea and the ocean are perilous places, but they are also connected with the generosity of the prince because they 196

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generate clouds (usually suggesting fertility) and contain pearls. The sea also stands for amplitude and generosity. The patron’s hands are likened to a sea on account of the gifts it bestows on people, particularly the poets. Its vast expanse is contrasted to the smallness and humility of the drop (qatre). The theme of the sea and the ocean is also developed in mystical poetry, in which they are made symbols for primeval unity, while phenomena such as bubbles and waves are considered to be expressions of the world’s plurality and manifold manifestations: when bubbles burst and waves break up, they return to the sea or the ocean, that is, they leave their contingent condition to re-unite with the absolute. A similar concept is expressed by the story of the raindrop (see Dorr), the flowing of the rivers to the sea and the vanishing of the dew whose drops, seen as tears or pearls, go towards the sun by climbing up its rays until they disappear completely. Because of its evanescent nature, dew is also a symbol of the ephemeral and the transitory. As for the banks of streams in gardens, they are pleasant places in the shadow of cypresses and pine trees where people drink, listen to music, and court. Seashores are symbols of safe havens, free from the hazards of the dangerous and unpredictable sea. Abr ‘cloud’ Through rain, the cloud contributes to renewing the earth in the Spring, with all its ornaments and fragrances: raindrops are described as pearls dropping to earth and becoming flowers. Accordingly, the image of a dark spring cloud alludes to the generosity of the prince. The white Autumn cloud, on the other hand, is a harbinger of sadness. Rain may also be interpreted as the weeping of a cloud (supposed to be unhappily in love with the garden), while lightening is its smile. The clouds drifting in the sky are associated with various animals, such as horses and elephants. Âtesh ‘fire’ It is one of the traditional Four Elements (see Âb). Various flowers and fruits are compared to fire, such as tulip, rose, and pomegranate (in Persian also nâr, homonym with a term for fire thus forming a homonymous pair). Fire is sometimes pictured as being inside the 197

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clouds (it manifests itself as lightning) or a stone (as a spark it leaps out from stones). Its destructive capacity is illustrated in relation to cotton (panbe) and paper that catch fire and are consumed rapidly by it. Its spark, which appears suddenly and then disappears (possibly after generating large flames), is seen in mystical terms as the symbol of devotional self-annihilation. Fire is also used to describe wine, the beloved’s face (smoke, in this case, is the down), and blood. As a connotative element, it is associated with sighing and with the tongue. It is a symbol for various emotions such as love, pain, anger, agitation, and haste. Fire is mentioned in some stories of the Qur’an: through divine intervention fire turns into a rose garden and Abraham emerges from it unscathed (Sura XXI: 68–69; the Persian poets make a pun on Âzar, the name of Abraham’s father, and âdhar, a term for fire), Moses and the burning bush (e.g. in Sura XX: 10), and the fiery origins of Eblis or Satan (Sura XXXVIII: 76); it is also connected with other classical themes, such as Zoroaster, the candle, wild rue, fireworks, and the salamander. Bâd ‘wind’ One of the traditional Four Elements (see Âb), it symbolizes speed (especially for horses and messengers), generosity (of the patron), violence (it puts out candles and scatters straw), transience, and conceited and empty behavior. The wind is connected with seasonal changes, especially the arrival of Spring or Autumn. In these seasons it is the main “decorator,” making buds bloom and leaves turn yellow. Gusts of wind make the cypress move sinuously. In the Qur’an the wind is said to obey King Solomon (Sura XXI: 81) and is the messenger of hope between Joseph and Jacob (Ya’qub) (Sura XII: 94). It recurs most often as the breeze, which is the messenger of love carrying news of the beloved (especially from his or her hair) and spreading the fragrance of flowers (the nightingale is jealous of the breeze’s intimacy with the rose); because of this function, the breeze is sometimes associated with the hoopoe and the Queen of Sheba (Sabâ, with which sabâ ‘breeze’ forms a homonymous pair). The breeze, moreover, is connected to the lifegiving breath of Jesus. There is also mention of cold, harmful, or violent winds such as the bâd-e samum and the bâd-e sarsar. 198

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Barq ‘lightning’ Lightning is synonymous with speed and brilliance. It is associated with the prince’s arrow and described as laughter in clouds, opposed to tears/rain. It is destructive of harvests. This negative aspect is sometimes inverted and lightning is seen as a means to catalyzing the energies of fire concealed in flammable substances of little worth, such as straw. Khâk ‘earth’ One of the traditional Four Elements (see Âb), it stands metaphorically for solidity and humility. Since it is covered with vegetation, colors, and fragrance in Spring, it also symbolizes generosity. As dust, it is raised by the wind and by armies. Âlam-e khâki ‘the earthly world’ is contrasted to the world above and to the spiritual world. Colors In Persian poetry, abundant use is made of colors attributed to both natural and artificial elements. Their importance is also due to their symbolic value. In mysticism, color is seen as the expression of the ephemeral world, and its absence signifies purity and the spiritual absence of differentiation. Colors are also used to highlight the opposition between natural phenomena. Thus, for example, white and black for day and night, face and hair, Turk and Indian, Zangi (African, from Zanzibar) and Rumi (i.e., Byzantine), and the two sets of chess pieces. Kabud ‘blue’ Blue (or grayish blue) has negative connotations connected to mourning and the clothes of false and untrustworthy ascetics (­azraq, synonym of kabud, forms a pun with zarq ‘hypocrisy’). Blue is the color of the sky and the violet. Sabz ‘green’ The color of Paradise and Islam, green is connected with the idea of eternal life (see Khezr), and is the color of verdant gardens, the 199

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­ eloved’s down, emeralds, parrots, the sky, and the angels and b saints clothes. As the color of rust (zangâr) on metallic mirrors, it has a negative connotation. Sefid ‘white’ White is the color of light and purity (the winding sheet and pilgrims’ clothes are white). It is used to highlight the beauty of various parts of the beloved’s body: teeth, face, neck, forehead, bosom, and legs. A white eye, however, means blindness. The white hand alludes to a famous miracle by Moses (see Musâ). The outstanding example of an albino is Zâl (see Simorgh). White hair is frequently used to describe old age in contrast to black hair which stands for youth. Other white elements are camphor, milk (shir), sugar (shekar), snow, the dawn as well as some flowers such as jasmine, lily, and narcissus petals. It is also used to describe the fair skin of beautiful Turkish slaves who were objects of love as well as Slavic people (commonly referred to as Bolghâri). Siyâh ‘black’ Black is the color of night, sin, mourning, and pitch. It is associated with the inauspicious Saturn, but also with the mystical idea of a lack of color and, therefore, nothingness. In Islam it is important as the color of the Abbasid dynasty, the Ka’ba stone, and the fabrics covering the Ka’ba. It is also the color of the mark inside the tulip, the stain on the heart, some animals (such as crows, scorpions, flies, and ants), important parts of the beloved’s body (such as hair, down, the pupil of the eye, and a mole), and various fragrant substances (such as moshk ‘musk’, anbar ‘ambergris’, and ghâliye a cosmetic mixture of aromatic ingredients). It is used to describe starless nights, adverse fortune (bakht-e siyâh), and the dark skin of an Indian slave. Sorkh ‘red’ Red is one of the most important and frequently used colors because of the many red elements in Persian poetry: the beloved’s lips and cheek, wine, fire, blood, a rich collection of plants and flowers (such as roses, tulips, pomegranates, and the blossoms of Judas Trees), and gems (such as rubies and carnelians), gold, and coral. 200

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Zard ‘yellow’ Yellow conveys human suffering (pale cheeks are compared to straw and saffron), and the decaying of the natural world (symbolized by autumn leaves). It is also the bright tone of the sun and of gold (used also to embroider luxuriant clothes). The inner part of the narcissus is yellow. The Measurement of Time Day is associated with light and a bright face, while night suggests shadows (sâye) and hair. The most commonly described part of the day is dawn, a time of joy and hope when fragrances and colors are most potent, the early breeze blows, and birds sing. The two principal seasons are Spring and Autumn. In Spring the earth is renewed, the nightingale sings its love for the newly flowering rose, and the clouds and wind bring forth colors and scents which transform the earth into a beautiful temple of idols (botkhâne, lit. house of idols, referring to Buddhist temples; hence the pun between the homonyms bahâr ‘spring’ and bahâr ‘temple’) or a negârestân (house of paintings). Spring is a season of joy inaugurated by Nowruz, the New Year festival at the vernal equinox, connected with the mythical King Jamshid. Autumn is renowned for dark days and early frost as well as crows and yellow leaves: a season when the songful nightingales are no longer heard and the roses are gone; similarly fruit replaces flowers and the grape harvest begins. Half way through Mehr (the first autumnal month) the festival of Mehregân is held. Winter and Summer are described less frequently. In Winter the sky fills with clouds and the earth is covered with snow. An important date in Winter is the solstice, giving rise to two celebrations: Shab-e yaldâ, the longest night (considered inauspicious because dawn comes late), and Sade, celebrated with the kindling of fires. Summer is the season that receives least attention, being seen as the hot interval between Spring and Autumn. The months most commonly described in the Arabic calendar are Moharram and Ramadan. The former is mentioned primarily in connection with mourning rites in memory of the martyrs of Karbalâ, whereas 201

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the latter is the month of fasting, marked by two important feasts: Leylat al-qadr, the auspicious night of the first revelation of the Qur’an, and Id-e fetr, the celebration of the breaking of the fast, marked by the appearance of the new moon.

The Human World The Body Descriptions of the body play a primary role in Persian poetry, the poet’s favorite interlocutors being three characters, at times merged into one: the loved person (usually a handsome youth who, in early poetry, is generally a Turk but rarely also a female slave: the gender being difficult to identify, except by the context because Persian does not distinguish grammatical gender), the praised patron (generally the king or a dignitary of his court), and the object of worship (such as God, the Prophet, or an Imam). The main focus is on the face because of its greater significance and the fact that it is more suitable for figurative use, indispensable in mystical subjects. The face (sometimes indicated synecdochically by the cheeks) is rich in attributes and connotations (white as camphor or red like many flowers; it evokes the sun, or the moon, to which it is most frequently likened), and is also the setting for a group of extremely significant facial parts: eyebrow, eye, mouth, mole, down, eyelashes, chin and hair. The characteristics attributed to these parts are taken from the courtly world, frequently from contexts of war, feasts, games, hunts, love, religion, heresy, fragrances, colors, plants, animals, and forms of the alphabet. According to some mystical interpretations, the face as a whole represents the divine image. Abru ‘eyebrow’ The most typical and handsome eyebrows of the beloved join together, their arched form giving rise to numerous comparisons. They are associated with the prayer niche (therefore indicating the direction of prayer), the new moon (a sign of festivity, see The mea202

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surement of time), a polo mallet (with the mole of the beloved or the head of the lover as the ball), a bow (with lashes as arrows), and a horseshoe. The letters used to represent them are ‘eyn and the inverted nun. Cheshm ‘eye’ It is often likened to the narcissus. The black languid eye of the beloved is like that of a gazelle, and it is considered to be as beautiful as the paradisiacal houri’s eye; because of its seductive ways, and on account of its blackness, this eye is compared to a youthful Hindu slave. When weeping, the eye is associated with the upper part of a candle where the wick burns, causing drops of wax to fall like tears (in this case it is usually the lover’s eye). There is also mention of the eye pattern on the peacock’s tail. The most beautiful eyes are almond-shaped. The glances of the beloved are like arrows striking the lover, but there are also gazes with malevolent influences. In descriptions of the beloved, the black pupil is associated with the mole for its form and its color and also evokes the dark color of wine. Indeed, the beloved’s eye is described as being inebriated (mast). The beloved’s eye is also often called bimâr, literally ‘sick’, referring to the eye’s languor. The letters usually used to describe it are ṣâd, ‘eyn, and hâ-ye havvaz. Related to the eye is the mystical theme of the esoteric gaze (nazar), a way of looking capable not only of experiencing reality but also of changing it. Dahân ‘mouth’ Because of its conventionally small round shape, the mouth of the beloved is compared to a flower bud, to the head of the letter mim, and to a grain of the pomegranate. To exaggerate its smallness, it is often compared to a dot. Being red, it is also identified with red gems (rubies, carnelians, coral, etc.), with tulips, roses, pomegranate and Judas tree flowers, and wine. When the mouth smiles, it is like a halfopen pistachio. Its sweetness is reminiscent of milk (shir) and sugar (shekar, one of the few things other than wine of which the taste is the point of similarity). It is also called “salty,” which in Persian means attractive, pretty, engaging. The mouth is associated with the life-giving breath of Jesus, the Water of Life (âb-e hayât), and the 203

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paradisiacal sources of Kowthar (a pool in Paradise) and Salsabil (a fountain in Paradise). In many contexts (for example when color is intended) the mouth is indicated by the word lab ‘lip’. Khâl ‘mole’ Being small, black, round, and framed by the face, the mole is associated with the mark on the petals of the tulip and the dark stain of sin on the heart. Because of its color and charm, it is identified with a Hindu slave and the Ka’ba, both of which are black. Due to its shape, the mole is described as a polo ball (struck by the beloved’s curls as polo mallets), a bead in the rosary (in sarcasm seen as a device of deception), and the bait in a trap (like the forbidden grain eaten by Adam). It is perfumed with musk and compared to a grain of wild rue burning on the flames of the face. It is likened to the dots of the letters jim and nun, as well as to the ant, the fly, and the pupil of the eye. Khatt ‘budding mustache or beard, down’ The budding mustache or beard on the beloved’s face is indicated by the term khatt, which also has a generic meaning of “line,” and “script.” The beloved in Persian poetry generally refers to a male figure; therefore he is endowed with many masculine features such as bearing arms as a young soldier, serving wine at banquets, and being liable eventually to grow a moustache and beard, described as khatt when budding and fresh. Khatt evokes the idea of black writing on a white surface (the most commonly used writing to describe it is the minute type of script called khatt-e ghobâr). Khatt is black and so is identified with the Hindu slave, the night, crows, ants, and shadows (sâye). It is fragrant like black musk. Plants used as images for khatt are the violet, hyacinth, and basil. In general it is described as green, e.g., tender and fresh: being associated with green, khatt is compared to an emerald, to Khezr, and the parrot. The letters used to describe it are dâl and lâm. Khatt is also a halo around the moon of the beloved’s face. On young men’s cheeks, khatt is often described as a sign of beauty, since it expresses adolescent charm, but also as an inauspicious sign of aging, marking the end of puberty and attractiveness. In this context, the beard is likened to dust, smoke, and rust (zangâr). 204

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Mozhgân ‘eyelashes’ Eyelashes are described as arrows, javelins, darts, and stings aimed at lovers. But they are also conceived as a broom with which the lover sweeps dust from the beloved’s threshold or the street where he (the beloved) dwells. Muy ‘hair’ There are various types and terms for the beloved’s hair (gisu, muy, torre, zolf, ja’d, etc.). It is black like the Hindu slave, the night, and shadows, and fragrant like dark essences, such as musk (moshk), ambergris, and ghâliye, a cosmetic preparation. It is represented by various flowers (such as hyacinth, violet, and jasmine), and animals (such as the crow in its blackness, and the snake in its waviness). Many letters are used to indicate hair: jim, dâl, ‘eyn, gheyn, lâm, and vâv on account of their bend or curve. It is also described by instruments used in capturing prey (nooses, ropes, traps, and chains), the polo mallet, and heterodox symbols such as the Christian cross and the infidel’s girdle (zonnâr). Many hearts of lovers and admirers, captured by the beloved’s cruel beauty, dwell or are chained in it. Zanakhdân ‘chin’ Described as an apple (often a silver/sim apple), jasmine, and a polo ball, the beloved’s chin is celebrated for its dimple, usually compared to a pit or well (châh), and occasionally to two specific pits or wells: the well imprisoning Hârut and Mârut, two fallen angels, and the well in which Joseph was thrown by his brothers. The dimple is also considered to be a source of the Water of Life (âb-e hayât), and associated with the paradisiacal pool of Kowthar. Other Bodily Components In addition to the face and its components, other parts of the body have an important place in Persian poetry. The heart is one of the most recurrent words, and is of fundamental importance as the seat of the perception of the transcendent. The lover’s heart leaves 205

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him and departs in search of the beloved; it is lost to the lover and even no longer remembers him, having been so absorbed by the beloved. It is very often personified and is frequently addressed by the poet who complains of its wanderings, and its having fallen in love without considering the risks; it is disgraced (rosvâ) by his love’s scandal and becomes a target of rebuke when its impossible aspiration is revealed. The favorite place of the lover’s heart is the hair or the curls of the beloved where the hearts of many other admirers and lovers are also entangled or chained. The liver is connected with the sentimental and emotional sphere. The stature of the beloved is as tall and slender as a cypress and his waist is as thin as a hair. Breasts are compared to pomegranates. The forehead shines like a mirror. Teeth are pearls in color and brightness. Body fluids are also significant: blood is of key importance in connection with martyrs, and is often referred to because of its color. Tears are “burning” and “torrential”: they reveal the lover’s secret (i.e. his love). The lover tries to stop his tears but does not succeed. The suffering lover sheds bloody tears (ashk-e khunin) from his bleeding heart. Tears are described as pearls because of their form and brightness and, when red with blood, as rubies, carnelians, and pomegranate grains. Sweat shines as a sign of beauty on the beloved’s face. Actions and Emotions Love, whether profane (for the beloved or the prince) or sacred (for God), is the most frequently described emotion in Persian poetry. As a result, many actions and moods connected with love are described: hope, joy, suffering, sighing, union, separation, disappointment, faith, wickedness, patience, restlessness, envy, jealousy, lamenting, weeping, smiling, haughtiness, shame, sincerity, deception, misery, despair, dreaming, amorous looks, kissing, and necking. There are also actions connected with court life, such as war, feasting, and hunting. The most commonly mentioned senses are sight and smell in connection with the natural world. Particular emphasis is placed on speech and memory, but sleeping/dreaming 206

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also has an important place. The set of actions linked to magic are also described. Mystics abundantly stress the concept of the madness of love as opposed and preferable to the barrenness of reason, and often exalt the sovereign status of love compared to the ineffectiveness or abjectness of reason. Both are often personified.

The Social Context Life at Court War War is primarily associated with the prince. Battle situations are also used as images for other contexts, such as love (the beloved is often pictured as a young soldier wearing arms) and, to a lesser degree, clashes between forces of nature. The characteristic elements are mainly weapons, like the arrow and its tip, the sword, the bow, the spear, the dagger, the lasso, and the shield; other major elements are related to the horse’s riding equipment, such as harness, reins, stirrups, saddle, and saddle-straps. Some of the above are used in figurative descriptions: arrows and swords, for example, in addition to being weapons in general (and also weapons of destiny, wickedness, or ignorance), both stand for eyelashes and the glance of the beloved. Moreover, the arrow can symbolize a sigh, and lightning, while the sword is used for the tongue, and the sun’s rays; the bow symbolizes strength, the curved back of the sufferer, eyebrows, a rainbow, and yawning; the shield stands for patience and the sky. Feasting Of the various court activities, feasts were the main fountainhead of imagery for poets. They were celebrated as convivial gatherings with drinking, music, and dancing. The latter two were also part of the mystical experience among some Sufis, albeit at a different level. There are a series of images related primarily to musical contexts such as images concerning musical modes or melodies, and ­musical 207

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instruments. The musical modes are particularly evocative because they often have names with other meanings, such as Erâq, and Hejâz, both place names; Oshshâq, the plural of âsheq ‘lover’; and Râst, meaning “erect,” “straight.” The most important instrument in the mystical context is the reed flute: it will sound only if emptied of its inner substance. The flute’s notes are interpreted as the lament of the soul longing for its origins: the reedbed, whence it was cut (this theme became renowned thanks to Rumi’s Mathnavi-ye ma’navi’s opening lines). Other instruments described are the harp (chang), the rabâb (a rebec or viol), various kinds of lute, the tambourine, and the drum, but none has such powerful connotations as the flute. The harp is sometimes used to describe the curved back of the lover longing to be caressed by the beloved. There is a marked tendency to interpret the sound of most instruments as a lament. Mention is made of famous musicians of the past, especially the Sasanid Bârbad. In general, feasts are celebrated mostly with four motifs: the cup, wine, the candle, and the cupbearer. Jâm ‘cup’ The cup is associated with the motifs of wine and the cupbearer. Another of its properties is the capacity to reflect and reveal the mysteries of the cosmos. It is likened to Alexander’s mirror and is connected with the mythical sovereigns of ancient Iran, initially (according to Ferdowsi) with Jamshid and then with Key Khosrow. The cup, however, forms a kind of fixed pair with Jamshid (highlighted by the wordplay: jâm-e Jam ‘the cup of Jamshid’) who, according to tradition, discovered wine. This strictly Persian myth is combined with a more specifically Muslim tradition: in the Qur’an cups are offered to the blessed in Paradise (Suras LII: 23–24, and LVI: 17–18). The cup has many of the attributes of the heart (as the seat of intuition, understanding, and the perception of the transcendent), and is described as a mirror reflecting the image of the beloved. Various elements from the natural world are compared to the cup such as the tulip, rose, moon, sun, and sky. The ephemeral is evoked by likening the skulls of past rulers to it. In describing its structure reference is made to the seven lines (each with its own name) which characterized its various levels from Sasanid times. 208

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Mey ‘wine’ Like many other themes, wine was initially described for its earthly and material aspects, closely connected to banquets, cupbearers, taverns, etc. There is a rich tradition in this sense. All the early Persian poets wrote poems on this subject. They referred to two traditions of wine-making and drinking: the Arabic tradition and the ancient Persian tradition centered on the courtly banquets, Zoroaster (Zardosht), and Jamshid. In Arabic pagan poetry (the model for the subsequent Islamic tradition) there is often recourse to the motif of reveling connected with wine, at that time consumed in Christian monasteries scattered in the desert, but there was also an awareness of the ancient feasts and pomp in earlier Persian palaces. In later Arabic poetry, especially in Abbasid times, these motifs were elaborated, and occurred more frequently. There were almost habitual references to parties with wine flowing abundantly, offered by Christian or Zoroastrian cupbearers and hosts. The anacreontic motif was thus increasingly combined specifically with esoteric and blasphemous themes, against the backdrop of the Muslim prohibition of drinking wine (for the pious it was the “mother of all evils”). Mention of cupbearers and pure drinks is also found in the Qur’an (in descriptions of the paradisiacal joys, see, e.g. Suras LII: 23–24, and LVI: 17–18). This was in line with the later mystical connotation of the theme of wine whereby it assumed the virtue of revealing otherwise unfathomable divine mysteries. This mystical aspect created the conditions for the development of a complex and ambiguous topic involving wine and religion that was to deeply influence Persian poetic imagery. Many of the metaphorical uses of wine are based on its red color. Wine is associated with the tulip, rose, fire, ruby, carnelian, blood, pomegranate, and Judas tree. Moreover, it is fragrant and bitter. There is a recurrent connection with the beloved’s eyes, at times described as inebriated. In Hafezian satires its heretical connotation is highlighted when it soaks the prayer rug or stains a Sufi’s cloak. Figurative descriptions of wine are created by personification. It is described as the “daughter of the grapevine.” Other liquids associated with wine are Water of Life (âb-e hayât), and water from the paradisiacal pool of Kowthar. Major contextual elements are the cupbearer, the Zoroastrian 209

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wine-seller or tavern-keeper (pir-e moghân), ruins (kharâbât, i.e. places of debauchery frequented by rends and qalandars) where wine is drunk, and dregs (dord forming a pun with dard ‘suffering’) are consumed. It is associated with deyr (Christian monasteries), where wine is available, and sowme’e (a convent but in fact alluding to the mosque), where wine is ­forbidden. Sâqi ‘cupbearer’ (lit. ‘quencher of thirst’, ‘server of wine’) The cupbearer is a key character in Persian poetry. He was initially associated with the anacreontic motif of a handsome young slave (often of Turkish origin) who serves wine at the banquet, making the cup pass from hand to hand; he is also depicted as the object of erotic glances, amorous advances, or simply as the beloved. Later, especially because of the complex mystical development of the theme of the cup and wine, the cupbearer took on values related to initiation and esotericism: he was identified with the Zoroastrian wine-seller. Sham’ ‘candle’ The candle is one of the most fully explored images in Persian poetry. Many of its structural or contextual elements are used by poets both at denotative and connotative levels. In addition to being a companion to, and witness of, nocturnal love scenes at banquets, the candle is an image for the beloved (the moth-lover is first caught and then immolated on it), and the lover (gradually and inexorably consumed). Its flame is compared either to a tongue between wax lips, revealing secrets (in the mystical sense of Hallâj’s deed, or simply as a spy), or to a crown. Both are inauspicious elements because (in the form of the flame) they lead to the demise of the candle, either through slow burning or the wick being cut or snuffed. The part of the candle where the wax is melted by the flame is an image for an eye weeping (the drops of wax being tears) or a mouth laughing; it is also seen as a mark assigned to the candle at its birth and only removable with its death. There are other mystical connotations: the candle completes its voyage until extinguished while standing still (in this sense its light wisely illuminates only its feet); it finds comfort in its own destruction; it complains about being painfully 210

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far from its beloved origin, the place where wax comes from (usually associated with honey). The candle is also used as a model of exemplary behavior in that it burns and melts in order to cast light on those around it. Important contextual elements are both the fact that a candle’s end may coincide with a sudden breeze or the arrival of dawn (whose light is often contrasted with the candle’s flame), and its potential for play: shadows may be projected on walls, and silhouettes can be drawn on lanterns around it. In the natural world, the candle is used to describe the sun, moon, and stars. Placed on tombs, it is also a sign of mourning. The pair of moth (see Parvâne) and candle, together with the pair “nightingale and rose,” are the most frequently used and most expressive symbols of love and its suffering in Persian poetry. The moth is conceived as being in love with the candle’s flame, and burns itself in pursuing its love. Games Courtly pastimes included games such as polo, backgammon, and chess. In mystical poetry the hope is often expressed that the players (seen as men in society) will lose their games, because only when they are stripped of aspirations can they arrive at true victory, which in the case of those making the spiritual journey is absolute truth. Chowgân ‘polo/polo mallet’ Of Central Asian origin, polo was a favorite game at Persian courts. It is well suited to describing the theme of love: the lover’s head is compared to the ball struck by the mallet (the tresses or curls of the beloved). A variation used in descriptions of the beloved is that the pair “mallet/polo ball” stands for “curls/chin” or “eyebrow/mole.” Nard ‘backgammon’ Backgammon is of Persian origin. According to Ferdowsi, Buzarjomehr (Bozorgmehr), the legendary minister of the Sasanid King Khosrow Anushiravân, invented this game and sent it to India in exchange for the gift of a chess set. The moves, and most of the related images, are connected to the dice and numbers. The technical 211

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aspects are often comprehensible only to those who know how to play the game. Shatranj ‘chess’ According to Ferdowsi, chess is of Indian origin. A chess set was sent as a gift to the Sasanid King Khosrow Anushiravân (see Nard). The chessboard is often seen as the world stage on which people are unwittingly moved. Because of the literal meaning of some technical terms (see, for example, the pieces called king, minister, foot soldier, elephant, and horse), chess is particularly well suited to describing courtly life, battles, and love stories. Hunting In Persian poetry there are various descriptions of hunting connected with the prince who follows and captures prey: he is like a lion hunting gazelles, but at times he also captures lions. The most common weapons are the lasso and the bow and arrow, but there are also many references to bonds, nooses, traps, and baits. All of these are also used in describing elements in love stories: looks, curls, moles, etc. Another common form of hunting, at times with figurative connotations, is falconry. Fabrics and clothes Weaving and tailoring have a prominent place in the Persian world. According to Ferdowsi, the origin of clothes goes back to the mythical sovereigns Gayumarth and Jamshid. The Qur’an also has many references and allusion to clothes (for example, Joseph’s shirt), and there is frequent mention of materials and precious clothes at court, where it was customary to award robes of honor as gifts and marks of appreciation. Moreover, habits and tunics of poor, rough material were a part of Sufi life. According to the mystics, God (or love) is the greatest tailor. Another great tailor in Persian poetry is nature, as it weaves multicolored clothes of fields and flowers. Significantly, weaving is connected with the art of speech, and words are described as the clothes of meaning. Other elements of this semantic field mentioned in poetry are the belt, the infidel’s 212

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girdle (zonnâr), sleeves, collars, hats, turbans (dastâr), and winding sheets. There are also related themes such as torn clothes signifying madness, the veil as a sign of modesty, and the paper shirt on which complaints were written to be shown to judges. Perfumes and cosmetics Perfumes and cosmetics were widely used at court, and poets make figurative use of them to enliven other images. In addition to their pleasant fragrance, their color is also highlighted as in the case of musk, ambergris, and the mixed preparation known as ghâliye. On the grounds of their blackness (musk is often opposed to white camphor), these three perfumes are mentioned in descriptions of the beloved’s hair, down, and mole. The greatly celebrated musk (moshk) is traditionally said to be produced by a type of Central Asian gazelle or musk deer: blood coagulates in the navel of the animal, which produces itchiness. The gazelle tries to seek relief by rubbing itself on sun-heated stones, causing the navel to open. The spilt blood then coagulates on the hot stones and is gradually transformed into a perfumed black musk. Other materials release their fragrance after being thrown on a fire, such as aloe and wild rue. One of the most important cosmetics is sorme, a dark powder (antimony oxide) used as make-up for the eye. Wounds and medicine The relation between lover and beloved is often represented as that between a patient and physician. The lover-patient is described as pale, with blood-red tears, and wasted by unrequited love. The only physician able to cure him is the beloved, who, however, is also the cause of his illness. Medicines are thus mentioned, such as pulverized stone mixtures, or antidotes in general. At times there is talk of wounds and the balsam required to cure them. Nature, with its various elements and seasons, is also the subject of complex imagery connected with the world of medicine.

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Various objects Some significant objects for Persian poets have already been described above (see, for example, Jâm and Sham’). Other particularly important objects outside our various groups are the mirror, kebab, and a bottle housing a genie. Âyine ‘mirror’ The metal or glass mirror is noted especially for its bright and smooth surface, and for its sincerity and honesty in reflecting whatever it faces. It is used as an image for the sky, moon, sun, pond, and parts of the body (the face, heart, forehead, and eyes). From a mystical point of view, the mirror is said to reveal celestial secrets and, consequently, is often associated with the cup. Important contextual motives associated with the mirror are sighing, and rust (zangâr) (both blurring it and impairing its function), the pumice stone (used to make it shiny), the parrot, and Alexander. Kabâb ‘kebab’ The kebab is a typical image in the repertoire related to food which is particularly popular in humorous and satirical verse. The term, however, is also widely used in serious poetry to describe the suffering or burning of the heart (the organ of understanding), or liver (seat of the emotions). In these cases, the accent is not so much on the dynamic aspect (the turning skewer), or the sensation (taste), as the formal and intellectual analogy between two characters in a similar situation, e.g., exposed to burning and pain. Moreover, the theme of “burning and roasting” evokes the idea of the slow gradual path to spiritual wisdom, e.g., the journey of the mystic’s soul. In this context, the roasting flames are those of love and are sometimes identified with the red cheeks of the beloved. Pari and shishe ‘the genie in the bottle’ The story of a genie contained in a bottle is linked to Solomon. According to tradition, he imprisoned a number of disobedient jinns in a bottle and threw them into the sea. The story has been adapted in various ways. For example, the bottle may represent the fragile 214

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heart of the lover containing the beloved, and sometimes the genie enclosed in the bottle is an image for wine. Writing Writing is a typical art of the Muslim world. Its development benefited from religious disapproval of figurative art. The letters of the alphabet thus became the subject of deep reflection: their graphic aspects were discussed and studied for their geometric relations by many experts and scholars, such as Ebn-Moqle (10th century), and used decoratively by famous calligraphers (who were greatly respected professionals at court), such as Yâqut (13th century). The poetic value of the alphabet is mainly due to the fact that every letter has its own connotations: similarities with parts of the body (see below), numerical values (according to a method called hesâb-e abjad which assigns numerical values to the letters of the alphabet)7, and mystical qualities (the Horufi sect is the most extreme in this respect). The most important letters are alef and mim. The letter alef corresponds to the number 1 and, according to the rules for writing the alphabet, is the yardstick for measuring and shaping all other letters and thus may be considered the original letter. It is also the first letter of the word Allâh (God), and its thin shape is particularly well suited to represent the slender stature of the beloved. Because of these features, alef is also associated with the concept of divine unity. The letter mim, (numerical value 40), indicates the number of stages separating man from God. It also points to the Prophet, being found in the names Mohammad and Ahmad, and because of its small round head, is an image for the mouth of the beloved. Other letters are mentioned especially because of their similarity with parts of the beloved’s body: the jim is the curl (its dot is the mole); the inverted nun is the eyebrow (here too its dot is the mole); the ‘eyn is the eye, the eyebrow, and the tresses; the dâl and lâm are long hair and the down; the gheyn and vâv are hair; the ṣâd and hâ-ye havvaz are the eye. Also, the word for script, khatt, 7

See Chapter 10 on Riddles for the sequence and numerical value of the letters of the alphabet.

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represents a facial trait: the beloved’s newly-sprouted beard. The dâl is one of the few letters used to describe a part of the lover’s body: his bent back. In the natural world, the new moon is often described as a dâl or râ. Of the combined letters, mention is made of lâm-alef, used for extreme closeness between people or objects (from the graphic point of view this combination, which is also the beginning of the profession of faith, is considered to be a single letter), the kâf-nun, alluding to the Arabic kon (the imperative “be!”, the word attributed by the Qur’an to God in proceeding with the creation, see, e.g., Sura II: 117), and the mysterious set of letters at the beginning of some Suras adopted as a paradigm of unfathomable mysteries. There are also important contextual elements: ink (usually black), pages (nature is seen as a huge book), and the pen (reed pen). Metaphorical use of the pen is made in mystical poetry: the fact that it must be cut and sharpened at one end is connected with the mystic who must “lose his head” to be enlightened by truth. The most frequently cited writing styles are those whose names enable the poet to make lexical associations or puns: ghobâr, for example, is a style of small, tidy writing and, thanks also to its basic meaning of “dust,” it is associated with the dark down on the face of the beloved, in this case a handsome page; the style called reyhân, on the other hand, alludes to the garden, given that the word reyhân means “basil” or flower in general. Moreover, AraboPersian rhetoric has a series of puns and expedients based on the graphics of the alphabet: figures are created by exploiting the potential of a letter to be tied to the following letter in a ligature or knot; similarly, use is made of the presence or absence of diacritical marks, and of possible interpretations hinted at by changing only the diacritical marks (this practice is called tashif and is used to create double meanings, at times obscene). Numbers The importance of numbers in Persian poetry is mainly due to their symbolism. Number one is associated with the uniqueness of God. Number two brings to mind the two worlds, and two-ness (do’i) symbolizes the differences and disputes among people, while 216

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two-facedness (do-ru’i) means hypocrisy. Number three is associated with the father, son, and holy spirit (ab, ebn, and ruh al-qodos), three cups of wine to be drunk in the early morning (thalâthe ghassâle), supposed to be beneficial to the body, and three human activities: thought, speech, and deed (andishe, goftâr, kerdâr). However, the most important numbers are four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, fourteen, forty, a hundred, and a thousand. There are four cardinal points, elements, and humors. There are five senses, fingers, and pillars of Islam (the profession of faith, five daily prayers, almsgiving, fasting in Ramadan, and pilgrimage to Mecca). There are six directions. There are seven parts of the body, seas, climes, planets, stars in Ursa Major, days of the week, and lines on the cup. The magic of number seven goes back to ancient times and still influences a number of aspects of daily life in Persia: some gestures and expressions are repeated seven times and there is a famous assemblage of items called haft sin ‘seven sins’ (sin being a letter in the Arabo-Persian alphabet). This consists of arranging seven items whose names begin with the letter sin on a tray or table at Nowruz, the New Year festival. There are eight Paradises. There are nine spheres (the spheres of seven planets plus the sphere of fixed stars and the sphere moving all the others) and, mainly in satirical contexts, nine openings in the body. The moon takes fourteen days to wax completely. Some ritual periods required forty days: the return to purity of a woman after giving birth, while forty stages separate man from God. A hundred and a thousand indicate exaggerated multiplicity or amount. Numbers are also used in connection with backgammon and the art called aqd-e anâmel (consisting in representing numbers according to various positioning of the fingers). Characters The courtly characters described in Persian poetry are connected to the main poetic themes. In the context of love, there are the beloved, the lover, and his rivals (including those who are responsible for guarding the beloved); in feasts we find musicians and cupbearers; the mystical religious world is inhabited by mystics 217

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and ­ascetics, preachers, and censors; flowers and plants are looked after by the gardener; in war there are princes, soldiers, enemies, and allies. Other court characters include the poor, beggars, judges, heads of the police, and clerks, while in the field of health or illness we find the patient, the physician, and nurses or caretakers (parastâr). Places around the Court Most events narrated by Persian poets take place in the rooms and gardens of the court. A number of other peripheral places, however, are also settings for poetry. The most important in the city are the tavern, the market, and the quarter where the beloved dwells (the lover rubs his face on the beloved’s threshold, and he brushes the dust from it with his eyelashes). Outside the city walls we find the (more or less deserted) plain, the mountain slopes covered with vegetation and flowers, and frequented by animals, and the ruins (kharâbât) where drinking bouts with wine are held by rends (see Mey) and qalandars, but also by those disgusted with the hypocrisy and cant of the pseudo-religious figures. As far as places outside the city walls are concerned, an important role is played by the caravan and the kârvânsarâ(y). Kâr(e)vân ‘caravan’ The image of the kâr(e)vân is connected to the idea of the journey, especially through deserted and inhospitable lands. The journey of the kâr(e)vân is characterized by stops, and threatened by brigands. The time of packing and departure is particularly significant, and is marked by the sound of a bell. The leader of the kâr(e)vân and the litter (usually for beautiful or important persons) are interesting contextual elements. The kâr(e)vân leaving behind sleeping travelers stands for the idea of a missed opportunity. The people traveling with a kâr(e)vân also leave behind the ashes of the fire that they had kindled. The ashes symbolize the passage of the beloved and are reminiscent of her. The kârvânsarâ(y), being a place of arrival and departure, is often a metaphor for the world. 218

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Countries and Peoples Various countries are celebrated for their objects, products, or natural elements, such as Badakhshân (for rubies), China (for their idols and idol-houses), Egypt (sugar), India (elephants, peacocks, parrots, swords, camphor, chess, and dark-skinned slaves), Khotan (gazelles and musk), and Yemen (carnelian, bord, a linen fabric, and the star Soheyl or Canopus). Other countries are celebrated for the beauty of their inhabitants (China, Kashmir, and Turkestan, especially its regions of Chegel and Khottal), while some are linked to stories of famous characters such as China (Mâni), and Egypt (Moses, Pharaoh, and Joseph). Peoples frequently mentioned are the Indians and Turks. Both terms are used to suggest handsome young men, but with different specific features. The Indians are described as beguiling, fascinating slaves. They are related to the color black, hence the term hendu (also linked to Saturn, known as the “Hindu of the sky”) is an image for hair, eyes, moles, and the night. The Turks are contrasted with the Indians for their fairer skin. They are famous soldiers (hence Mars’ nickname as the “Turk of the sky”), pages, and cupbearers. They are also mentioned for their drunkenness and their cruelty, obstreperousness, irascibility, and fickleness. Their face is described as round as the moon with almond-like eyes, their eyelashes similar to shooting arrows, and a small mouth like the head of the letter mim or a dot. The most famous Turkish slave is Ayâz, the favorite of the Ghaznavid Sultan Mahmud.

The Cultural Tradition Islam Characters and Motifs Mentioned in the Qur’an Âdam ‘Adam’ Adam was the first man and a model of humankind, and was created in the likeness of God. God revealed the names of all things to Adam, and the angels were asked to bow before him. But ­Eblis 219

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(Satan) refused, mindful of the divine will that he should bow only before the Creator, and certain of the superiority of his fiery nature over Adam’s earthly nature. In some Sufi traditions and exegeses of the Qur’an, Eblis is exalted, as his refusal to bow before Adam is taken as a sign of his worship and reverence of only God. Eblis was cursed by God but accepted this condition as a privilege, thus becoming, in some Sufi interpretations, a symbol for the lover totally dedicated to the beloved. To wreak revenge on Adam, he declared he would tempt and torment human progeny until Judgment Day. According to an ancient exegetic tradition, Adam’s guilt was not having tasted the Biblical apple, but rather a grain of wheat which, because of its round shape and seductiveness, is often used as an image for the mole of the beloved. Ebrâhim ‘Abraham’ True to the pure faith, Abraham renounced the idolatrous creed of his father (Âzar, a maker of pagan idols, and a symbol of the profession) and all other religions, thus devoting himself to monotheism. He constructed and consecrated the Ka’ba. He is called Khalil ­Allâh ‘the Friend of God’. In poetry there are frequent references to the episode when the tyrant Nimrod threw Abraham onto a pyre (hence the pun on âdhar ‘fire’ and Âzar); Abraham emerged unscathed because the Lord ordered that the fire be “cool and gentle” (Sura XXI: 68–69); hence, the many allusions to the warmth of love and its pleasures, and to the flames being transformed through love and faith into a rose garden. Eskandar ‘Alexander’ Alexander the Great, the Macedonian conqueror of Iran, was adopted by the Persian courtly literary tradition, probably in pre­Islamic times, through the Alexander romance (based on PseudoCallisthenes’s account translated into Middle Persian, and from that language into Old Syriac), in which Alexander was transformed from a foreign conqueror into a scion of the Kayanid King Dârâ the Elder and a positive hero, having even prophetic aspects. He is usually identified with the Dhu ’l-qarneyn ‘the Two-Horned One’ of the Qur’an (Sura XVIII: 83–98) who built the dam against Gog and 220

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Magog, enemies of the civilized world. A cycle of Alexander’s deeds was versified by Ferdowsi. Alexander is celebrated in poetry especially because of his quest for the Water of Life (âb-e hayât), guided there by the prophet Khezr, and because of the mirror he built on a tower in Alexandria to observe enemy ships (due to its revelatory qualities, that mirror is often associated with the cup of Jamshid). His deeds are narrated by various poets, and there is a particularly famous handling of the theme in Nezâmi’s Eskandar-nâme. Isâ ‘Jesus’ In the Muslim tradition, Jesus is simply a prophet, and not the Son of God. Of the prophets, however, he was the ablest worker of miracles since he was born of a virgin, ascended into heaven (according to Islam, Jesus was not crucified), and is immortal. The most typical feature of Jesus in poetry is his life-giving breath, capable of curing the ill and resuscitating the dead (he supposedly fashioned clay birds and then blew life into them). His breath has been associated with the lips of the beloved, the spring breeze, and wine, all highly vital and transfigurative elements. Jesus is called Ruh Allâh ‘the Spirit of God’. At times it is mentioned that Jesus was unable to reach the divine presence, having stopped in the fourth heaven because a needle he was carrying invalidated his state of poverty. He is induced to dance by the enchanting sounds made by the planet Venus. Despite these shortcomings, the mystics considered him to be the model of a saint, the perfect poor man, and the symbol of the human soul. As such, he is contrasted with his mount, the donkey, an emblem of the flesh. In some expressions, he is a metaphor for the sun, which is also in the fourth heaven. He will defeat the Dajjâl (the Antichrist), who is to come before the end of time. Jesus is sometimes mentioned with Khezr because, like him, he is an immortal guide. Khezr Although not mentioned directly in the Qur’an, Khezr is usually identified with Moses’ companion at the “confluence of the two oceans” (Sura XVIII: 60). He is Alexander’s guide on his famous journey through the land of darkness in search of the Water of Life 221

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(âb-e hayât): unlike Alexander, Khezr manages to drink some and thus becomes immortal. This episode explains his role as the patron of travelers. His name is derived from an Arabic root expressing the idea of green, a color connected not only with joy and freshness but also with the beloved’s down, with whom Khezr is often associated (the source of Water of Life in this case is the beloved’s mouth and lips). Traditionally, he wears green (apparently derived from the literal meaning of his name), and wherever he walks grass grows. Because of his close relations with the color green, he is mentioned in metaphors and similes for the sky. He is sometimes set beside Jesus because, like him, he is an immortal guide. Maryam ‘Mary’ The Muslim tradition accepts the view that Mary was a virgin when she gave birth to Jesus. Her pregnancy is linked to the episode of the palm: having gone in a state of desperation to a secluded place to give birth, Mary is comforted by God who makes a stream and a date palm appear. She then gathers the dates by shaking the palm (a symbol for a fecund, miraculous tree). Musâ ‘Moses’ Moses symbolizes the monotheistic prophetic tradition and is an enemy of the worship of idols. The poets concentrate on a few of the many stories in the Qur’an concerning Moses. The first is connected with his birth, when his mother left him in the Nile to save him from the wrath of the Pharaoh, his archenemy. Another famous episode concerns his journeying in the Sinai area with his family, when from afar Moses sees a “burning bush.” On approaching it, he hears the voice of the Lord, who invites him to follow his prophetic mission by showing him some miracles: Moses throws his rod to the ground and the rod is transformed into a serpent; after pressing his hand on his chest, his hand becomes completely white (Sura XX: 17–23). Moses then uses these miraculous signs to defeat the Egyptian magicians. His great rival was Sâmeri, who built the golden calf in an attempt to win away the people’s devotion to God (Sura XX: 95–98). Another miracle attributed to Moses was striking twelve springs of water from a rock with his rod to quench 222

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his people’s thirst. An episode concerning Moses often cited by poets is his rejected plea to look directly at God. God’s reply in the Arabic phrase lan tarâni ‘Thou shalt not see me’ (Sura VII: 143) summarizes the beloved’s mystical denial to the lover who longs to contemplate him. This phrase was uttered by the Lord to Moses on Mount Sinai when he gave him the Tablets of the Law. Moses is associated with Khezr because Khezr is said to have accompanied him on the journey to “the confluence of the two oceans.” In some contexts, Moses represents a rigid demand for strict observance of religious ordinances and rituals, which contrasts with the lenient and broad-minded attitude of the Sufis who emphasize the spirit of religion rather than its outward aspects. Namrud ‘Nimrod’ King of Babylon and enemy of Abraham, Nimrod refused to be converted to monotheism. Two notorious episodes are cited in poetry: his failed attempt to burn Abraham on a pyre, and his shooting arrows at God after being taken to heaven by three vultures (God sent the arrows back covered in blood, pretending he had been wounded). Nimrod’s army was destroyed by a swarm of gnats, and he died after a gnat penetrated his brain. Paradise Various elements from Paradise are used by the poets to highlight features in the earthly world: the paradisiacal sources (Kowthar and Salsabil) symbolize the beloved’s life-giving lips, his or her dimple on the chin, and wine; the beloved’s stature is likened to the Tubâ tree; the maidens of Paradise, the beautiful black-eyed houris, are resorted to representing beautiful women. Ruz-e alast ‘the day of the Primordial Covenant’ The motif refers to an episode in the Qur’an when God asks men to accept him as their Lord in a covenant agreed on before the beginning of time. Men submitted to the Lord and accepted any divine decision concerning them. The covenant is usually indicated by alast, literally, “Am I not?”, which according to the Qur’an (Sura VII: 172) is the initial phrase of the question that God put to men: 223

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Alasto be-rabbekom? ‘Am I not your Lord?’ Especially in mystical poetry, this theme is colored with fatalism mixed with suffering, since the affirmative answer given by men is conveyed by the word balâ ‘yes’, forming a pun with its homophone balâ ‘affliction’ and thus suggests men could no longer free themselves from their accepted fate, which is linked to suffering. Soleymân ‘Solomon’ A king and prophet, Solomon is celebrated for his extraordinary powers. Thanks to his magic seal, he commanded the winds (his throne was windborne), men, beasts, demons, jinns, and birds (he understood their language). Other elements connected with Solomon are Belqis, the Queen of Sheba (whom he conquered and converted, her throne being carried to him by the jinns; note the pun between Sabâ ‘Sheba’ and sabâ ‘breeze’), the hoopoe who served as a messenger from Solomon to the Queen of Sheba, the minister Âsaf (famed for his wisdom), the ant who brought him a locust’s leg as a gift, symbolizing humble presents. Poets also mention the episode when a demon stole the magic seal as a punishment for Solomon’s lack of faith, and ruled in his place for forty days until Solomon fished his seal from the sea and won back his throne. His mystical connotations are linked to his knowledge of the language of the birds (the image by antonomasia for souls). In Islamic Persia he was sometimes identified with the mythical world-ruler ­Jamshid. Yusof ‘Joseph’ Joseph is one of the favorite characters with Persian poets. He is the subject of a whole Sura and his life is described in the Qur’an as the “most beautiful story” (Sura XII). Joseph is the classic representation of the beloved, and various episodes in the Qur’an concerning him have fascinated poets. Joseph’s story in the Qur’an begins with him dreaming in his native Canaan. His night vision of eleven stars; the sun and the moon bowing to him is interpreted by his father Jacob (Ya’qub) as a sign of great fortune which must be concealed from his jealous brothers. But his brothers lower him into a well (châh; because of this, Joseph is associated with the dimple in the beloved’s chin, which is described as a well). They then soak 224

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his shirt in blood and take it back to their father, claiming a wolf had devoured him. But a caravan of travelers saves Joseph and sells him to the rich and powerful Egyptian, Potiphar. He takes Joseph to Egypt, where the young man is the protagonist in episodes that also become important poetic themes. Some are based on the love of Potiphar’s wife Zoleykhâ for Joseph. There are two famous episodes in this story: Zoleykhâ ripping Joseph’s shirt in her attempt to keep him from running away, and the feast at which some Egyptian women invited by Zoleykhâ are so struck by Joseph’s beauty that they cut their hands instead of the food on their plates (according to some traditions, the oranges that they were peeling). Unfairly accused by Zoleykhâ of making advances to her, Joseph is thrown in prison where he interprets a number of dreams, and thus his fortune changes and he rises to high public office. Unaware of his identity, his brothers visit him in search of provisions during a famine. He recognizes them and decides to send his shirt back with them to his elderly father Jacob, who in the meantime has lost his sight through excessive weeping. Jacob smells his son’s shirt on the wind from afar and, after rubbing it against his eyes, regains his sight. The richness and complexity of these episodes lend themselves particularly well for use in lyrical poetry, and by extension in mystical poems. See, for example, Joseph’s suffering before reaching his high social standing (similar to the soul freeing itself from the prison of the body), the attraction his presence exercises, and Jacob’s miraculous recovery from blindness. A famous mystical handling of the story of Joseph is Jâmi’s Yusof o Zoleykhâ. Angels Angels have less dignity than man. They are perfect but incapable of experiencing love, and not liable to improvement whereas man can aspire to spiritual stages beyond the reach of angels. Indeed, God asks the angels to bow to Adam and teaches him, not the angels, the names of things. Gabriel is famous for having brought the revelation of the Qur’an to Mohammad, for having accompanied him in his nocturnal ascension to heaven, and for having made the annunciation to Mary; a symbol of the intellect, Gabriel is a messenger from God to man. Esrâfil is the trumpeter who wakes the 225

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dead from their graves on Judgment Day. Ezrâ’il is the angel of death; he takes people’s lives at the appointed time, and there is no escape from him. Eblis is the fallen angel who disobeyed God and tempts people (see Adam). He is the paragon of evil and looks like it too. Rezvân is the guardian of one of the heavenly gardens (or of the gates to Paradise), and thus symbolizes a custodian of beauty and precious things. A famous pair of angels mentioned in the Qur’an and also described by Persian poets, are Hârut and Mârut. They are sent to earth to watch over human behavior. After falling in love with a girl (according to some traditions, they reveal to her the secret word allowing her to move back and forth from heaven), they fall from the ranks of the angels and are punished by being hung upside down in a pit (châh) in Babylon. From the pit they teach men magic. Because of this story, Hârut and Mârut are used to describe the deceptive eyes of the beloved whereas the pit of Babylon is synonymous with magic. Another pair of angels mentioned by poets is Nakir and Monkar. Their duty is to interrogate the newly dead about their faith and, if necessary, punish them. They are thus symbols for torment. There are also two angels sitting on the shoulders of each person (kerâm al-kâtebin ‘exalted scribes’) for recording the person’s deeds to be presented at the Day of Judgment. Other Characters from the Qur’an Persian poets mention a series of other characters from the Qur’an, each with a distinctive feature. Loqmân is a wise old man who gives advice. Qârun is portrayed as a greedy rich man who is swallowed up by the earth along with his riches. David is famed for his voice, often used to describe the songs of birds, and as a maker of armor. Jonah is the symbol for a sinner who repents and is pardoned (in the episode with the great fish). Job is famous for his steadfast patience in the face of a harsh destiny (he loses his sons, goods, sight, and is attacked by voracious worms); he is a symbol for the lover ready to endure trials and suffering. The pre-Islamic Arabic people of the ‘Âd are known for their rebellious attitude towards God and for their magnificent gardens and castle in their capital Eram, built 226

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by the ruler Shaddâd who had arrogantly thought that his garden vied with Paradise (for this reason his city was destroyed by God). Other Characters and Motifs from Islamic Culture Hallâj A mystic and martyr, Hallâj is one of the most popular figures from Muslim history in Persian poetry. He was executed for having declared anâ ’l-Haqq ‘I am the Truth’, thus claiming to have achieved that divine state which orthodox Muslims deem unattainable. His sacrifice is interpreted as a sign of the supreme ignominy, paradoxically bringing the believer nearer to God according to the reversal of values in certain mystical traditions and in the Persian poetry inspired by it (see Shaykh San’ân). Hallâj is also described as a lover guilty of having revealed the hidden secret (e.g., man’s claim to divinity) and, in particular, the name of his beloved. In general he symbolizes boundless passion and is a model of ecstatic behavior, having sacrificed himself for love. Leyli and Majnun The old Arabic story of Laylâ and Majnun is one of the most famous love stories in the whole Muslim East. A young man called Qeys falls in love with Laylâ (Leyli in Persian), a childhood mate but a member of an enemy tribe. The girl returns his love, but various obstacles thwart their relationship and the desperate Qeys behaves so unconventionally that he is considered to be majnun ‘mad, possessed’ and is condemned by the community (young boys throw stones at him: children throwing stones at madmen is a recurrent topos in poetry). When Leyli’s family learns of the situation, an ill-fated, tormented love story ensues. In desperation Majnun goes off into the wilderness where he is told that Leyli has wed another. Increasingly isolated from the community, Majnun wanders in the wilderness, obsessed with his beloved and following her every trace. He lives among animals and his favorite is the gazelle whose black eyes recall those of Leyli (note the pun with leyl ‘night’). After various episodes, Leyli dies and Majnun rushes to her tomb where, after several days of weeping, he also dies. The 227

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story has been reworked several times, also in a mystical vein: Majnun thus becomes the lover who refuses the world of reason and is lost in the deserts of passion. The most famous version of the story is Nezâmi’s poem Leyli o Majnun. Mahmud and Ayâz The Ghaznavid sultan Mahmud is celebrated historically for his military campaigns and the literary splendor of his court. His fame in poetry, however, is linked to a love story with Ayâz, a young Turkish slave renowned for his cleverness, good looks, and his complete obedience and devotion to his sovereign lover Mahmud. The subject of many profane and mystical poems, their love story attracted poets also because of the difference in the protagonists’ social standing. This undoubtedly influenced the poetic topos of the sovereign-beggar relationship as a paradigm for love. Shaykh San’ân Shaykh San’ân is a traditional model for mystical self-denigration. This kind of behavior, typical of the malâmatiyye (antinomian) school of Sufism, very popular in Persian mystical poetry, leads poets to praise the flouting of religious commands, impiety and socially condemned behavior: abandoning reason is a symbol of giving oneself up to one’s passion and committing shameless and socially unacceptable behavior indicating, in the mystical reversal of values, the best way to subdue one’s pride and sense of Self (see Heresy and scorn). The story of San’ân is narrated in Attâr’s ­Manteq al-teyr. The respected head of a religious community, he falls in love with a Christian girl and under her influence begins to drink wine, throws his garment of a shaikh in the fire and dons the girdle (zonnâr) worn by non-Muslims. Eventually he returns to his circle with the girl, who converts to Islam. He symbolizes the power of passionate love. Ritual Elements Various elements from Islamic rites are used as images highlighting aspects of love. The beloved’s face is claimed to provide the direc228

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tion for prayer (e.g., like Mecca); the prayer niche is the beloved’s eyebrows; rosary beads stand for the lover’s tears or the beloved’s moles; the Ka’ba is identified with the beloved’s mole and a beloved woman In profane perspectives and in a satirical spirit against religious cant and hypocrisy, the prayer rug is stained with wine or is pawned for it. Ancient Persian Traditions Anushiravân and Bozorgmehr Khosrow I, known as Anushiravân, was a Sasanid king famed for his knowledge and sense of justice. His legendary minister Bozorgmehr was a model of wisdom, a dispenser of sound advice, and the inventor of backgammon. Bahrâm-e Gur Bahrâm V was a Sasanid king celebrated for his hunting exploits and merry life. His story is narrated in Nezâmi’s Haft peykar. The term gur ‘onager’ is linked to this king because of his skill in hunting the animal with the bow. This term is also used in connection with Bahrâm’s end: he entered a cave in pursuit of an onager and, unable to find his way out, is entombed there; according to another tradition, he bogged down and perished in a swamp while pursuing an onager (there is a pun between the homonyms gur ‘onager’ and gur ‘tomb’). The contrast between his life of pleasure and his ignominious end symbolizes the fickleness of fortune and unpredictability of fate. Farhâd and Shirin Farhâd is a character in a famous love story. He becomes passionately enamored with the Armenian Princess Shirin, the object of passion, and (after the death of Farhâd) the wife of the Sasanid King Khosrow Parviz. To prove his love, Farhâd must dig a channel in the rocks of Mount Bisotun so that fresh milk from the peak will reach his beloved (in Persian milk is shir, thus forming a pun with Shirin, meaning “sweet”). He then promises to tunnel through the 229

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mountain to obtain Khosrow’s permission to marry Shirin. Having almost accomplished his mission, Farhâd (consequently known as kuh-kan ‘mountain digger’) is falsely told that Shirin is dead by a messenger from Khosrow. In a fit of desperation he kills himself. The suicide is described by the poets in two different ways: some claim Farhâd killed himself with his ax whereas others say that he banged his head on the rocks. After his death, the blood-soaked fields of Bisotun become covered in red tulips. Mystically, the episode testifies to the vanity of earthly striving. Farhâd’s story is narrated by several Persian poets, most importantly by Nezâmi in his Khosrow o Shirin. The figure of Farhâd is contrasted with Majnun: the latter is the passionate, possessed madman, while Farhâd tries to win the beloved through strength and perseverance. Jamshid Jamshid is one of the most famous mythical kings of ancient Iran. His deeds are narrated in the Shahname: he is said to have taught men a great many things including tailoring and medicine, to have discovered precious stones and perfumes, and to have founded the feast of Nowruz; he was the first to drink wine (later traditions claim he discovered wine). Guilty of pride and of vying with the deity, he was punished by God and his kingdom was usurped by Zahhâk. In poetry he is mainly connected with the motif of the cup (see Jâm) that revealed the secrets of the world. But he is also mentioned simply to stress that even the glory of great kings is transitory, and that no one can avoid his fate. In the Islamic Persian tradition he is identified with Solomon. Rostam Rostam is the most important warrior hero in the Shahname. Endowed with extraordinary strength, he is at the center of the struggle between Iran (the civilized world) and its demonic neighbor Turan. He is the ideal champion: courageous, resourceful, and mighty. Son of Zâl and Rudâbe, from whom he is born with the help of the miraculous bird Simorgh, even as a young boy he showed his prowess as a warrior, accomplishing legendary deeds such as killing a white elephant. His many combats (always astride his trusted steed 230

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­ akhsh) include a fight with a white demon and, most importantly, R single combats against Sohrâb and Esfandyâr. Many poets narrate the tragic tale of the fight with his son Sohrâb, whom he recognizes only after dealing the fatal blow to him. In this fight, and in the one with Esfandyâr (who had been asked by his father to chain Rostam and bring him to the court), Rostam was aided by the Simorgh. Another of his important deeds was saving the young Persian hero Bizhan from imprisonment in a well (châh), where he had been thrown by Iran’s perennial enemy, the Turanian king Afrâsiyâb. Rostam is eventually killed after his stepbrother sets a trap, making him and his horse fall into a well where he and Rakhsh are impaled. Flouting Islamic Values Persian poetry came into being nourished by canonic and stylistic clichés related to the flouting of Islamic values and scorn for them. It became fashionable to express disdain for religious observances and championing an antinomian attitude, implying that there was more to religion than performing the simple ritual and external obedience to the Islamic faith (see the preface to the “Inventory of images”). Even when the poet is a pious and firm Muslim, he shows as a matter of poetic convention his preference for misbelief (i.e. any non-Muslim faith, including idolatry). In his verse he thus chooses the infidel’s girdle (zonnâr) rather than the Islamic rosary; he sings the praise of temples and taverns rather than mosques; he seeks the company of Christian and Zoroastrian wine-sellers and cupbearers instead of preachers and mullahs; he glorifies the lifestyle of rends and qalandars (anti-social debauchers) as a jibe against ascetics (zâheds), preachers, judges, religious censors (mohtasebs) and pseudo-Sufis; he ironically raises the status of the Zoroastrian tavern-keeper, who practices an abject and sinful profession, to that of a wise and saintly sage (Pir-e moghân, lit. ‘the Magian mentor/master’) who knows and dispenses the secrets of life beyond the reach of shaikhs and Sufi masters. This inverted behavior implies the use of a series of religious images. Initially, they had a purely formal and literary value, but later were enlivened 231

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by mystical currents (especially the malâmatiyye doctrine, which teaches self-denigration as the way of reaching up towards God). These images thus assumed symbolic values, giving rise to a kind of poetry in which the secular aspects (erotic and anacreontic) are mixed with sacred aspects of a mystical and initiatory type in an indissoluble unity. Curiously, Mâni, the founder of Manichaeism, another figure from pre-Islamic Persian antiquity, who might have played a role in this context, is celebrated in poetry mainly for his great skill as a painter (the book of his illustrations is entitled Artang/Arzhang), described as the great master artist of China. Bibliographical Note For a more detailed description of the concepts I have mentioned in this chapter, see the relevant sections in the general works by A. Bausani (1960); E. G. Browne (1902–24); J. T. P. de Bruijn (1973); J. S. Meisami (1987); idem (2003); M.-N. O. Osmanov (1974); J. Rypka (1968); Dh. Safâ (1953–91); M.-R. Shafi’i-Kadkani (1979); E. Yarshater (1988); and R. Zipoli (1988).   For classical Persian authors who have dealt with these themes, see Key-Kâvus, Qâbus-nâme (1973), pp. 189–92 and tr. R. Levy (1951), pp. 182–85; Nezâmi Aruzi, Chahâr maqâle (1955–57), pp. 42–86 and tr. E. G. Browne (1921), pp. 42–87; Shams-e Qeys, Mo’jam (1959), especially pp. 445–78 and tr. N. Yu. Chalisova (1997), pp. 317–43; for Shams-e Qeys, see also J. Clinton (1989) and G. L. Windfuhr (1974). For mystical aspects see Lâhiji (1989); N. Purjavâdi (1984–85); idem (1987); idem (1987–88); idem (1992); S. J. Sajjâdi (1983); Shabestari (1976) and tr. Dj. Mortazavi and E. de Vitray-Meyerovitch (1991); and V. Zanolla (1993).  There are very few concordances to Persian poetry; among the most important are M.-T. Ja’fari (1985–86); D. Meneghini Correale (1988); E. Okada and K. Machida (1991); M.-N. O. Osmanov (1970); M. Sadiqiyân (1987); idem (1999); B. Utas (1978); F. Wolff (1935); and those in the Lirica Persica series: D. Meneghini Correale (2000); and R. Zipoli and D. Meneghini Correale (1989–). The lack of general works is compensated for by a number of good works on individual images or sets of images; see, e.g., A. Bausani (1943); idem (1965); A. L. F. A. Beelaert (2000); Clinton (1987); C.-H. de Fouchécour (2000); M. Glünz (1995); W. L. Hanaway (1976); idem (1988); C. Kappler 1994); J. S. Meisami (1985); idem (1995); A. S. Melikian-Chirvani (1974); I. Mélikoff (1967); A. Schimmel (1992) and many of her other works cited in the bibliography; A. A. Seyed-Gohrab (2003); A. Shariat Kâshâni (1998); E. Yarshater (1960); Gh.-H. Yusefi (1977); M. Zand (1977); and the works by the Venice school of Persian literature: R. Bargigli (1983); D. Meneghini Correale (1990); idem (1993); idem (1995); G. Scarcia (1995); V. Zanolla (1995); R. Zipoli (1978); idem (1983); idem (1987); idem (1995 “I Carmina”); idem (1995 “La description”); idem (1998 “Bâzâr”); (1998 “Flowers”); and idem (2001 “The obscene”); and idem (2001 “The syntagmatic”). For the numerous works in Persian, see the specialized repertories.

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Chapter 8 Genres of Court Literature J. Meisami

1. Introduction From the appearance of New Persian literature in the 9th century until the early 20th century, courts were the major centers of literary patronage. As this patronage was extended to virtually every type of writing, it is somewhat misleading to speak of “court literature” as if there were a clear distinction between literature produced for courtly and non-courtly circles, even though alternative sources of patronage did develop over time. Nevertheless, certain types of writing were of particular interest to court circles, and it is on these that I shall focus in what follows. The literature produced for courtly patrons and audiences included works of practical value (on medicine, pharmacology, optics, astronomy/astrology, and so on), religious writing (creeds, Qur’anic exegesis, mystical treatises), works with informative and edifying purposes (history, biography, wisdom literature, mirrors for princes), belletristic prose, and an abundance of poetry: lyric, narrative, and discursive. One must also include translated works in both prose and verse which took their place alongside original compositions as an important part of the Persian literary tradition. All types of writing played a part in creating and buttressing the self-images of the courts, and the patrons, at which and for whom they were produced: the image of a certain court as a center of learning and of literary production; that of a certain patron as a maecenas who supported poets and men of letters. So far I have spoken of “types of writing” rather than of “literature” or of “genres.” Modern notions of what is “literary” and 233

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what is not cannot readily be applied to the medieval Persian tradition which has no word for “literature” but which prizes eloquence (balâghat), and is greatly concerned with matters of style; nor can the modern idea of genre as a combination of formal and substantive elements. In medieval literatures, the genres widely overlap.1 For Persian (as for Arabic) writers, “genres” (variously termed aghrâz ‘purposes, anvâ’ ‘types’, fonun ‘arts’, and so on, and discussed chiefly with reference to poetry) are content-oriented, and consist of such categories as praise (madh), invective (hajv), elegy (marthiya), utterances on love (taghazzol, tashbib), description (vasf), reproach (etâb), apology (e’tedhâr), and so on. These generic categories cut across the formal prosodic categories of poetry (qaside, ghazal, mathnavi, etc.), and are relevant to prose as well. While certain topics are closely associated with certain forms (praise is the primary generic component of the qaside, love of the ghazal), this conception of genres as content-oriented allows for their combination and manipulation in relation to forms, in both poetry and prose. The medieval critics also discussed “modes” (tariqât)—referring in particular to the distinction between “serious” (jedd) and “non-serious” (hazl) writing—as well as to what might be called “registers,” i.e., the style appropriate to a certain type of discourse. Attempts at classifying the genres of Persian literature have traditionally assumed a sharp division between poetry and prose, and have privileged poetry. For example, Jan Rypka divided poetry into “lyric” (qaside, ghazal, qat’e, robâ’i, and strophic forms), “epic, and didactic” (mathnavi), a classification based primarily on the prosodic categories of the rhetoricians with, however, an attempt to align certain forms with certain types of content. 2 Notwithstanding the centrality of poetry to the Persian literary system, 1 On the problematics of genre theory see A. Fowler, Kinds of Literature (Cambridge, 1982); on genre in pre-modern Western literatures see F. Cairns, Generic composition in Greek and Roman Poetry (Edinburgh, 1972), and H. R. Jauss, Towards an Aesthetic of Reception (Brighton, 1982), especially Chapter 3. 2 See J. Rypka, HIL, pp. 94–98.

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such a distinction ignores both the fact that the same materials, and sometimes the same works (for example, the Kalile o Demne; see section 6, below), were rendered in both verse and prose; and the realities of generic overlap and manipulation: the use of the “lyric” qaside form for didactic or homiletic topics (hekmat ‘wisdom’, va’z or mow’eze ‘homily, exhortation’, zohd ‘asceticism’), or the insertion of lyric or panegyric passages in narrative or didactic ­mathnavis. Rypka posited four general categories of prose.3 (A) “Fiction;” which includes 1) “tales of heroism and chivalry” (which might also be composed in verse); 2) “separate fairy stories and tales;” 3) “storycollections, either framed or thematically arranged, and often of an instructive nature;” and 4) “allegorical tales.” (B) “Meditations;” comprising 1) “essays, including those of Sufi origin, especially on love” (these were largely didactic in purpose, and might combine prose and verse); 2) “biographies of Sufis” (“hagiography” would be a better term); 3) “ethical works, including politics;” and 4) “diplomatic, official and private epistolography, viz. collections of letters and letter writing manuals” (many of which belong in the category of works on style, Rypka’s C/2). (C) “Works closely connected with (A) and (B),” namely 1) “biographies and anthologies” and 2) “theory of literature” (especially poetics and style). (D) “Scholarly works in poetical style, mainly historiography.” (E) “Memoires” [sic] and, almost as an afterthought, “translated l­ iterature.” This classification is clearly colored by a modern understanding of what is “literary;” hence the emphasis on poetry and belleslettres. A similar emphasis is seen in Alessandro Bausani’s scheme of four “genres”: “panegyric-lyric,” i.e., qaside and ghazal (including religio-mystical poems in these forms); robâ’i (presumably elevated to the status of a “genre” by virtue of its distinctive prosodic features); epico-romantic and mystical-didactic mathnavi; and, last and definitely least, prose, with a distinction made between prose “literature” and (mere) “writing.” 4

3 Ibid., p. 109. 4 A. Bausani, “Letteratura persiana,” pp. 302–4, 780.

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This emphasis on the “literary” has meant that treatments of Persian literary history have usually focused on poetry, within the chronological framework of a periodization based historically on dynastic changes, and literarily, on poetic developments (although Bausani noted the dangers of such periodization, especially when based on lyric poetry). While dynastic changes did indeed often lead to changes in patterns of patronage and in literary taste, this approach obscures the connections between different types of writing both within a given period and over time. Further, the study of Persian literature has been primarily text-oriented, concerned with questions of attribution, textual authenticity, language, and style. Less attention has been paid to the circumstances of literary production to questions of patronage, audience, reception, and diffusion, and to the status of the work in its contemporary milieu. H. R. Jauss insists that a literary work must be seen not merely as a frozen, fixed text but as a living “event,” and considered in light of both audience expectations and of social function;5 to this we may add that in a system dependent on patronage, the patron’s expectations must also be taken into account. Further, in a tradition in which “literature” is more a matter of public performance than of private reading, a work’s aesthetic qualities will be influenced by its status as performed text, which may also give that text a fluidity not always recognized by scholars accustomed to a print culture. Finally, although most works were produced and consumed by elites, many—and especially poetry—were also broadly disseminated among other sections of society; and diffusion—especially in writing—depended on patrons who could support the costs of copying.6 In what follows I shall be less concerned with enumerating names, dates, and works than with investigating the relationship between court patronage and literary production. As specific types of writing will receive detailed treatment later in these volumes, I will not give extensive bio-bibliographical details which will be duplicated elsewhere. Nor will I discuss issues of “continuity” between 5 H. R. Jauss, Towards an Aesthetic of Reception, pp. 20–22. 6 A. Bausani, “Letteratura persiana,” pp. 304–5.

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Persian literature and pre-Islamic Iranian literary traditions or of the influence of Arabic literature on Persian. My primary purpose will be to explore the relationships between various types of writing and the courtly milieu, focusing on those types which appear most to have served, or catered to, the interests of courts, to have received the patronage of rulers and officials, or to have been written in the hope of such patronage; and I will limit myself chronologically to the pre-Timurid period, as it is with the Timurids that patterns of patronage and production begin to change dramatically, in particular as urban patronage of poetry, and the proliferation of urban, non-professional poets, become far more pronounced than in earlier periods.7

2. Panegyric and Related Types of Poetry Two types of literature directly connected with the court and with its particular interests are panegyric poetry and history (see 4, below). Their functions are similar, in that both are meant to ensure the ruler’s fame (present and posthumous) as well as serving concrete political ends. Both also have an edificatory purpose, as they present idealized (and sometimes not so idealized) images of kingship for both emulation and avoidance. Of the two, panegyric poetry holds pride of place in terms of chronological priority and of its centrality to court life. The panegyric qaside was a formal, public poem which was presented to the ruler and performed in the presence of the court on ceremonial occasions: on the major feasts, both Iranian (Nowruz, Mehregân), and Islamic (Id-al-Azhâ, Id-al-Fetr); to celebrate a campaign or a victory; to offer congratulations on a specific event—the birth of a son, the building of a palace, an official’s investiture in office. The formal framework of the qaside consists of an exordium (nasib, tashbib) in which the poet may sing of love or describe the courtly garden or a feast (this is sometimes omitted, especially in 7 See P. Losensky, Welcoming Fighānī (Costa Mesa, 1998), pp. 137–45.

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victory poems); the encomium proper (madh, madih); and a concluding do’â, a prayer for the ruler’s or patron’s long life and continued prosperity. This conventional framework, far from being rigid and constricting (as has often been argued), lent itself both to the insertion of other generic elements, such as fakhr ‘self-praise’, or hajv ‘invective’, and to the manipulation of formal and thematic conventions for varied purposes. In the hands of a skilled poet the panegyric could become a vehicle for oblique, but nonetheless eloquent, criticism of the patron’s character, policies, or actions. The foundation myths which purport to identify the “first poem in Persian” do not concern us here.8 The most solid account is that found in the anonymous history of Sistan (11th century), which states that when in 867 the Saffarid amir Ya’qub b. Leyth complained that he could not understand the Arabic qasides presented to him in celebration of his recent successes, his secretary Mohammad b. Vasif extemporized a qaside in Persian; other poets then followed this example. In general, this poetry is unexceptional and somewhat crude.9 Neither the Saffarids nor their rivals, the Tahirid governors of Khorasan (821–73), encouraged writing in Persian to any great extent. Nor did the Buyids (who controlled the Abbasid caliphate from 945 onwards), notwithstanding their revival of Persian imperial customs and titulature; nor, for that matter, did the early Samanids, who, like the Tahrids and the Buyids, extended their patronage primarily to Arabic letters. There are some exceptions; but they are not relevant to the present discussion.10 The reign of the Samanid Nasr II b. Ahmad (913–43), who is often credited with having inaugurated the “Persian literary renaissance,” witnessed a surge of interest in the Persian past and in the revival of Persian customs and traditions. In what survives of the   8 On questions of origin etc. see G. Lazard, Les premiers poètes persans (Tehran and Paris, 1964), I, pp. 10–16; F. de Blois, Persian Literature V (London, 1992–97), pp. 42–58; A. Bausani, “Letteratura persiana,” pp. 307–9.   9 Târikh-e Sistân, ed. M.-T. Bahâr (Tehran, 1935), pp. 209–10. See G. Lazard, Les premiers poètes I, p. 12; on the date of Ebn-Vasif’s poem, ibid., p. 18. 10 On the Tahrids see C. E. Bosworth, “The Tahirids and Arabic Culture,” Journal of Semitic Studies 14 (1969), pp. 45–79, and idem, “The Tahirids and Persian Literature,” Iran 7 (1969), pp. 103–6.

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poetry of Nasr’s foremost court poet Rudaki (d. 940), we see not the somewhat lack luster imitation of Arabic panegyric of a Mohammad b. Vasif, but a recognizably “Persian” thematics and imagery inspired by the life of the court (in particular, by the gardens which were the scene of feasts and celebrations), and by the local geographical and cultural background. The maturity of Rudaki’s style attests to an intervening period of development about which we know next to nothing; nor do we know much more about the further fortunes of Persian panegyric at the courts of the Samanids or of local princes like the Mohtâjids of Chaghâniyân (patrons of Ferdowsi’s contemporary Daqiqi), between Rudaki and the florescence of panegyric at the court of Mahmud of Ghazne (998–1030). Mahmud’s court had considerably less interest in the Persian past than did Nasr’s; as his poet-laureate (amir al-sho’arâ) Onsori (d. after 1031) wrote: “What need for stories of the past? Look upon his bold deeds!”11 Mahmud’s panegyrists focused on the ruler’s achievements, celebrating him as the soltân-e ghâzi, the “warrior sultan” fighting to defend the faith against infidels and heretics, generous to his friends but ruthless to his foes, maintaining order and dispensing justice throughout his domains. (The same image was disseminated abroad in Arabic panegyrics.) While in panegyrics composed for other patrons, including Mahmud’s son and successor Mas’ud I (1030–41), we often see a lighter, more playful and less formal mood, those addressed to him suggest that Mahmud, perhaps through his poet laureate (who supervised the poets of the court and passed judgment on their poems before they were presented to the ruler), was bent on ensuring that his poets propagated the official image which served his political ends. Strophic forms were also used for panegyric—the tarji’-band by Farrokhi (d. after 1031), the mosammat by Manuchehri (d. 1040?), who is often credited with inventing the form, although it is seen in Arabic poetry from the late 8th century onwards.12 Panegyric 11 Onsori, Divân, ed. Y. Qarib (Tehran, 1944), p. 89. 12 See A. Bausani, “Letteratura persiana,” pp. 329–30; on the mosammat see W. Stoetzer in J. S. Meisami and P. Starkey, eds., Encyclopaedia of Arabic Literature, s.v. Strophic Poetry.

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­ assages were also included in mathnavi poems of all sorts (see p further below). Few examples of non-panegyric poetry have survived (although they certainly existed). Farrokhi’s elegy (marthiya) on Mahmud of Ghazne allows us to observe the formal and generic links between panegyric and threnody.13 Manuchehri included passages of fakhr and hajv in his panegyrics; but no independent poems in these genres have come down to us. Nor (with a few exceptions) have independent lyrics on wine and love, although we know that these were much in demand in court circles. Since they would have been performed by minstrels, whose social status was lower than that of poets, they were probably not considered worthy of recording.14 In 1040, following Mas’ud I’s defeat by the Saljuqs, the Ghaznavids were forced to withdraw from their western territories in Khorasan and Iraq to their eastern courts in Ghazne and Lahore. J. T. P. de Bruijn’s comments on the ensuing cultural decline of Ghazne are borne out by the historian Beyhaqi who, writing around 1058, stated that “the market of learning, refinement, and poetry is in decline, and the masters of those arts deprived.”15 While the court of Lahore produced such able panegyrists as Abu’lFaraj Runi (d. after 1102), Othman Mokhtâri (d. after 1119), and Mas’ud-e Sa’d-e Salmân (d. 1121?), the proportion of their poems addressed to the rulers in Ghazne is fairly small; poetry seems to have experienced a true revival at Ghazne itself only in the reign of Bahrâmshâh (1118–51). The career of Sanâ’i (d. c. 1140) illustrates the difficulties an aspiring poet might encounter.16 Having failed to secure the patronage he desired at the court of Ghazne, Sanâ’i left Ghazne for Kho13

See C. E. Bosworth, “Farrukhi’s Elegy on Maḥmūd of Ghazna,” Iran 29 (1991), pp. 43–49; J. S. Meisami, “Places in the Past: The Poetics/Politics of Nostalgia,” Edebiyât NS 8 (1998), pp. 81–84. 14 See J. T. P. de Bruijn, “Poets and Minstrels,” in Transition Periods in Iranian History. Studia Iranica, Cahier 5 (Paris 1987), pp. 15–23. 15 Beyhaqi, Târikh, ed. A.-A. Fayyâz (Tehran, 1995), pp. 360–61. Cf. J. T. P. de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry (Leiden, 1983), p. 34. 16 On Sanâ’i’s career see J. T. P. de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry; F. D. Lewis, Reading, Writing and Recitation (Chicago, 1995).

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rasan, where he became attached to several religious notables for whom he composed religious poetry. (He also wrote ghazals for professional singers, for which he received payment.) He returned to Ghazne in the reign of Bahramshâh, to whom he dedicated his didactic mathnavi the Hadiqat-al-haqiqe (see section 7, below) as well as a number of panegyrics. While Sanâ’i may have had a personal preference for religious poetry, it is clear that his poetic production was influenced by the type of patronage he was able to secure. Nor was he the only poet to experience difficulties: poets everywhere increasingly sought support from influential persons who might assist them to secure a place at court or act as patrons in their own right. From the late 11th century onwards the proportion of panegyrics addressed to such prominent individuals often exceeds those addressed to rulers. While poets had always had recourse to the influence and patronage of prominent officials, two factors contributed to the fact that this became increasingly the case. One was the expansion of the geographical range of Persian letters following the breakup of the centralized Ghaznavid empire, the movement of the Saljuqs westwards, and the increasing fragmentation of the Saljuq domains themselves in the 12th century. Persian, as both an administrative and a literary language, made its way eastwards to India, first to the Ghaznavid courts and later to that of the Delhi sultanate, and westwards, to Saljuq and other local courts and to Azerbaijan, Transcaucasia, and Anatolia. The existence of numerous regional courts created a demand for a Persian-speaking bureaucracy, and the poets and men of letters who migrated between these courts in search of patronage sought the support of such bureaucrats, many of whom, in turn, became important patrons with their own circles of poets and writers. Bausani identified the two main influences on the development of lyric in this period as the formation of a more extensive secretarial class, which “brought its rhetorical and legalistic abilities to poetry,” and the increasing importance of mysticism.17 But more 17 A. Bausani, “ Letteratura persiana,” pp. 346–47.

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patrons than poets came from the secretarial class (and it was perhaps their tastes which stimulated stylistic changes in both poetry and prose); nor should we underestimate the role of rulers (such as the Khwârazmshâh Atsiz) who were well versed in Persian letters and appreciative of sophisticated style. Moreover, for “mysticism” we should substitute “religiosity,” as (with a few exceptions) true mystical poetry did not develop until late in the 12th century. We should also view the changes in poetic style, thematics, and imagery which took place during this period, as reflecting the natural development of a now firmly established tradition. At the hands of a number of poets (particularly, but not exclusively, in the west) the qaside became more heavily Arabicized and more rhetorically elaborate, and the poets’ display of erudition was not merely literary (as, for example, in the earlier poetry of Manuchehri), but encompassed a wide range of sciences and disciplines. This led to the appearance of a deliberately “learned” poetry, seen, for instance, in the qasides of Anvari (d. after 1164?), Khâqâni (d. 1199), and Jamâl-al-Din of Isfahan (d. 1192?) as well as in the mathnavis of Nezâmi of Ganje (d. 1208?). Cultivation of the mannered rhetorical style also produced the qaside-ye masnu’, the “rhetorically crafted” qaside, in which a poet might employ a single rhetorical figure throughout—a favorite practice of Rashid-al-Din Vatvât (d. 1192), panegyrist of Atsiz and an important official at his court—or might demonstrate the whole spectrum of rhetorical figures in a single poem, as did Qavâmi of Ganje in his qaside addressed to the Saljuq Atabeg Qezel Arslan.18 Generic and thematic developments included an increased incorporation into panegyric of passages of hasb-e hâl, in which the poet describes (or rather complains of) his circumstances, along with an increase in self-praise (fakhr), as he boasts of his superior talents. A new “genre” appears in the “prison-poems” (habsiyyât) of Mas’ud-e Sa’d-e Salmân and later, of Khâqâni, which are distinguished from the hasb-e hâl or the complaint poem only by the fact that they are written from prison. With the introduction of a 18

For a translation and commentary of Qavâmi’s qaside see E. G. Browne, HPL I, pp. 47–76.

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religious element (especially after Sanâ’i) the qaside was used to praise both contemporary religious notables and such figures as the Prophet, his son-in-law Ali b. Abi-Tâleb, and so on; and poets composed qasides on towhid (divine unicity) or zohd (asceticism). This period also saw the use of the newly emerging ghazal for panegyric. Mas’ud-e Sa’d composed several ghazals for the Ghaznavid Mas’ud III (1099–1115), presumably when the latter was governor of Lahore; but the form flourished especially at Bahram­ shâh’s court, with such poets as Sanâ’i and Hasan-e Ghaznavi (d. 1160). Typically, such a poem begins with a love-plaint or a description of a garden, moves to the poet’s self-naming (an optional feature), and concludes with a few lines naming and praising the patron (mamduh). The panegyric ghazal seems also to have been especially popular in 14th century Shiraz, and was practiced by such poets as Obeyd-e Zâkâni (d. after 1377) and, especially, Hâfez (d. 1389 or 1390).19 The divâns of this period also include numerous examples of invective poetry (hajv); a specialist in this genre was Suzani (d. 1173) at the Qarakhanid court of Samarkand. Such poems often reveal a parodic and humorous intent, and are clearly meant as entertainment. (See further section 9, below.) The same may be said of the humorous panegyric practiced, in particular, by Anvari, a favorite theme of whose is his inability (due to lovesickness, drunkenness, or some other indisposition) to write the required panegyric, which is dictated to him by his “beloved.” 20 The Mongol incursions, which began in 1219–23 and finally culminated in the sack of Baghdad and the destruction of the Abbasid caliphate in 1258, brought yet more changes—most notably a shift in centers of patronage from the heartlands of Khorasan and Iraq to peripheral areas that had escaped destruction, such as Azerbaijan and Fârs in the west, and India in the east. With respect to poetry, perhaps the most important change was the ­decline in 19 On the panegyric ghazal see further J. S. Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry (Princeton, 1987), pp. 271–85; idem, “Allusion in Ḥāfiẓ, Joseph and his Brothers,” in Ch. Melville, ed., Persian and Islamic Studies (Cambridge, 1990), I, pp. 141–58. 20 See further J. S. Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry, pp. 68–75.

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the qaside’s popularity and the rise of the ghazal. While poets still composed panegyric qasides (and those of such later poets as Sa’di, Salmân Sâveji, Ebn-Yamin and others merit study), the proportion of ghazals in poetic divâns begins to outweigh significantly that of qasides.

3. “Informal” Lyrics Brief lyric poems in the qat’e, robâ’i and, later, the ghazal forms were an important part of court life. I term such poems “informal” (rather than merely “brief”) because they were, in large part, produced for, and performed at, informal gatherings—especially drinking parties—rather than for the ceremonial occasions with which the qaside was associated, and because they deal with “minor” or “personal” topics (wine, love, and so on) rather than with the public themes of the qaside. Such “informal” poems were also composed for specific individual purposes: as invitations, requests for gifts or loans, thank-you notes, expressions of friendship, and so on. In the courtly environment the quatrain (robâ’i, do-beyti) encompassed such genres as panegyric, invective, boasting, and gnomic epigrams. While the qat’e—generally only a few lines in length—was a vehicle for virtually every type of generic content, the ghazal (in both its original generic and its later technical senses) was most closely associated with love poetry, although its generic range was expanded in the course of time. The question of the ghazal’s origins need not concern us here; but the fact that it was originally a sung poem has left its mark even on later written ghazals. 21 Poems in the divâns of early poets (e.g., Rudaki, Manuchehri), which are often classified as ghazals in later redactions are gener21 On the question of the ghazal’s origins see J. Rypka, HIL, p. 95 and the references cited; F. D. Lewis, Reading, Writing and Recitation, Ph.D. Thesis, (Chicago, 1995). On the ghazal’s association with music see also Jalâl-al-Din Homâ’i in Mokhtâri, Divân, ed. J. Homâ’i (Tehran, 1962), pp. 569–76, n. 1.

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ally either “songs” (generic ghazal, usually in the qat’e form) or exordia to qasides the whole of which have not survived. The ghazal’s transformation from song to technical form is closely linked with the career of Sanâ’i who composed ghazals both for professional singers and for preachers to use in their sermons. With Sanâ’i and his contemporaries, the ghazal takes on formal features heretofore proper to the qaside: rhyme in both halves of the first line (the matla’) and self-naming, the use of the poet’s “pen-name” ([esm-e] takhallos) at the conclusion of the poem. In the qaside the term takhallos refers to the transitional line(s) between nasib (exordium) and madih (encomium), in which the mamduh is customarily named; in the technical ghazal the takhallos functions as a marker of closure, and perhaps also, in the case of a poet like Sanâ’i, to identify the poet and distinguish him from the singer or preacher. From this period onwards ghazals are routinely incorporated into poetic divâns. Sanâ’i’s ghazals display a wide range of generic content; in addition to poems on love, wine, and related topics, we find panegyric, religious, and gnomic themes. The ghazal’s growing popularity owes much to its adoption by mystical poets, especially towards the end of the 12th century; and as mystical poets adapted—or appropriated—the language and imagery of the courtly love poem to the theme of mystical love, the courtly ghazal itself became impregnated with “mystical” overtones. In the case of court poets such as Sa’di, Hâfez, and others for whom there is no other evidence of mystical leanings, this should be considered a stylistic feature which reflects current literary tastes; in this respect it parallels the replacement, in mirrors for princes, of the voice of the courtier-counselor who speaks from experience by that of the other-worldly sage who dispenses moral and spiritual advice (see sections 6 and 7, below). Rypka opined that “whereas the qaṣīda represents the poetry of the court, the ghazal springs from the cultural life of the town;”22 but we must remember that the court itself was an urban phenomenon with close connections with town life, that some mystical poets were also closely associated with courts, 22 J. Rypka, HIL, p. 95.

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and that the real “urbanization” of the ghazal did not take place until the Timurid period. Invective poetry (hajv) forms a significant proportion of the poetic output of this period. While most commonly composed in the qat’e form, qaside and ghazal were also used for such purposes, as also for hazliyyât (“jesting poems;” see section 9, below). While it is difficult to draw a clear line between invective and jest (and poets often insist that what may appear to be invective is, in fact, meant in jest), the intent of hajv is more likely to be serious, while hazl is primarily meant as entertainment for the court.

4. History History, like panegyric, ensures the endurance of the name and fame of the ruler who commissioned the work, or whose achievements it celebrates; but it, too, also serves both pragmatic political ends and broader ethical ones. An important political function (which it shares with panegyric) is to provide legitimation for the ruler or the dynasty; in the ethical sphere, history furnishes both positive models of kingly conduct and negative object lessons. While this moral function of history has been decried by some scholars, it was a concern almost universally shared by pre-modern historians. 23 The earliest histories in Persian date from the latter half of the 10th century. They are based on two distinct (but not wholly unrelated) historical narratives: first, the pre-Islamic narrative of Iranian sovereignty up to the fall of the Sasanids and the Arab Muslim conquest, embodied in the “Book of Kings” tradition and culminating in Ferdowsi’s verse Shahname; and second, an “Islamic” (or “Islamicized”) narrative of general history, whose most authoritative Arabic representative was perhaps Mohammad b. Jarir Tabari’s (d. 923) Ta’rikh al-rosol va’l-moluk (The History of Prophets and Kings). 23 See J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography to the End of the Twelfth Century, (Edinburgh, 1999), pp. 11–12, 282–86, and the references cited.

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While works in the “Book of Kings” tradition (and especially Ferdowsi’s poem) are often treated as representatives of epic, they were conceived of as history. The first such work for which we possess more than fragmentary information is the prose Shahname compiled in 957 for the governor of Tus, Abu-Mansur b. Abd-alRazzâq (d. 962), by his vizier Abu-Mansur Ma’mari. Its preface (all that survives) reveals a concern for both the memorializing and the political functions of history. In it, Abu-Mansur of Tus is presented as the last in a chain of rulers who ensured their enduring fame by commissioning “books of wisdom” (specifically, successive versions of the Kalile o Demne); the preface also contains a genealogy linking Abu-Mansur with a series of Persian commanders going back to a son of Jamshid. 24 Abu-Mansur of Tus was a minor prince with major aspirations, aspirations which are clearly reflected in the work which he commissioned. The Samanid Mansur b. Nuh (961–76) was a major prince whose aspirations appear to have included no less than legitimating autonomous Samanid rule in the east. In 963, shortly after his accession, Mansur commissioned the translation into Persian of both Tabari’s History and his massive Qur’anic Tafsir. The translator of the History, Mansur’s vizier Abu-Ali Bal’ami, reworked his model into a unified narrative of pre-Islamic and Islamic history which, while decidedly “Islamic,” is also decidedly Easternoriented, and leads, implicitly, to the Samanids. This narrative of the shift of power eastwards was clearly intended to legitimate Samanid claims to autonomous rule in the East and to impress this legitimacy on members of their court, especially the influential Turkish military slaves (mamluks) on whose loyalty the Samanid rulers depended. 25 Ferdowsi’s Shahname was written independently of court patronage (although the poet voices his hopes for such, and also 24 On the prose Shahname see V. Minorsky, “The Older Preface to the Shāhnāma,” in Studi orientalistici (Rome, 1956), pp. 159–79; J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography, pp. 20–23. 25 See further E. L. Daniel, “Manuscripts and Editions of Bal’amī’s ­Tarjamah‑i Tārīkh-i Ṭabarī,” JRAS 1990, pp. 282–321; J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography, pp. 23–27.

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mentions the support provided by local aristocratic dehqâns). The poem was begun under the Samanids, but by the time its final version was completed, around 1010, the Samanids had been replaced by the Ghaznavids, and Ferdowsi dedicated his poem to Mahmud. In extensive panegyric passages he celebrates Mahmud as an ideal ruler combining both Persian and Islamic attributes of kingship;26 but this image of Mahmud as Perso-Islamic ruler was not taken up by later historians who, like Mahmud’s panegyrists, propagated that of the soltân-e ghâzi, triumphing over infidels, heretics, and all enemies of the caliphate. Dynastic histories of the first Ghaznavid rulers (Saboktegin, Mahmud and Mas’ud I) were written in both Persian and Arabic, and Onsori is said to have composed a lengthy poem celebrating Mahmud’s achievements. 27 The propagandist value of dynastic history had already been exploited by the Buyids; and anti-Buyid propaganda aimed at the caliphal court seems to have been a major motive behind the writing of the only early history of the Ghaznavids to have come down to us, Abu-Nasr Otbi’s (Arabic) Ta’rikh al-Yamini (1021). 28 Like panegyric, the writing of history was affected by the political upheavals that followed the Ghaznavid defeat by the Saljuqs. However, about a decade or so later, Abd-al-Hayy Gardizi wrote his general history, the Zeyn al-akhbâr, for Abd-al-Rashid (1049–52?), Mahmud’s sole surviving son. Gardizi’s narrative of the transfer of power eastwards, ending with the Ghaznavids, was undoubtedly meant to shore up Abd-al-Rashid’s claim to legitimacy through its glorification of his celebrated father, and perhaps also to inspire emulation of Mahmud’s achievements. At around the same 26 On the recensions of the Shahname see F. de Blois, Persian Literature V, pp. 114–17; also J. Rypka, HIL, p. 169, nn. 66, 73; F. D. Lewis, Reading Writing and Recitation, pp. 254–57; J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography, pp. 37–45. On the panegyrics see J. S. Meisami, “The Past in Service of the Present: Two Views of History in Medieval Persia,” Poetics Today 14 (1993), pp. 247–75. 27 See M. Nāẓim, The Life and Times of Sultan Maḥmūd of Ghazna (Cambridge, 1931), p. 1; C. E. Bosworth, The Ghaznavids (Edinburg, 1963), p. 18; J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography, p. 136, notes 4 and 5. 28 On Otbi’s history see J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography, pp. 53–66.

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time, Abu’l-Fazl Beyhaqi (d. 1077), who had served for most of his life in the Ghaznavid chancery, was writing his history of that dynasty, of which only those portions dealing with the major part of Mas’ud I’s reign survive. Although Beyhaqi’s overall project was far more complex than Gardizi’s, he was no less concerned to assert Ghaznavid legitimacy, as he both adumbrated the theme of the transfer of power as a universal principle, and linked the current rulers—Farrokhzâd (1052–59) and his successor Ebrâhim (1059–99)—with the house’s founder Saboktegin. 29 In the Saljuq domains virtually no historical work in either Persian or Arabic appeared until the early 12th century, and no work chronicling Saljuq history itself until the last decades of that century.30 Seeming exceptions, such as the vizier Anushirvân b. Khâled’s (d. 1137?) so-called “Memoirs,” and its continuation by Najm-al-Din Qomi (written around 1188), focus more on viziers and officials than on the sultans themselves, and were clearly written for members of the authors’ own class of Persian-speaking officials.31 Statements by later historians suggest that official patronage of history declined under the Saljuqs. Abu-Sharif Jorbâdhqâni, who translated Otbi’s Ta’rikh al-Yamini into Persian in 1207, complained that whereas the Buyids and Ghaznavids had encouraged men of letters to write their histories, and had thereby ensured the survival of their names, the Saljuqs had not; thus their names would “be effaced from the pages of time.” Ebn-Fondoq, in his history of the region of Beyhaq (1167), mourned the demise of the “noble science of history.” Ebn-Fondoq mentions no patron, but hints that he received encouragement from some (unidentified) source, as does the anonymous author of the Mojmal al-tavârikh va’l-qesas 29 On Gardizi and Beyhaqi see J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography, pp. 66–108. 30 See C. Cahen, “ The Historiography of the Seljuqid Period,” in B. Lewis and P. M. Holt, eds., Historians of the Middle East (London, 1962), pp. 59–78. 31 On Qomi’s Târikh al-vozarâ and its relation to Anushirvân’s work, see K. A. Luther, “A New Source for the History of the Iraq Seljuqs,” Der Islam 45 (1969), pp. 117–28; and idem, “Islamic Rhetoric and the Persian Historian,” in Studies in Near Eastern Culture and History (Ann Arbor, 1990), p. 95.

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(1126). Ebn-Balkhi’s Fârs-nâme (before 1116) was commissioned by Mohammad b. Malekshâh (1105–18), but was intended for the instruction of his governor of Fars. Afzal-al-Din Kermâni presented his Eqd al-olâ (1188), a brief history of recent events in Kerman, to the region’s conqueror, the Ghuzz ruler Malek Dinâr, as a token of gratitude for having been granted a position at that ruler’s court; Jorbâdhqâni, who dedicated his translation of Otbi to the former mamluk Jamâl-al-Din Ay Aba Ulugh Bârbak in gratitude for having obtained an appointment at court, where he clearly hoped for further preference, was encouraged by that prince’s vizier. Zahir-alDin Nishâpuri’s Saljuq-nâme (c. 1176) was probably intended for the newly enthroned Toghrel III b. Arslan (1176–94), but the author makes no mention of a commission. Mohammad Ali Râvandi began his Râhat-al-sodur (based largely on Nishâpuri) during Toghrel’s reign, on his own initiative, but ultimately intended it for the sultan; he completed it only around 1204, after the fall of the Great Saljuqs, and dedicated it to the Saljuq ruler of Konya, at whose court he hoped to obtain a position.32 Such evidence suggests that the Saljuq rulers themselves seldom encouraged the production of court histories while writers of history often wrote in hopes of securing patronages which might or might not materialize. Under later dynasties—the Saljuqs of Rum, the Ilkhanids, the Timurids, the Safavids, the Ottomans, and the Mughals—both court and general histories were produced in greater numbers, sometimes at the instigation of viziers, sometimes at the behest of the rulers themselves. Discussion of these developments (which will be dealt with in detail in a subsequent volume of this History) is, however, beyond the scope of this chapter. In some of the later histories of this period we see a stylistic shift similar to that observed in panegyric. While some writers (Bal’ami, Gardizi, Beyhaqi, Nishâpuri) employed a relatively straightforward, unembellished style (although Bal’ami and Beyhaqi especially are masters of rhetoric), others (Râvandi, Kermâni, Jorbâdhqâni) preferred the figured style which became popular in Saljuq (and other) 32

On the historiography of the Saljuq period see J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography, Chapter 3.

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chanceries in the late 12th century, and which was characterized by rhyming prose (saj’), highly metaphorical descriptions, and abundant interpolations: Qur’anic verses, proverbs, and especially poetry. This tendency towards a more elaborate style continued to mark many of the historical works of the Ilkhanid and later periods. The Saljuq historians also increasingly emphasized the exemplary value of history, and the importance to rulers of its study, since it provides both models of proper kingly conduct and object lessons illustrating the consequences of bad rule. The result is an increasing alignment of history with mirrors for princes (see section 6, below); and it is perhaps no coincidence that both Kermâni and Râvandi included materials of the latter type in their histories. Finally, whatever form the historian might choose for his history (general, dynastic, or local), Persian historical works are highly individual, and history is always tailored to contemporary concerns: the past, in and of itself, is meaningful only in terms of the ­present.

5. Epic and Romance Ferdowsi’s Shahname marked the culmination of works in that tradition written, or begun, in the late 10th century. It received a cool reception at the Ghaznavid court, and did not become instantly popular in court circles for complex reasons which include the “break with the (Iranian) past” and the increasing “literarization” already mentioned. Not long after Ferdowsi’s poem was completed, there appeared other “minor epics” (“heroic romances” might be a better term), in both prose and verse, which were generated by the Shahname tradition but which dealt with materials omitted by Ferdowsi, and especially with the Sistan cycle, tales of the ancestors and descendants of the hero Rostam. Earlier versions of such “minor epics”—for example, Abu’l-Mo’ayyad of Balkh’s Garshâspnâme, written in the early 10th century—have not survived. Such works, produced at, and for, various local courts were, like the Shahname, also considered “history,” and were often used by historians as sources. But unlike the Shahname, they are ­characterized by an 251

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episodic style and a predilection for the fantastic and the marvelous, by exotic and remote settings, and by increasing “Islamicization,” as pre-Islamic heroes fight for monotheism and against idolatry.33 From the 12th century onwards we also see both “historical pseudo-epics” such as the Abu-Moslem-nâme (which despite its purported Ghaznavid origin would appear to be a later work), and “religious pseudo-epics” whose heroes are the Prophet, his son-inlaw Ali, his grandson Hoseyn, and other figures from the Islamic past.34 While the style of many of these works is marked by a figured diction quite different from that of the Shahname (as Bausani noted, the “Firdawsian poem of the dihqans becomes transformed into the poems of the secretaries”35), their emphasis on fantastic adventures and exotic settings suggests that they were aimed at broader segments of the court than its ruling elites—perhaps (as Mélikoff offers for the Abu-Moslem-nâme) at the Turkish soldiery who could find both entertainment and an invitation to identify with the Perso-Islamic heroes of these exciting tales. These minor epics still await proper study, especially as they are often viewed as a sign of decadence, a falling away from the “sublimity” of Ferdowsi. Crucial questions relating to patronage, purpose, audience, and dissemination have yet to be examined. This is true as well of popular prose romances such as that of Samak-e Ayyâr, a written version of which was compiled in 1189 by one Farâmarz b. Khodâdâd Kâteb of Arrajân for an unknown patron. Internal evidence seems to connect it with Shiraz, and perhaps with urban rather than courtly patronage; but the work is concerned not only with the chivalrous values and heroic deeds of the ayyârs who are its heroes (and heroines), but with their role in the moral education of its princely protagonist.36 33

Cf. W. L. Hanaway, “The Iranian Epics,” in F. J. Oinas, ed., Heroic Epic and Saga (Bloomington and London, 1978), pp. 76–98, pp. 90–91; M. Molé “L’épopée iranienne après Firdōsī,” La Nouvelle Clio 5 (1953), p. 390. 34 See W. L. Hanaway, ibid., p. 93; M. Molé, ibid., pp. 391–92; on the AbuMolsem-nâme see I. Mélikoff, Abū Muslim le “porte-hache” du Khorassan (Paris, 1962). 35 A. Bausani, “Letteratura persiana,” p. 613. 36 See further M. Gaillard, Le Livre de Samak-e ‘Ayyâr (Paris, 1987).

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The earliest surviving verse romances date from the reign of Mahmud of Ghazne and were dedicated to that ruler. Such works generally center on a love-story in which the lovers are faced with various (and sometimes insurmountable) obstacles—physical, social, moral, psychological. It appears that the subjects of the early romances were largely “exotic,” and were drawn not from the “historical” Iranian past but from popular legend and from naturalized non-Iranian traditions. Ayyuqi’s Varqe o Golshâh, set in the Arabia of the Prophet’s time, tells of two ill-fated lovers who are united only in Paradise after their deaths, thanks to the Prophet’s miraculous intervention; it includes brief lyrics (marked as she’r), set off from the mathnavi narrative, in which the characters voice their thoughts or emotions. Onsori’s Vâmeq o Adhrâ, which ultimately derives from a Hellenistic source, is set in “Rum” (Greece); the story was evidently well known, as references to its famous lovers are found already in the Arabic poetry of the early Abbasid period.37 In more or less the opposite trajectory to that of the minor epic, the verse romance moved from the legendary and exotic to the historical past and, in so doing, took on both a political and an ethical dimension. Fakhr-al-Din of Gorgân’s Vis o Râmin, written around 1054 for the Saljuq governor of Isfahan and based on a Parthian source, is a story of adulterous love (a fact which has both intrigued Islamicists and sparked a debate as to possible connections with the European Tristan romances). Underlying the love story is a deep concern with the ethics of kingship and the moral qualities of the ruler, whose personal conduct reflects his fitness (or unfitness) to rule. Thus, when Râmin learns to be a selfless lover, he is able to supplant the king Mowbad (husband of his beloved Vis) without violence (surely a topical moral for Fakhr-al-Din’s own violent times).38 37

On the romances by ‘Ayyuqi and ‘Onsori see J. S. Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry, pp. 82–86; Dick Davis, Panthea’s children: Hellenistic novels and Medieval Persian Romances, New York, 2002. 38 On Vis o Râmin see F. de Blois, Persian Literature V, pp. 161–64; J. S. Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry, pp. 86–111, 137–45, 183–92.

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Such concerns are central to two of Nezâmi of Ganje’s five mathnavis, the romances of Khosrow o Shirin (1180?), and the Haft Peykar (1197). The first (dedicated to the Saljuq Toghrel III and his Atâbaks, Mohammad Jahân-Pahlavân and Qezel Arslân) depicts a self-indulgent ruler (Khosrow) who throughout most of the poem pursues his own desires without regard for the welfare of others. The second (completed after the collapse of the Saljuqs and dedicated to the Ahmadili Atâbak of Marâghe) depicts the moral and spiritual progress of its protagonist (the Sasanid Bahrâm V Gur), who becomes, at the end, both perfect king and Perfect Man. Storytelling plays an important part in both romances, and especially in the Haft Peykar, in which the seven tales told to Bahrâm by his seven brides, princesses of the seven regions of the world, play a crucial role in his moral education. Nezâmi’s concern with ideal kingship culminates in his heroic romance the Eskandar-nâme (after 1197), in which Alexander the Great becomes first world-conquerer, then philosopher-king.39 Although Nezâmi eschewed the life of the court, all five of his mathnavis (collectively termed the Khamse) were commissioned by, or dedicated to, princes of his time and include panegyrics to them; all were clearly intended both to entertain and to provide edification. This is true also of his Leyli o Majnun (1188?), dedicated to the Sharvânshâh Akhsetân b. Manuchehr, and the only romance based on a non-Persian source, as it draws on Arabic accounts of the poet Qeys, called Majnun (“madman”) because he goes mad with love for Leyli, whose parents have forbidden the pair to marry.40 Nezâmi’s mathnavis generated many imitations, which are perhaps most remarkable for their divergences from their models. Here we can discern three tendencies: (a) the romantic (non-­historical) mathnavi with overtones of mysticism, as in the poems of Khwâju Kermâni (1281–1352), a court poet of Shiraz, and of the Delhi poet 39 See C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia (Paris, 1986), pp. 79–80; on the ideals of kingship in Nezâmi’s romances see J. S. Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry, pp. 192–236. 40 See J. S. Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry, pp. 158–72; on the imagery in Leyli o Majnun and idem, “The Body as Garden: Nature and Sexuality in Persian Poetry,” Edebiyât NS 6 (1995), pp. 264–71.

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Amir Khosrow (d. 1325); (b) Amir Khosrow’s historical romances, which draw their subjects from recent events and from local lore, and which have a clearly encomiastic purpose;41 and (c) the religio-mystical romances of the Timurid poet Jâmi (d. 1492), most notably Yusof o Zoleykhâ, based on the Koranic Joseph story (Sura XII) and its later development by exegetes and authors of “Tales of the Prophets.” These later poems reflect the increasing tendency of patrons in the Ilkhanid and Timurid periods to associate themselves with works of spiritual, religious, or mystical content (including the mystical ghazal), to the interpenetration of mystical and courtly language and imagery, and (on a more realistic level) to the increasing influence of religious scholars and mystics at court.

6. Wisdom Literature; Mirrors for Princes “Wisdom literature” is a broad (and an ancient) literary category. An important subcategory comprises works explicitly designed for the instruction of rulers; these may consist of compendia of maxims (both moral sententiae and rules of government) written by, or attributed to, authoritative figures (rulers, viziers, philosophers, sages); story-collections containing exemplary fables or/and historical anecdotes; mirrors for princes; treatises on government and administration.42 What links these varied works generically (and connects them with other didactic and homiletic works discussed in section 7, below) is the principle that a just ruler requires an advisor, whether this advisor be an authoritative figure from the past, or a contemporary with the requisite credentials. Perhaps the most well-known work of this tradition is that most famous of fable collections, the Kalile o Demne. The Middle Persian translation of the Sanskrit original (the Pančatantra), commissioned by the Sasanid Khosrow I Anushirvân, was translated into Arabic prose by Ebn-Moqaffa’ (d. after 755), and into verse by 41 See J. Rypka, HIL, pp. 258–59; A. Bausani, “Letteratura persiana,” pp. 743–50. 42 On this type of literature see especially C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia.

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Abân Lâheqi (d. c. 815) for the Abbasid vizier Ja’far Barmaki (neither work has survived).43 Ebn-Moqaffa’’s version was repeatedly re-translated into Persian, beginning in the reign of the Samanid Nasr b. Ahmad, who ordered his vizier Abu’l-Fazl Bal’ami to prepare a prose version and Rudaki to put that version into verse. It was Nasr’s example that inspired Abu-Mansur of Tus to commission his vizier to compile the prose Shahname. Slightly over a century later, two further prose translations appeared almost simultaneously. The first, dedicated to the Ghaznavid Bahrâmshâh, was written around 1143–45 by Nasr-­Allâh b. Mohammad Monshi, an important figure in the Ghaznavid bureaucracy. The second, by Mohammad b. Abd-Allâh of Bukhara, was written for the Zangid Atâbak of Mosul Seyf-al-Din Ghâzi b. Âq-Sonqor (r. 1146–49) and was commissioned by his vizier. This work was virtually unknown until its publication in 1982.44 Still later, Qâne’i of Tus dedicated a verse translation (probably based on Nasr-Allâh’s prose version) to the Saljuq sultan of Rum ­Alâal-Din Key-Qobâd I (1219–37), and his sons Ghiyâth-al-Din KeyKhosrow and Ezz-al-Din Key-Kâvus. An adaptation in mixed prose and verse, with substantial divergences from earlier versions, was made by Hoseyn Vâ’ez Kâshefi for the Timurid Sultan Hoseyn Bâyqarâ (1469–1506) at the behest of the latter’s vizier, Sheykh Ahmad Soheyli, from whom it took its title, the Anvâr-e Soheyli.45 That the importance of the Kalile o Demne was more than purely literary is clear both from its repeated reworkings and from references to it in various sources. Its translation on the order of Anushirvân “the Just,” type of the ideal ruler, establishes its importance at the outset. According to the Shahname, Khosrow II Parviz, alarmed at learning that his rebel general Bahrâm Chobin was studying this work, exclaimed: “Kalile o Demne is his vizier; 43 See F. de Blois in J. S. Meisami and P. Starkey eds., Encyclopaedia of Arabic Literature, s.v. Kalīla wa-Dimna; J. S. Meisami, ibid., s.v. Abān. 44 See the introduction to Mohammad Bokhâri, Dâstânhâ-ye Bidpây, ed. P. N. Khânlari and M. Rowshan (Tehran, 1982), pp. 18–22; on the version by Nasr-Allâh Monshi see C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, pp. 414–20. 45 On Qâne’i’s version see M. J. Mahjub, Dar bâre-ye Kalile o Demne (Tehran, 1970), pp. 149–52; on the Anvâr-e Soheyli, ibid., pp. 155–56.

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no one could have a more sage advisor!” Ebn-Fondoq included the Kalile o Demne among the “works of wisdom” that are of benefit to kings; Nezâmi of Ganje gave it a prominent role in Khosrow’s education in Khosrow o Shirin. But not only was the work an important source of advice for princes; its translation, as well as its study, was akin to a declaration of legitimacy as the transfer of learning was closely linked with that of power.46 Ebn-Moqaffa’ ’s translation came to be associated with the establishment of Abbasid rule and with the caliph Mansur (754–75), and later (for example in the prose Shahname) with the caliph Ma’mun (813–33), who figures in Persian histories as a legitimating figure in the transfer of power eastwards. Legitimatory motives must also have been involved in the translations made for the Samanid Nasr b. Ahmad, the Ghaznavid Bahrâmshâh, the Zangid Seyf-al-Din Ghâzi, the Saljuq Key-Khosrow of Konya and his sons, and the Timurid Hoseyn Bâyqarâ; these rulers (or their viziers, on their behalf) were making a political statement. Story-collections which combined entertainment with advice for princes grew increasingly popular in the 12th and 13th centuries. Like histories, they were often written in artistic prose. Nasr-­Allâh Monshi’s Kalile o Demne became a stylistic model; the plainer style of Bokhâri’s version may account for its descent into obscurity. Around 1210–15, Sa’d-al-Din Varâvini, writing (most probably) in Tabriz, and encouraged by Rabib-al-Din Hârun, vizier of the Atâbak of Azarbaijan, Ozbak b. Mohammad Jahân-Pahlavân (1210–25), translated the Marzbân-nâme, a framed fable collection, from a 10th century original written in the dialect of Tabarestan by a Bavandid prince of that region. A slightly earlier version, the Rowzat-al-Oqul, had been written for Rokn-al-Din Solaymân II of Konya in 1201 by one of his secretaries—later a vizier—Mohammad b. Qâzi of Malatya. Except for the Kalile o Demne (on which it was clearly modeled), this book, says Varâvini, has no like amongst the “books of the Persians” with respect to the wisdom and advice it contains. Varâvini’s introduction includes a list of works which he studied as models of style, among them the Kalile o Demne, the 46 See J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography, pp. 29–30, 287–88.

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epistles of Montajab-al-Din Badi’ of Joveyn and Bahâ’-al-Din of Baghdad (see further section 8, below), Jorbâdhqâni’s translation of Otbi, Anushirvân ibn Khaled’s history of viziers and its continuation by Qomi, and, “even though it is outside the customs of secretaries,” the poems of Khâqâni.47 Other story-collections rely upon historical anecdotes or combine these with more mundane tales involving individuals representative of various social types and classes. Nezâmi Aruzi’s Chahâr maqâle, written at the court of the Ghurid Alâ-al-Din “Jahân-suz,” “the World-Burner” (1149–61), devotes a chapter to each of the four “ministers” who are indispensable to kings—the secretary, the poet, the astrologer, and the physician—and includes both practical advice and historical anecdotes. Thus, for example, the chapter on “The Secretarial Art” discusses the necessary qualifications and skills required by the office, and offers accounts of secretaries who, by virtue of their knowledge and intelligence, were able to avert disaster. Mohammad Owfi’s Javâme’ al-hekâyât, compiled around 1223 for sultan Iltotmesh of Sind and sponsored by that ruler’s vizier, has been described as “a ‘bookish’ compilation intended by a courtier for a prince.” 48 Its one hundred chapters treat of the types of knowledge essential to rulers, and it relies heavily on historical anecdotes drawn from a wide range of sources. Somewhat later, in Shiraz, Sa’di (d. 1292) wrote his Bustân and Golestân for the Salghurid Atâbaks Abu-Bakr b. Sa’d b. Zangi and his son Sa’d b. AbuBakr; both works include panegyrics to the ruler and his court, and in both “Sa’di had made speak in the first person the persona that he has created in his two major works: Sa’di the sage.” 49 The Bustân, a mathnavi, mixes fables, historical anecdotes, proverbs and exhortations, and in this respect combines the genres of books of counsels and story-collections. The Golestân, in mixed prose and 47 See Varâvini, The Marzubán-náma, ed. M. Qazwini (Leiden and London, 1909), pp. 2–7; C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, pp. 429–32. 48 C. H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, p. 154, see also pp. 154–57, and M. Niẓâm-alDín, Introduction to the Jawámi’ (London, 1929). 49 See C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, pp. 311–48, particularly p. 312, from which the quotation is taken.

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verse, departs from the usual custom in that both the stories and the verses are, as the author boasts, entirely his own invention. Sa’di’s works are, in a sense, unique, and point to the difficulty of drawing clear boundaries between such moralizing literature and mirrors for princes proper. The chief generic characteristic of the mirror is that the author usually speaks in his own voice, and invokes his own authority as ruler, vizier, or sage advisor.50 In the earliest known Persian mirror, the Qâbus-nâme (1083), written by the Ziyarid ruler Key-Kâvus b. Eskandar b. Qâbus for his son, the author draws on his own experience to provide counsel which is “concerned not only with government but with all possible situations in which [the] son might find himself, whether as ruler or as an ordinary individual.”51 By contrast, the Siyar al-moluk (also known as the Siyâsat-nâme) commissioned by the Saljuq Sultan Malekshâh and written by his powerful vizier Nezâm-al-Molk (d. 1092), was designed to instruct the sultan in statecraft and governance. Taking Ghaznavid administrative practice as his model, and invoking his own authority as an experienced vizier, Nezâmal-Molk did not hesitate to criticize what he saw as the unsound practices of his time, and included in his work often lengthy historical accounts to illustrate his general precepts.52 A different tone is seen in Abu-Hâmed Ghazâli’s (d. 1111) Nasihat al-moluk, written around 1109 and possibly intended for the Saljuq Sultan Sanjar (1118–57), or Mohammad b. Malekshâh, or both.53 Ghazâli’s emphasis is on the moral character, and especially 50 See A. K. S. Lambton, “Islamic Mirrors for Princes,” Quaderno dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei 160 (1971), pp. 419–42. 51 A. K. S. Lambton, ibid., p. 423; on the Qâbus-nâme see C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, pp. 179–223. 52 On the Siyar al-moluk’s compositional history see C.-H. de Fouchécour, ibid., pp. 381–89, especially p. 383; see also A. K. S. Lambton, “The Dilemma of Government in Islamic Persia,” Iran 22 (1984), pp. 55–66; and J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography, pp. 145–52. 53 See A. K. S. Lambton, “Islamic Mirror for Princes,” pp. 420, 424–26; C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, pp. 389–412; C. Hillenbrand, “Islamic Orthodoxy or Realpolitik? Al-Ghazālī’s Views on Government,” Iran 26 (1988), pp. 81–94.

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the piety, of the ruler, who is enjoined to frequent religious scholars and to acquire the fundamentals of religious knowledge, as well as to contemplate the lessons of history. This tendency towards what Lambton has termed the “Islamicization” of Persian mirrors is seen also in the anonymous Bahr al-Favâ’ed, compiled around 1160 for an Atâbak of Marâghe, which combines moral counsel with a variety of other materials—pious sayings and exemplary anecdotes, guidance in the proper conduct of life, mirabilia (ajâyeb), homiletic poetry, and practical advice—to form a veritable encyclopaedia, “a condensed exposition of all that an upright man of the 12th century could wish to present to a Muslim ruler.”54 Of these two tendencies—the “Islamic” mirror, with its emphasis on piety and on Islamic example, and the “Persian,” concerned with kingly justice and good government and drawing on both the Iranian and the Islamic traditions—the latter appears to have been more popular with courtly patrons. It is seen in such works as the Aghrâz al-siyâsat fi a’râz al-riyâsat of Zahir of Samarqand, head of chancery for an obscure Qarakhanid ruler, to whom he dedicated both this work and his Sendbâd-nâme (a book of counsels contained within a frame story) some time after 1157.55 Mohammad b. Mobârakshâh’s Âdâb al-harb va’l-shojâ’a (compiled for the same prince, Iltotmesh, as was Owfi’s Javâme’ al-hekâyât), begins with chapters of general advice, but its primary focus is on statecraft and, in particular, the conduct of war.56 In all these works there is a growing tendency towards the dominance of anecdote over precept, a tendency reflected also in the growing popularity of the story-collection.

54 C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, pp. 263–75, especially p. 264; see also A. K. S. Lambton, “The Dilemma of Government in Islamic Persia,” Iran 22 (1984), pp. 426–36; on the patron, see the introduction to J. S. Meisami tr., The Sea of Precious Virtues (Salt Lake City, 1991). 55 Cf. Siyâsat-nâme, p. 27; Sanâ’i, Hadiqat-al-haqiqa, p. 29. 56 On Samarqandi see C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, pp. 420–25; on Mohammad b. Mobârakshâh: A. K. S. Lambton, ibid., pp. 436–38, and C.-H. de Fouchécour, ibid., pp. 159–61.

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7. Didactic, Religious and Philosophical  Poetry and Prose Rulers and court officials regularly patronized both serious religious scholarship and less scholarly works of a religious or spiritual nature. Such patronage was not without its pragmatic motives, as seen, for example, in Samanid sponsorship both of scholarly religious writing in Arabic and of more “popularizing” religious works in Persian. We may cite here the translation into Persian in 983, on the order of Nuh II b. Mansur, of the Hanafi creed the Savâd al-A’zam from an Arabic original commissioned around 903 by Esmâ’il I b. Ahmad (892–907). While undoubtedly meant for an audience beyond the court, the promulgation of this creed would have served the court’s interests by representing the Samanids as upholding “official” Islamic doctrine. Similarly, the Persian “translation” of Tabari’s Tafsir, commissioned by Mansur I b. Nuh, was clearly intended to legitimize Samanid claims to rule in the east by virtue of their support of “correct” religion, just as Bal’ami’s “Persian Tabari” promoted a “correct” narrative of Perso-Islamic history.57 The earliest didactic mathnavi of which more than a few verses survive is Abu-Shakur of Balkh’s Âfarin-nâme, completed in 947 and dedicated to the Samanid Nuh b. Nasr (943–54), which was either “a series of anecdotes illustrating moral points” or “diverse anecdotes inserted into a continuous narrative.”58 The chief difference between didactic-homiletic works and mirrors for princes (and it is sometimes blurred) is that while the primary targets for the latter were rulers, didactic and homiletic works, while also addressed to rulers, preached a broader ethical message; their authors aimed, ideally at least, at “touching every man, even if, in concrete terms, they were addressed to those persons in their society whom 57 See J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography, pp. 35–36, and the references cited. 58 G. Lazard, Les premiers poètes persans I, pp. 27–30, especially p. 28, and pp. 102–14 (French translation of fragments); see also F. de Blois, Persian Literature V, p. 74; C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, pp. 102–3.

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they viewed as most important.”59 Perhaps the operative word, in generic terms, is “preach;” for such works often resemble nothing so much as extended sermons, as is the case with Sanâ’i’s didactic mathnavi the Hadiqat-al-haqiqe. Sanâ’i’s earlier Seyr al-ebâd elâ ’l-ma’âd (dedicated to a qadi of Sarakhs, Imam Mohammad b. Mansur), took the form of an allegorical narrative of the soul’s progress towards perfection; the Hadiqe, dedicated to Bahrâmshâh, consists of extended homilies on various topics, sometimes illustrated by exemplary tales, and constitutes a virtual encyclopaedia of ethical instruction. Both poems laud their respective patrons as exemplars of human perfection; in this they reflect the ethical-philosophical concept of the Perfect Man, whether embodied in a ruler or in a religious figure.60 This concept also informs Nezâmi of Ganje’s first mathnavi, the Makhzan al-asrâr, dedicated to the ruler of Erzenjan Fakhr-al-Din Bahrâmshâh (c. 1163–1225), in which the poet proclaimed his intent to surpass Sanâ’i’s Hadiqe. Nezâmi’s poem, whose chief focus is on kingly ethics, is more carefully structured than is Sanâ’i’s: it begins with a panegyric on the ruler, followed by a number of pietistic preliminary sections; each of its twenty chapters, on topics relating to ethics and to kingship, concludes with an illustrative story.61 Such works may be considered “court literature” in that, though they may have had a broader purpose, they were addressed to rulers and destined for their instruction. In contrast to the authors of “mirrors for princes” (we may perhaps except Ghazâli), the authority of the homiletic writer, like his message, is primarily spiritual rather than based on his experience of, or function in, court life. This also applies to authors of allegorical narratives (philosophical or mystical), even though such authors might in fact be closely associated with courts. We may take as an example the Illuminationist philosopher Shehâb-al-Din Yahyâ Sohravardi (executed 59 C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, p. 173. 60 On the Seyr al-’ebâd see J.T.P. de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry, pp. 200–218; on the Hadiqe: ibid, especially pp. 218–45; see also C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, pp. 253–63. 61 On the Makhzan al-asrâr see C.-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, pp. 275–83.

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1191), who wrote in both Arabic and Persian, was a member of the Ayyubid court in Aleppo and also enjoyed the patronage of other princes, including Alâ-al-Din Key-Qobâd of Konya and the Saljuq Soleymanshâh (1160), and sought to apply his philosophical conception of the ruler to contemporary politics, in which he was deeply involved. Sohravardi’s Partow-nâme (whose preface states that it was written “in compliance with the command of one of the ‘lovers of virtue’”), was according to the historian Ebn-Bibi commissioned by Soleymanshâh; both this and other works demonstrate the writer’s development of the concept of divinely-inspired rule.62 Sohravardi’s example illustrates the difficulty of attempting to make a clear distinction between “court” and “non-court” literature, especially as we cannot always rely on the information provided by the texts themselves; thorough examination would undoubtedly reveal closer connections between many religious and philosophical works and court patronage than has hitherto been assumed.

8. Epistolography and Works on Style Epistolography (tarassol) comprises both official and private correspondence. The authors of both were often identical: secretaries and administrators who both composed official letters and documents and corresponded privately with one another. Some sources distinguish between “royal” or official correspondence (soltâniyyât), and “brotherly” or private correspondence (ekhvâniyyât). Examples of both types (often with some overlap between the two) were often compiled to serve as models of administrative and rhetorical style; such works may also include more general sections on eloquence and on techniques of composition. Works on poetics 62 Sohravardi, The Book of Radiance, ed and tr. H. Ziai (Costa Mesa, 1998), p. 2; see also ibid., pp. xiv–xv, and H. Ziai, “The Source and Nature of Authority,” Ch. E. Butterworth, ed., The Political Aspects of Islamic Philosophy (Cambridge, 1992), p. 322, n. 48; idem, EI2 s.v. Suhraward, Shihāb alDīn Yaḥyā ibn Ḥabash.

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(that is, on prosody and rhetoric)—for example Rashid-al-Din Vatvât’s Hadâ’eq al-sehr (based on the earlier Tarjomân al-balâghe by Râduyâni written between 1088 and 1111, see chap. 6 above), and intended “to immortalize the memory” of the Khwârazmshâh Atsiz—often included prose as well as poetic illustrations, and might also offer instruction on the technique of hall-e manzum, the “recomposition” of verse passages into prose.63 We may recall that Varâvini’s list of stylistic models included several collections of epistolography and manuals of style. Among them are Mohammad Meyhani’s (mid-12th century) Dastur-e dabiri, written at the suggestion of a “dear friend” and intended for the instruction of beginners; the Atabat al-kataba of Montajab-al-Din Badi’ Joveyni, a secretary at Sanjar’s court who compiled his book on the order of Sanjar’s vizier; the letters of Rashid-al-Din Vatvât and of Bahâ’-al-Din of Baghdâd, head of chancery (and later vizier) to the Khwârazmshâh Takesh (1172–1200), titled al-Tavassol elâ’l-tarassol, which the author collected “as a service to the royal court.” Such works may be regarded as “in-house” productions of and for the court, which were meant not only to provide stylistic models but to preserve both their authors’ and their patrons’ name and fame. Bahâ’-al-Din of Baghdad credits Vatvât with having introduced rhymed prose and the ornate, figured style into Persian epistolography, “partly to reflect glory on his royal patron and partly to demonstrate [his] own erudition and refined style.” 64 K. A. Luther, contrasting the plain style of the Ghaznavid chancery (as represented by Beyhaqi) with the figured style of the late Saljuq (and other) chanceries, argued that this reflected a change in the ruler’s involvement in the preparation of official correspondence (in which the Ghaznavid rulers participated directly, but which the often illiterate Saljuq sultans left to their officials), and further that writers of 63 For an introduction to the principles of this technique (with reference to Arabic) see A. Sanni, The Arabic Theory of Prosification and Versification (Beirut and Stuttgart, 1998). On Persian epistolography see F.-A. Mojtabā’ī, EIr, s.v. Correspondence. ii. Islamic Persia. 64 F.-A. Mojtabā’ī, ibid.

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other prose genres were constrained to “follow the rules” laid down in the manuals of style.65 It is noteworthy that the authors and compilers in question almost universally caution against the use of an excessively ornamental style, which both impedes communication of the matter at hand and leads to unnecessary prolixity. Moreover, while the development of the figured style may be seen as a further manifestation of the “literazation” of Persian prose already referred to, individual styles varied according to both the writer’s taste and that of his intended audience. We may compare, for instance, the versions of the Kalile o Demne by Nasr-Allâh Monshi and Bokhâri, or the styles of the historians Nishâpuri and Râvandi.

9. Satire and Humorous Writing Satire is a mode which cuts across all formal and generic categories and occurs in both poetry and prose. Despite the fact that most writers and poets turned their hand to satire at one time or another, this type of writing has been little studied, especially with respect to the pre-modern period, largely because of its characteristic use of obscenity.66 Satire (or, more broadly, humor) might take the form of individual works in poetry or prose, or of passages inserted into otherwise serious compositions (for example, those in Sanâ’i’s Hadiqe, or in Sa’di’s Golestân). In many works we thus find a blending of both seriousness (jedd) and humor (hazl); and often the purpose is not social satire, but pure entertainment. Moreover, it is often difficult to draw a clear line between invective 65 See K. A. Luther, “Bayhaqi and the Later Seljuq Historians,” in Yâdnâmeye Abu’l-Fazl Beyhaqi (Mashhad, 1971), pp. 14–33; idem, “Chancery Writing as a Source of Constraints on History Writing” (unpublished paper) and idem “Islamic Rhetoric and the Persian Historian.” See also J. S. Meisami, Persian Historiography, especially pp. 289–98. 66 For a general survey see H. Javadi, Satire in Persian Literature ((Rutherford, 1988), whose focus is mainly on the modern period; see also P. Sprachman, Suppressed Persian (Costa Mesa, 1995), who translates hazl as “bawdy” (p. xxii), and particularly the chapter by Zipoli on satire and invective in Vol. III, HPL (forthcoming).

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(hajv)—the generic opposite of praise (madh)—and humor, except for the fact that the object of invective was an individual (who is usually named); but much apparent invective was also intended for humorous effect.67 Poets might devote whole sections of their divâns to humorous poems (hazliyyât) employing the lyric forms of the qaside and the ghazal (as well as the qat’e and robâ’i), and often parodying their conventions. Such was the case with Suzani, master of bawdy poetry, many of whose poems take the form of mocking responses (javâbs) to other poets, in particular Sanâ’i.68 Anvari’s “humorous” qasides (referred to in Section 2) may also be seen as poking fun at the court poet’s obligation to produce the required poem, no matter what the circumstances. The Divân-e At’eme of Fakhr-al-Din Ahmad Hallâj, known as Bushâq-e At’eme (early 15th century), is devoted to the subject of food and how to get some, and parodies the leading poets of his time, including Hâfez; some half a century later Qâri of Yazd imitated him by composing a Divân-e Albese whose poems revolve around the subjects of clothing and stuffs.69 Mathnavi verse was also a popular vehicle for satire and for humorous poetry. We may mention, for example, Mas’ud-e Sa’d’s math­navi on the court and the musicians of Shirzâd (Mas’ud III’s son and governor of India), which includes praise of the prince, descriptions of the drunken misbehavior of various courtiers, and references to the sexual misconduct of the musicians; at the end, the poet excuses himself for this “pleasantry” (tibat), which, he states, he composed on demand for the amusement of the drinkingparty. Similar in content, but somewhat more barbed, is Sanâ’i’s Kârnâme-ye Balkh, written shortly after the poet had left Ghazne 67 See P. Sprachman, Suppressed Persian, pp. xxv–xxx. 68 On Suzani see P. Sprachman, ibid., pp. 18–25; see also the parodic ghazals discussed in J. S. Meisami, “The Body as Garden,” pp. 253–55. On the javâbs and other types of imitation see P. Losensky, “The Allusive Field of Drunkenness,” in S. Pinckney Stetkevych, ed. Reorientations/ Arabic and Persian Poetry (Bloomington, 1994), pp. 227–32; idem, Welcoming Fighānī, pp. 100–114; and R. Zipoli, The Technique of the Ğawāb (Venice, 1993). 69 On Bushâq see E. G. Browne, LHP III, pp. 344–51; P. Losensky, Welcoming Fighānī, pp. 164–70. On Qâri see E. G. Browne, LHP III, pp. 351–53.

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for Khorasan, which also mixes praise with satire, and which seems, in part, designed as a rebuke to those persons at the Ghaznavid court who had failed to support the poet.70 A related type of poem, which consists rather of a series of qat’es employing different meters and rhymes, is the shahrâshub, which describes, in appropriate language, a variety of “beloveds” drawn from various social groups and professions; early examples are found in the Divân of Mas’ud‑e Sa’d-e Salmân.71 Mathnavi satires, like those in lyric form (as well as in prose) might target specific types of writing; thus for example in his Dastur-nâme Nezâri of Qohestân (d. 1320–21)—who served in the chancery of the Kart rulers of Herat, for whom he composed panegyrics—parodies books of counsel: his work, ostensibly written for his sons, is in actuality “intended for gluttons and wine-bibbers.”72 We might also mention here Amir Khosrow’s Faras-nâme, a mathnavi in which a horse bestowed on the poet as a gift complains of his wretched condition to the noble donor, and asks to be replaced; while its primary purpose is humorous, it also both parodies the hasb-e hâl and suggests the niggardliness of the patron.73 The most famous of the Persian satirists is Obeyd Zâkâni, who was at the court of Shiraz, and employs nearly every type of writing to convey topical and social criticism. His mock-epic qaside Mush o gorbe details the conflict between the rapacious cat (supposedly turned ascetic) and the terrorized mice of the city of Kerman;74 his prose works include a mock treatise on ethics, the Akhlâq al-Ashrâf, which contrasts the now “abrogated (mansukh)” customs of the past with those preferred (mokhtâr) by the present; his Rish-nâme, which deals with the subject of beards, adopts (and ­parodies) the 70 On Sanâ’i’s Kârnâme see J. T. P.de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry, pp. 39–56, 194–200. 71 See J. T. P. de Bruijn in EI2 s.v. Shahrangiz. 72 J. Rypka, HIL, p. 256. 73 See S. H. Askari, “Wit and Humor in the Works of Amir Khusrau,” in Z. Ansari, ed., Life, Times and Works of Amīr Khusrau Dehlavī, (New Delhi, 1975), pp. 164–66. 74 Some scholars, including Mojtabâ Minovi and Abbâs Eqbâl-Âshtiâni, unlike Dh. Safâ (TAI, III/2, pp. 971–74), have doubted the attribution of Mush o gorbe to Obeyd; see Kolliyât-e Obeyd-e Zâkâni, ed. M.-J. Mahjub (New York, 1999), pp. xxxi–xxxii.

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style of Sa’di’s Golestân, with its use of rhyming prose and (deliberately excessive) poetic interpolations.75

10. Conclusion In the preceding sections I have not attempted to classify systematically the “genres of court literature,” but rather to suggest that a wide variety of interrelated types of writing enjoyed the particular attention, and/or served the interests, of the courtly milieu. Within these broad categories it might be possible to identify sub­categories with more clearly defined generic characteristics (for example, the panegyric ghazal ), but this is a task best left to the authors of more specialized chapters in these volumes. It is clear that, with the growth of an extensive literary tradition in Persian, writers increasingly looked back upon past works, to draw from them, comment upon them, or reinterpret them. Take, for example, Nezâmi of Ganje’s re-interpretation of—or a response to—Fakhr-al-Din of Gorgan’s Vis o Râmin in his Khosrow o Shirin or his critique, in the Haft Peykar, of what he perceives as the heroic ethos of Ferdowsi’s Shahname.76 As a natural consequence of this development, writing becomes increasingly “literary”—allusive, learned, drawing attention to its own sophisticated rhetoric, with a blurring of the distinctions between the languages of poetry and of prose, and an increasing approximation of the two.77 This is seen clearly in the works on style mentioned above (Section 8), which were intended for the poets and prose writers of the court, 75 On Obeyd Zâkâni see E. G. Browne, LHP III, pp. 230–57; Abbâs EqbâlÂshtiâni, Introduction, Kolliyât-e Obeyd-e Zâkâni, Tehran, 1952; Dh. Safâ, TAI, III/2, pp. 963–85; M. J. Mahjub, Introduction, Kolliyât-e Obeyd-e Zâkâni, pp. Xxxi–xxxii; P. Sprachman, Suppressed Persian, pp. 41–75 (with a translation of the Rish-nâme on pp. 61–75). 76 See J. S. Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry, pp. 111–30, 147–58; idem, “Fitna or Azada? Nizami’s Ethical Poetic,” Edebiyât NS 1 (1989), pp. 41–75. 77 See J. S. Meisami, “Mixed Prose and Verse in Medieval Persian Literature,” in J. Harris and K. Reichl, eds., Prosimetrum (1997), pp. 297–322.

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and whose authors were concerned both with stylistic eloquence in general and with the features and decorum appropriate to poetic and prose discourse. The approximation between the two is seen in the use of terminology: the opening section of the poem or epistle is discussed under the rubric “exordium” (tashbib); both poems and epistles consist of opening, transitional, and closing portions (matla’, makhlas, maqta’); the same generic categories apply to both, for example, madh ‘encomium’ in the qaside becomes tahmid ‘praise’ [of the recipient] in the epistle; they distinguish between “serious” and “non-serious” registers, and the style appropriate to, or characteristic of, various types of writing. The traditional privileging of poetry and its separation from prose are called into question by the attention given to prose style by the poets themselves. Khâqâni, for example, identified three types of prose, the secretarial (dabirâne), the homiletic (vâ’ezâne), and the scholarly (muhaqqeqâne); Amir Khosrow, in his work on stylistics the E’jâze Khosravi, distinguished nine different types of prose styles.78 The issues raised in this chapter will be dealt with in more detail elsewhere in these volumes. I will conclude with a note of caution. We are still ill-equipped to attempt any definitive classification of Persian literature (“court” or otherwise), as many texts from the earlier periods have been lost, or have come down to us only in later redactions, and much that has survived remains both unedited and unstudied. This compounds the difficulty of approaching the study of Persian literature from the point of view of those who wrote it. But such obstacles should not cause us to throw up our hands in despair, but to welcome the opportunity, and the challenge, to attempt not a “last word,” but a forward step on the road to greater understanding.

78 Khâqâni, Monshâ’ât, ed. M. Rowshan (Tehran, 1971), p. 173; on Amir Khosrow see M. W. Mirza, The Life and Works of Amir Khusrau (1975), and N. Ahmad, “Classical Persian Stylists Mentioned in E’jaz-e-Khusrawi,” in Z. Ansari, ed., Life, Times and Works of Amīr Khusrau Dehlavī, pp. 132–43.

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Chapter 9 Genres of Religious Literature N. Pourjavady

1. Commentaries on the Qur’an  and Stories of the Prophets The coming of Islam brought about great changes in the language and literature of Persia. Naturally, Arabic, the language of the Qur’an and the Prophetic Tradition (hadith), was acknowledged as the principal language of Islam, and to begin with this was the only language employed by scholars and writers. Learned men, religious propagandists, and particularly strict adherents of the Prophetic traditions such as the Hanbalites, tried to restrict the use of languages other than Arabic to the level of conversation, at most. In spite of this, however, Arabic never succeeded in becoming the dominant language among the great mass of Persian-speaking people. There is evidence to show that as early as the 2nd century of the Islamic era (the 8th century ce) Persian was used at religious and scholarly gatherings. Moreover, the Persians not only translated the Qur’an and wrote commentaries on it in Persian, but also expounded religious doctrines, delivered homilies, and gave moral admonition in their own language. Persian storytellers (qossâs), who during the first centuries were the main propagandists of Islam to the common people, related the tenets of the religion along with stories from the Qur’an and other sources in Persian. Pious people, preachers, Sufis, followers of the “doctrine of blame” (malâmatiyye), and the Karrâmiyye taught orally in Persian. This was especially the case in Khorasan where some of the great sheikhs of the Malâmatiyye could not even speak Arabic.1 Many of 1 See F. de Jong and H. Algar in EI2, s.v. Malāmatiyya.

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the sayings of early Persian mystics such as Bâyazid Bestâmi (or Bastâmi), which were later transmitted in Arabic books, were originally uttered in Persian. 2 Nonetheless, up until the 10th century Arabic was recognized as the sole language for writing on religious subjects, and Persian scholars, like scholars who were native Arabs, wrote their works in Arabic. Only occasionally did some of them employ Persian expressions or sentences in their writings. For instance, in the works of Hakim Abu-Abd-Allâh Mohammad of Termedh, a writer of the 9th century in Khorasan, a considerable number of Persian words can be found.3 At this time, the use of Persian in written works did not go beyond this. However, in the middle of the 10th century a major change occurred in Khorasan with the translation into Persian of an Arabic commentary on the Qur’an attributed to Tabari: Tarjome-ye Tafsir‑e Tabari, which includes the translation of the text of the Qur’an as well, commissioned by the Samanid Mansur I b. Nuh.4 With this translation, Persian gained official recognition as a language for religious writings. In fact it can be said that the appearance of this work meant authorization for writing in Persian on other religious sciences as well, such as mysticism, the Prophetic traditions, theology, and even Islamic law. The mystics of Persia, in particular those of Khorasan, made use of Persian in their daily conversation as well as in sessions at which they preached and taught. Therefore, even before Sufis began to write books in this language, it was already in use as an oral medium for discourse on religious subjects. One of the great sheikhs of the second half of the 10th and the beginning of the 11th century was Sheikh Abu’l-Hasan Kharaqâni (d. 1034), whose profound and appealing sayings were assembled by his pupils in a book entitled 2 See further N. Pourjavady, “The use of Persian as a religious language in the early centuries of Islam,” in Proceedings of the Symposium on Religious Texts in Iranian Languages, Copenhagen, May, 2002 (forthcoming). 3 On the life and works of Termedhi see introd. to B. Radtke and J. O’Kane, trs., The Concept of Sainthood in Early Islamic Mysticism (Richmond, UK, 1996). 4 Ed. H. Yaghmâ’i, 7 vols. (Tehran, 1960–65); cf. G. Lazard, La langue des plus anciens monuments de la prose persane (Paris, 1963), pp. 41–45.

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Nur al-olum (Light of the Sciences). Although this work is no longer extant in its entirety, a selection from it known as Montakhab‑e Nur al-olum, has been preserved.5 This sheikh, one of the most prominent Sufi sheikhs of all times, had been a muleteer, and was apparently illiterate, such that he could not even pronounce Arabic words correctly. All his sayings must therefore have been in Persian. The fact that a religious and spiritual leader was at this time expressing all his beliefs and thoughts in Persian and not Arabic points to a further development in the use of Persian. From the second half of the 10th century onwards, Persian was not only being employed for the expression of theological or profound philosophical or mystical thought in Khorasan but Sufi sheikhs and religious scholars also had recourse to this language in answering the questions put to them by their followers. This resulted in the emergence of another genre of religious literature in Persian, namely manuals that answered questions concerning religious practices and belief. One of the first genres of Persian religious literature to appear was that of the Qur’anic stories (qesas). The authors of this genre were essentially storytellers and preachers who were to be found in every Islamic community. They familiarized people with the culture and religious fundamentals of Islam by telling stories derived from the Qur’an mingled with materials from Christian and Jewish sources. Stories about the Prophet, his Companions, and some Qur’anic figures, adorned with the traditional trappings of storytelling, subsequently found an important place in the genre of Persian commentaries on the Qur’an. In addition to this, separate books were composed on the stories of the prophets, such as the Qesas al-anbiyâ (Tales of the Prophets) of Eshâq b. Ebrâhim of Nishapur, who was himself an outstanding representative of traditional storytelling in Khorasan.6 Not all the stories of the prophets were equally popular with storytellers and their audiences. Some prophets received more at5 The Montakhab was published first by E. E. Bertel’s (Moscow, 1927), and then by M. Minovi (Tehran, 1975). Cf. J. T. P. de Bruijn, EI2 , s.v. Kharaḳānī. 6 Ed. H. Yaghmâ’i (Tehran, 1961); cf. C. A. Storey, PL I, pp. 159–60, 1250; G. Lazard, La langue des plus anciens monuments, pp. 97–99.

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tention than others. Stories that were most often told were those of Moses, Abraham, and of Joseph. In the 11th and early 12th centuries, the story of Joseph and Zoleykhâ’s love for him, as well as his separation from Jacob, to whom the twelfth chapter (sura) of the Qur’an—known as “the most beautiful of all stories” (ahsan al-­qesas)—is entirely devoted, his being thrown into a pit by his jealous brothers informing his father Jacob that he had been torn by a wolf, his becoming a favorite of the Pharaoh after correctly interpreting the king’s dreams, his being able to help his starving brothers during a famine, and his father regaining his sight when he realizes that Joseph was alive as well as the story of Zoleykhâ’s love for him and his pious refusal to yield to her advances, were greatly elaborated with additions from various sources. Several separate works dealing with this religious tale of the love of Zoleykhâ for Joseph appeared in both prose and poetry. The oldest versified form of the tale is a romantic mathnavi under the title Yusof o Zoleykhâ, which had been wrongly attributed to the great epic poet Ferdowsi. Although its authorship by the poet of Tus has been convincingly rejected, there can be no doubt about the early date of this narrative poem. It was composed in the second half of the 11th century, a period when the story of Joseph was drawing the attention of a number of Qur’anic commentators and other writers.7 Another commentary on the chapter of Joseph, written in the th 11 century, is Anis al-moridin va rowzat al-mohebbin (The Intimate Companions of the Aspirants and the Garden of the Lovers), composed at Balkh in the year 1082 by Abu-Nasr Ahmad b. Ahmad of Bokhâra. Initially, the work comprised a detailed commentary on the tale of Joseph, but later the author added stories of other prophets and, in time, renamed his book Tâj al-qesas (The Crown of Stories). This commentary, which has not yet been published, is one of the first to include lines of Persian verse with an ethical and pious content. To some extent this work has an ascetic and mystical side; for example, it contains anecdotes about early

7

Unfinished ed. H. Ethé (Oxford, 1908); cf. F. de Blois, PL V, pp. 576–84; J. T. P. de Bruijn, EI2, s.v. Yūsuf and Zulaykhā.

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mystics such as Shebli, Râbe’e, and Yahyâ Ma’âz of Ray. However, the mysticism in this commentary is different from the kind that was current in Khorasan, particularly in cities like Nishapur and Tus, with its emphasis on love. Among other works dealing with the Qur’anic tale of Joseph as a separate subject is al-Settin al-jâme’ le-latâ’ef al-basâtin (The Sixty Encompassing the Graces of the Gardens, known also as the Tafsir‑e Sure-ye Yusof ), by Ahmad b. Mohammad b. Zeyd of Tus.8 In this book, mystical teachings and Sufi anecdotes have been inserted into Joseph’s story, and the writer also makes use of mystical verses in Persian. Not much is known about the author, but much of the material in his commentary resembles a similar work in Arabic attributed to the wellknown writer and mystic of Tus, Ahmad Ghazâli (d. 1126), under the title Bahr al-mahabba fi asrâr al-mavadda (The Ocean of Love Concerning the Secrets of Friendship), written as a commentary of Sura of Joseph (XII).9. In the ensuing centuries the story of Joseph continued to attract the attention of Sufi authors. Among the romances of Abd-al-Rahmân Jâmi (d. 1492), collectively called Haft Owrang, is the mathnavi Yusof o Zoleykhâ.10 Mas’ud Qomi, a contemporary of Jâmi, composed another romance in the mathnavi form with the same title.11 Not all Persian commentaries on the Qur’an were written from a mystical point of view. The first scholars to have written orthodox or exoteric commentaries in Persian on the Qur’an were nearly all from Khorasan, and belonged to various schools of thought.12 A complete Persian commentary written according to the tenets of orthodox Sunnism was Tâj al-tarâjem fi tafsir al-Qur’an le’la’âjem (The Crown of Translations Concerning the Commentary on the Qur’an for Persians). The author, Abu’l-Mozaffar Shâhpur of Esfarâ’en (d. 1078), was among the famous theologians and ­jurists   8 Ed. M. Rowshan (Tehran, 1977).   9 Published in Bombay, 1876. 10 Ed. A. Afsahzâd and H.-A. Tarbiyat, in Mathnavi-ye Haft Owrang II (Tehran, 1999), pp. 19–209. 11 Ed. A. Âl‑e Dâvud (Tehran, 2001). 12 On tafsir-writing in Persian see A. Keeler, EIr, s.v. Exegesis iii: in Persian.

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of the 11th century.13 In the second section of the introduction to this commentary, the basic doctrines of Sunnism are set forth in Persian, and this may, in fact, be the oldest exposition of Sunnite creed in that language. In the first part of the same introduction the author states that those who know Arabic are outnumbered by those who do not. For this reason it is necessary to explain matters of religion and Islamic law as well as the meaning of the Qur’an in other languages, including Persian. He further points out that according to some scholars, if a person is unable to recite the Opening Chapter (Fâteha) in Arabic when he performs his ritual prayers, he may say it in Persian. Remarks of this kind indicate that by the middle of the 11th century in Khorasan the ground had been set for the use of Persian as a religious language. An example of early commentaries on the Qur’an in Persian is the Tafsir‑e Surâbâdi, one of the most elegantly written commentaries in Persian. The prophetic tales in this commentary are told in an attractive prose style (these have been extracted and published separately).14 The tafsir is the work of Abu-Bakr Atiq of Nishapur (d. 1100), who is said to have been the leader of the Karrâmiyya faction15 in Nishapur.16 Abu-Abd-Allâh Mohammad b. Karrâm, the founder of this faction, was particularly attached to Persian and used Persian words and phrases in his own works. It is understandable then that Abu-Bakr Atiq would have written his commentary in Persian.17 Another well-known and complete commentary on the Qur’an, written in accordance with orthodox Sunnism but from the point of view of the love mysticism typical of Khorasan, is the Kashf al-asrâr va oddat al-abrâr (The Unveiling of Secrets and the Provision for the Pious) by Abu’l-Fazl Rashid-al-Din Meybodi. This commentary, the writing of which began in 1126, was arranged on three levels (called nowbats). The first contains a Persian ­translation 13 Ed. N. Mâyel Heravi and A.-A. Elâhi Khorâsâni, vols. 1–3 (Tehran, 1996), probably incomplete. 14 Ed. Y. Mahdavi (Tehran, 1968). 15 See W. Madelung, Religious Trends in Early Islamic Iran, New York, 1988, pp. 39–53. 16 Ed. A. A. Sa’idi Sirjâni, 5 vols. (Tehran, 2002). 17 G. Lazard, La langue des plus anciens monuments, pp. 91–94.

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of the Qur’anic verses; the second, the exoteric commentary, includes hadith material, discussions of legal rulings, circumstances of revelation of the verses, and so on; and the third contains an esoteric (erfâni, bâteni) commentary comprising mystical allusions, metaphorical and allegorical interpretations, love poetry, Sufi anecdotes, and sayings of the great saints. Numerous sayings are cited from the Hanbali Sufi sheikh of Herat, Khwâje Abd-­Allâh Ansâri (d. 1089). Meybodi’s Persian prose is sometimes mixed with Arabic expressions and phrases, perhaps an indication that the author of this Persian commentary is not addressing an audience unfamiliar with Arabic. About the same time that Meybodi was writing his commentary, three other voluminous Persian commentaries were being written. One was the Rowz al-jenân va rowh al-janân (Meadows of Paradise and the Refreshment of the Heart) by the Shi’ite writer Abu’l-Fotuh Râzi (d. 1143),18 a work that is said to have been used extensively by Fakhr-al-Din Râzi for his commentary; the second was Tafsir‑e Basâ’er‑e Yamini (Inner Perceptions [or Perceptive Faculties] of the Mind) by Mohammad b. Mahmud of Nishapur, who dedicated this work to Sultan Yamin-al-Dowle Bahrâmshâh Ghaznavi (r. 1118–52),19 and the third was Latâ’ef al-tafsir (Subtle Ideas in Qur’anic Interpretation) by Abu-Nasr Darvâzjaki (or Darvâjaki) of Bukhara (d. 1154). 20

2. Manuals Reference has already been made to the fact that Persian was used in answering questions put by ordinary people to Islamic scholars, more particularly to Sufi sheikhs, and this led, in time, to the composition of manuals on Islamic creed and religious questions. 18 Ed. M.-J. Yâhaqqi and M.-M. Nâseh, 20 vols., 2nd printing (Mashhad, 1998). 19 Ed. A. Ravâqi (Tehran, 1359), only vol. 1; see also C. A. Storey, PL I, pp. 4–5. 20 See Abbâs Mâhvâr, “Latâ’ef al-tafsir,” in Nashr‑e Dânesh, Vol. 2, No. 3 (1982).

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The first Persian book to appear on matters concerning religious doctrine and practice was a translation of al-Savâd al-a’zam (The Greatest Circumference) by Abu’l-Qâsem Eshâq of Samarqand, known as Hakim Samarqandi (d. 954), one of the Imams of the Hanafi school of law. In this book, Samarqandi had discussed sixty-one questions of doctrine and religious law, his aim being to thereby show the “correct” (orthodox) doctrine, i.e., according to the Sunna. 21 Seventy years later, in the year 980, a time when the majority of people still did not know sufficient Arabic to make use of this book, the Samanid emir of Khorasan, Nuh II b. Mansur, ordered that it “should be translated into Persian so that it would be as accessible and useful to the common people as it was to the elite, and they could have a sound knowledge of [orthodox] doctrine and desist from lust.”22 After the translation of Samarqandi’s book, Sufis began to make use of Persian in writing about their own doctrine and practice, both exoteric and esoteric. Initially, their work also took the form of a translation of, and commentary on, an Arabic text. The first translator and writer in Persian on the history of Sufism is AbuEbrâhim Esmâ’il Mostamli of Bukhara (d. 1042), who rendered the Ketâb al-ta’arrof le-madhhab ahl al-tasavvof (Introduction to the Teachings of Sufism) by sheikh Kalâbâdhi (or Golâbâdi, d. 995) into Persian, and commented upon it. Kalâbâdhi’s work, one of the most important books on the theology and mystical beliefs of the Sufis, explains aspects of the esoteric path and the terminology of Sufism rather succinctly in Arabic. The much longer commentary of his pupil, Mostamli, known as the Sharh‑e ta’arrof, is divided into four parts, each of which constitutes a sizeable volume. It is, in fact, almost an encyclopaedia of Sufism, particularly as it was current during the 10th and 11th centuries in Bukhara and the surrounding areas. Many aspects of mysticism and theology are treated in the commentary. The author was a Sunni traditionalist who favored of the doctrines of Abu’l-Hasan Ash’ari, and was a 21 Hakim Samarqandi, Tarjome-ye al-Savâd al-a’zam, ed. A. Habibi (Tehran, 1969), p. 18. 22 Ibid., p. 19.

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fierce ­opponent of the Mo’tazelites. The numerous anecdotes about the early Sufi sheikhs, their sayings accompanied by Persian translations, as well as the translation and explanation of many mystical and theological terms make this work undoubtedly one of the richest and most original sources for the study of Sufism. The Sharh‑e Ta’arrof, although ostensibly a commentary on another book, is actually an original composition. On account of its discussion of a great variety of themes, the work is in many ways just as important, if not more, than the Ta’arrof itself. After the Sharh‑e Ta’arrof another important work on Sufism written in Persian was Kashf al-mahjub (Uncovering of the Veiled) by Ali b. Othmân Hojviri of Jollâb, a suburb of Ghazne (written in 1073 or shortly thereafter). The author wrote his book in Lahore towards the end of his life. It was written in answer to questions by a person named Abu-Sa’id Hojviri, who put to Ali b. Othmân various questions concerning Sufism and its doctrine, stages of the mystical path, and the sayings, allusions, and symbolic statements of the Sufis. The latter took these questions as an occasion to write a book on various aspects of Sufism, its doctrine and its history, explaining the experiences of the Sufis, their different schools, and Sufi rules of conduct. In his book, Hojviri followed works by other writers from Khorasan such as the Ketâb al-loma’ by Abu-Nasr Sarrâj of Tus (d. 988), and the Resâla by Abu’l-Qâsem Qosheyri (d. 1073), both written in Arabic. Hojviri derived materials on the lives of Sufi sheikhs in particular from the latter work. However, Hojviri’s book differed in several respects from those of his predecessors, and especially from Qosheyri’s Resâla. Qosheyri had mainly been concerned with relating the sayings of classical Sufis, but he gave particular prominence to the teachings of his master and father-in-law, Abu-Ali Daqqâq, whereas Hojviri provides a more balanced collection of the sayings of other Sufis. He also expounds on his personal experiences and views, and provides information about the historical and social conditions of his time. An interesting feature of the Kashf al-mahjub is that it deals with the lives and mystical experiences of the Companions of the Prophet, outstanding pious people, Sufis and the Malâmatis of Khorasan as well as with the various factions of Sufis. These subjects are note278

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worthy from a historical point of view. In addition to the account of Sufi practices and the explanation of Sufi concepts and terms, such as poverty (faqr), knowledge (elm), the soul, the spirit, and the different spiritual states and stages (ahvâl va maqâmât), the duties imposed by Islamic law (shari’a), such as prayer, almsgiving, fasting, and the pilgrimage, are discussed. The social behavior of Sufis, both when traveling and sedentary, their rules for marriage, the question of listening to music and reciting poetry in sessions devoted to “audition” (samâ’) as well as the Persian Sufi terminology are among the conspicuous themes discussed in this book. The information which the writer provides on social matters in particular is in itself rare, and sometimes even unique. In this respect the Kashf al-mahjub is one of the most important and comprehensive classics of Sufi literature. During the 11th century Sufis were not alone in using Persian for the exposition of religious doctrine and practice, though their writings were the more noteworthy. The oldest moral and religious text in Persian, written in the first half of the 11th century in Nishapur by the Karrâmi writer and preacher Abu-Hafz Omar Samarqandi, is Rownaq al-majâles. 23 Being mainly a collection of anecdotes and stories, this book became a source for some later religious writers and poets, such as Farid al-Din Attâr in his Mosibat-nâme. The Isma’ili writer and poet Nâser‑e Khosrow (d. 1077), who came from Qobâdiyân near Balkh, also composed his philosophical works in Persian. Among these are Rahâyesh o goshâyesh (Deliverance and Unveiling), Rowshanâ’i-nâme (The Book of Light), on Ismaili theology and doctrine, and Zâd al-mosâferin (Provisions for Travelers), on some points of belief and religious practices such as prayer, fasting and their esoteric meanings; all three are in prose. The writers whom we have mentioned so far all lived in the eastern part of greater Khorasan, the area where the literary use of Persian began. From approximately the second half of the 11th century onwards, religious authors in the more westerly cities of Khorasan

23 Ed. by A. A. Rajâei in Do Resâlehe fârsi‑e kohan dar tasavvof, (Tehran, 1354).

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such as Nishapur and Tus also started to write in Persian. The first among them was probably Abu’l-Hasan of Bost (a district in Nishapur) who, besides leaving us a few lines of Sufi poetry, wrote a short treatise in Persian on lâ elâha ellâ’llâh, in which he dealt with the esoteric heavenward journey of the Sufis by way of an analysis of the Islamic creed in a figurative and symbolic way. 24 However, the first comprehensive work on religious doctrines and practices was the Kimiyâ-ye sa’âdat (The Alchemy of Happiness) by AbuHâmed Mohammad Ghazâli (d. 1111), a book which is truly one of the outstanding classics of Persian prose. The Kimiyâ-ye sa’âdat was intended as an abridged translation of Abu-Hâmed’s great Arabic work, the Ehyâ’ olum al-din, but in fact new materials were added to this Persian version. The sources of the Kimiyâ and the Ehyâ’ are, as far as Sufi matters are concerned, earlier works such as the Qut al-qolub (Food for Hearts) of Abu-Tâleb Makki (d. 998), and works by Khorasani authors such as Abu-Nasr Sarrâj, Abu Sa’d Khargushi (d. c. 1015), and Qosheyri. In the Ehyâ’ Ghazâli drew a great number of sayings and anecdotes from Khargushi’s Tahdhib al-asrâr (Refinement of Secrets), and in the Kimiyâ he rendered some of these into Persian. Because of the celebrity and success of the Kimiyâ, the contents of Khargushi’s manual also found their way into later works. Another work on religious doctrine and Islamic Law was the manual Rowzat al-fariqeyn (The Garden of the Two Schools), composed by an unknown author in Marv. 25 He was a disciple of Sheikh Abu’l-Rajâ Khomraki of Marv (d. 1122), and meant to bring together the views of the Hanafite and the Shâfi’ite schools on questions of doctrine and Islamic law. 26 The book also includes anecdotes about, and sayings of, various Sufi masters. 24 For the text of this treatise and the commentaries on it, see N. Pourjavady, The Life and Works of Abu’l Hasan‑e Busti (Tehran, 1985). 25 Ed. A. Habibi (Tehran, 1980). 26 This book, contrary to what the editor has assumed, is not confined to only what Abu’l-Rajâ had dictated, and by Fariqeyn is not meant the holders of exoteric and esoteric views of Islamic doctrine and law, but the two schools: the Hanafites and the Shâfi’ite.

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The writing of manuals in Persian by Sufi authors was less common during the ensuing centuries. Instead, Sufis preferred to deal with the various topics that had been treated in the earlier comprehensive works in the form of specialized monographs or treatises. However, some sheikhs did not leave their pupils without handbooks. One of them was Abu’l-Mafâkher Yahyâ of Bâkharz (d. 1335), the author of Owrâd al-ahbâb va fosus al-âdâb (The Recitations of Lovers and the Bezels of Good Manners). Among the interesting features of this book is a chapter on samâ’ (Audition, Sufi Musical Sessions) in which the author explains, among other things, the symbolic language of Sufi poetry. 27 In later centuries the need of Persian-speaking mystics for comprehensive books was partly met by translations from Arabic works. Qosheyri’s Resâla, one of the classics of Sufi literature, seems to have been rendered into Persian by one of his pupils shortly after his death. 28 The Avâref al-ma’âref by Shehâb-al-Din Omar Sohravardi (d. 1235) was translated more than once. The most important of these translations is the Mesbâh al-hedâya va meftâh al-kefâya (The Lamp of Guidance and the Key to Sufficiency) by Ezz-alDin Mahmud of Kashan (d. 1334), which is in fact more than just a translation of Sohravardi’s work, and has come to be regarded as a splendid example of literary prose and subtle mystical thought. 29

3. Short Works on Mystical States and Stages,  and on Spiritual Conduct The Sufi handbooks combined various topics. As we have said, some of these concerned the principles of Sufi doctrine, especially the unity of God (towhid), others, the mystical states and stages (ahvâl va maqâmât), and still others the rules of individual and 27 Bâkharzi, Owrâd al-ahbâb va fusus al-âdâb II, ed. I. Afshâr (Tehran, 1976), pp. 180–253. 28 Tarjome-ye Resâle-ye Qosheyriyye, ed. B. Foruzânfar (Tehran, 1967). 29 Ed. J. Homâ’i (Tehran, 1946).

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social conduct. A number of these topics had been treated by early Sufi authors such as Abu-Abd-al-Rahmân Solami of Nishapur (d. 1021), in specialized treatises in Arabic. From the middle of the 11th century writers of Persian followed their example and composed numerous works in the form of short treatises on various subjects. Prior to Abd-Allah Ansâri, chapters on mystical states (ahvâl) and stages (manâzel) had been included in Arabic works of a general nature, such as Abu-Nasr Sarrâj’s Loma’ fi’l-tasavvof, and AbuBakr Kalâbâdhi’s Ta’arrof. Solami treated this subject separately in some of his treatises, for instance, the Darajât al-mo’âmalât (Degrees of Exercising Virtues). Ansâri himself wrote his Sad meydân (One Hundred Fields [or Stages]) under the influence of the Hanbalite Sufi author Abu-Mansur Mo’ammar of Isfahan (d. 1027), who belonged to an earlier generation and had written his book, the Nahj al-khâss (The Road of the Elite), on the states and stages of the Sufis in Arabic. He had explained the stadia (manâzel) of the mystical path (or, in his own words, ahvâl) in forty brief chapters, dividing each of the states into three stages. Ansâri knew this work and copied part of it into one of his other books. Actually, at the time of Abu-Mansur, the 10th and the beginning of the 11th century, Isfahan was the main centre of the Hanbalites who regarded themselves as followers of hadith and fiercely defended Arabic since it was the language of the scripture. It was probably for this very reason that the scholars and authors of Isfahan, contrary to those of Khorasan, did not take to writing in Persian. For a long time afterwards no writer of Persian poetry or prose appeared in that city. The first work written in Persian in Isfahan was the philosophical encyclopaedia, Dânesh-nâme-ye Alâ’i by Avicenna (d. 1037), who was, however, born and bred in Transoxania and only stayed at Isfahan during the final years of his life. Although Ansâri was a Hanbalite, like Abu-Mansur, his Khorasani background induced him to use Persian as a medium to express his religious doctrines and to write the first work in Persian on the stages of the mystical path. He even chose a Persian title meydân ‘plain’ or ‘field’, instead of manzel ‘stage [in travelling]’ as the title of his treatise. The first of these fields is the stage of repen282

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tance (towbe) and the hundredth that of permanence (baqâ). All hundred fields merge in the field of love. Their names are Arabic but Ansâri translated many of them into Persian. In the 12th century, writers in Khorasan composed several treatises or comparatively short books on states, stages, and Sufi conduct. Qotb-al-Din Abbâdi of Marv (d. 1152) wrote a booklet entitled Manâqeb al-sufiyye (Virtues of the Sufis), much of its contents having derived from Qosheyri’s Resâle.30 He spoke about the states and stages as well as outward Sufi conduct, or what he called “exoteric states” (ahvâl‑e zâher). From the great Sufi of ­Khwarazm, Najm-al-Din Kobrâ (d. probably in 1221) we also have a Persian treatise, al-Sâyer al-vâjed elâ’l-sâter al-vâhed al-mâjed (The Perpetual Traveler to the Glorious Unique Concealer), which contains practical prescriptions for aspiring mystics. Another treatise by Najm-al-Din, Âdâb al-sufiyya (Etiquettes of the Sufis), is extant and has been mistakenly attributed to Ansâri. In this treatise Najmal-Din sets forth the rules of conduct in a Sufi convent (khâneqâh) as they were practiced among Sufis in the 12th century, especially in Khorasan.31 In the 11th century, treatises on Sufi matters were also written by authors who were not Sufis themselves, but felt a certain inclination towards Sufism. Precedence in this respect should be given to Avicenna, who in some of his works, for instance in al-Eshârât va’l-Tanbihât, discussed Sufi themes. Attention to Sufi topics is also evident in the Persian works of the founder of the “philosophy of illumination,” Shehâb-al-Din Yahyâ Sohravardi (d. 1191). Nasiral-Din Tusi (d. 1273), a philosopher, theologian, and scientist who did not belong to the Sufis, nevertheless wrote a Sufi treatise in Persian. His Owsâf al-ashrâf (The Characteristics of the Noble), on the stages of the mystical path, is in certain respects comparable to Ansâri’s Sad meydân, the first Persian work on this subject. 30 Ed. M.-T. Daneshpazhuh and I. Afshâr (Tehran, 1983). 31 For an English tr. of this treatise, see F. Meier, Essays on Islamic Piety and Mysticism, tr. J. O’Kane (Leiden, 1999), pp. 49–92. Cf. also G. Böwering, “The Adab literature of classical Sufism: Ansari’s code of conduct,” in B. D. Metcalf, ed., Moral Conduct and Authority (Los Angeles, 1984), pp. 62–87.

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4. Hagiographies One of the genres in which Persian Sufi writers took a particular interest was hagiography: works on the lives of outstanding pious people and great sheikhs and mystics. Sufi hagiography began in the 10th century at a time when Sufi writers had developed a historical awareness of their movement, and even felt a nostalgia for the past. They saw the greatness and spirituality of their movement to be embodied in the saints of the past. The first writer who took to relating the history of Sufism and of Muslim mystics was AbuAbd-al-Rahmân Solami (d. 1021), of whose Arabic work on the history of Sufism (Ta’rikh al-sufiyya), only some sections cited in other sources are so far known. Another book on the Sufi sheikhs by Solami, Tabaqât al-sufiyya (The Generations of the Sufis), is still extant, and this work has made a considerable impact on writers in Persian. Solami’s pupil, Qosheyri, influenced by him and his works, did not write a separate work on the lives of the Sufi sheikhs, but the second chapter of his Resâla is devoted to them. Before him, Mostamli had in the second chapter of his Persian commentary on the Ta’arrof related sayings and anecdotes about some of the sheikhs mentioned by Kalâbâdhi. Hojviri, who was influenced by Qosheyri and imitated him, alotted a considerable part of his Kashf al-mahjub to the biographies of early saints and Sufis. Later writers of handbooks did not usually deal with the lives of important mystics because hagiography had developed into a literary genre of its own, though occasionally, of course, some writers devoted a chapter or more to the sheikhs and their miraculous deeds. Examples are the anonymous Bostân al-ârefin va tohfat al-moridin (Orchard of the Gnostics and Gift for the Adepts), written at the beginning of the 12th century, and the huge collection of anecdotes Javâme’ al-hekâyât va lavâme’ alrevâyât, assembled about a century later by Mohammad Owfi. The first independent work in Persian on the Sufi sheikhs and mystics was the Tabaqât al-sufiyya (Generations of the Sufis) by Ansâri, 32 whose Sad meydân has been mentioned above. There are 32 Ed. A. Habibi (Kabol, 1962); ed. S. Mowlavi (Tehran, 1983).

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also a number of other extant Persian treatises attributed to Ansâri, but the authenticity of almost all of them is in doubt; it seems that they were put to his name only in later centuries. One of these spurious works is a long treatise—or rather a book—in forty-two sections, each of which contains anecdotes on one of the sheikhs. The only other Persian work among the texts attributed to Ansâri which may be genuine is a collection of short prayers (monâjât) that has become known under the title Elâhi-nâme (The Divine Book). However, the Tabaqât al-sufiyya, generally counted among his genuine Persian works, is arguably his most important so far as the history of Sufism is concerned.33 This rather voluminous book, resulting in part from Ansâri’s dictations, is structured after Solami’s Tabaqât al-sufiyya, which was mentioned above. Ansâri’s book, written in Persian and in the dialect of Herat, makes use both of Solami’s Tabaqât al-sufiyya, and of his Ta’rikh al-sufiyya, but a great deal of other material has also been included in the work, such as data concerning some sheikhs whose names were not mentioned by Solami and interesting material on Sufi theology, psychology, and ethics from the sayings of the great sheikhs. The presence of such an instructive book on the ancient Sufi sheikhs in Persian proves that the history of Islamic mysticism cannot be studied properly without consulting Persian sources. Ansâri’s book, like that of his predecessor Solami, was to some extent written from a historical perspective. The same can be said about other works of the 11th century, whether they were written in Arabic, such as Helyat al-owliyâ’ by Abu-No’aym of Isfahan and Qosheyri’s Resâla, or in Persian such as Hojviri’s Kashf almahjub. A century and a half later, however, when Farid-al-Din Attâr wrote his famous Tadhkerat al-owliyâ (The Memoirs of the Saints), other points of view were also taken into consideration. The Tadhkerat al-owliyâ, which encompasses the lives, sayings, and miracles of nearly one hundred outstanding pious people and 33

Jawid Mojaddedi has observed that the Tabaqât al-sufiyya was subject to a number of redactions, with numerous interpolations, and should be regarded as an “unauthored work;” see J. Mojaddedi, The Biographical Tradition in Sufism: the Tabaqât Genre from al-Sulami to Jâmi (London, 2001).

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Sufi sheikhs, has a more didactic perspective. It was written with the purpose of exhorting and encouraging travelers to persevere on the mystical path. For that reason, the author endeavored to provide them with models by relating the words, beliefs, miracles, and moral virtues of these exemplary figures. In his introduction Attâr sets forth his motives for writing this book and collecting the words of the saints: Apart from the Qur’an and the hadith, no words can surpass the words of the sheikhs of the Path … There are several reasons why these words are the best. The first is that they make the world cold to the human heart; the second, that they remind man of the world to come; the third, that they make the friendship of God manifest in the human heart; the fourth, that if one listens to such words one starts to make provisions for the endless road. The collection of these words is among the obligatory works, and it may be said that there is no better book in the created world because the words [of these sheikhs] contain the explanation of the Qur’an and the hadith, which are the best of all words.34

The Tadhkerat al-owliyâ, the reading of which was regarded as a kind of ritual for travelers on the Path, just like invocation (dhekr) and meditation, is written in fluent and attractive prose, and this by itself became one of the reasons for its success among Persian readers and made it into one of the most celebrated and appealing Sufi hagiographies of the classical period. In fact, this book is the pre-eminent example of a genre that from the 12th century onwards made its appearence in Persian Sufi literature. Several other important works followed such as the Manâqeb al-ârefin (The Virtues of the Gnostics) by Shams-al-Din Ahmad Aflâki (d. 1360), on the sheikhs of the Mowlaviyye (Mevlavis);35 the Rowzat al-riyâhin (The Garden of Flowers) by Darvish Ali Buzjâni, on the children and grandchildren of sheikh Ahmad of Jâm;36 and Rashahât‑e eyn 34 Attâr, Tadhkerat al-owliyâ, ed. R. A. Nicholson (Leiden/London, 1905–7), I, pp. 2 and 6. Selections from this work have been translated by A. J. Arberry, Muslim Saints and Mystics (London, 1966). 35 Ed. T. Yazıcı, 2 vols. (Ankara, 1976); tr. by J. O’Kane as The Feats of the Knowers of God (Leiden, 2002). 36 Ed. H. Mo’ayyad (Tehran, 1966).

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al-hayât (Drops from the Spring of Life) by Fakhr-al-Din Ali Kâshefi (d. 1533), on the sheikhs of the Naqshbandi Order;37 and Siar al-ârefin by Jamâli of Dehli, on the sheikhs of the Sohravardi Order in India.38 However, none could rival the renown and importance of Attâr’s Tadhkerat al-owliyâ or the elegance of its style. Other hagiographies appeared which on the one hand were more historical in character, and on the other presented a greater number of sheikhs. The most important and best known among these works is the Nafahât al-ons (The Breezes of Intimacy) by Abd-alRahmân Jâmi (d. 1492). The main source for this book was Ansâri’s Tabaqât al-sufiyya. Jâmi adapted its contents from the dialect of Herat to standard Persian and expanded it to include the lives of other sheikhs which he had culled from numerous other sources. This book, composed in 1478, describes altogether 618 known and unknown exemplary pious people and Sufis, among whom are thirty-four women whose biographies have been placed at the end of the book under the heading “On women who are known to have reached the same rank as men.” The source that Jâmi particularly used for this part of the book was an independent work on female Sufis by Solami. The first woman mentioned by both Solami and Jâmi is the famous ascetic of Basra, Râbe’a al-Adaviyya (d. 801), who is mentioned in most hagiographies, among them Attâr’s Tadh­ kerat al-owliyâ. Some women named by Jâmi were Persian, such as Omm-Ali, wife of the great sheikh of Balkh, Ahmad b. Khezrôye. Abu-Hafs Haddâd of Nishapur, a Malâmati sheikh of the 9th century, said in regard to her: I always disapproved of stories about women until the time when I saw Omm-Ali, the wife of Ahmad‑e Khezrôye. Then I knew that God (praise be upon Him) bestows his gnosis and knowledge wherever He wants.39

After Jâmi, a great number of Sufi hagiographies continued to be written. The incentive of their authors was usually to preserve the 37 Ed. A.-A. Mo’iniân, 2 vols. (Tehran, 1977). 38 For a selection of this work, see Jamâli Dehlavi, Me’rât al-ma’âni be ­enzemâm‑e gozide-ye Siar al-ârefin, ed. N. Pourjavady (Tehran, 2006). 39 Jâmi, Nafahât al-ons, ed. M. Âbedi (Tehran, 1991), p. 620.

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history and heritage of their Sufi Order. Examples of such books are the works of Jamâli on the Sohavardiyye, and Fakhr-al-Din Kâshefi, on the Naqshbandi sheikhs, mentioned above. Another is the Thamarât al-qods men shajarât al-ons (Sacred Fruits from the Trees of Intimacy) by Mirzâ La’l Beg La’li of Badakhshan (d. 1613), the title of which bears an allusion to that of Jâmi’s Nafahât.40 It begins with the life of Hojviri, the author of the Kashf al-mahjub, and deals with five-hundred Sufi sheikhs of the Subcontinent, in particular sheikhs belonging to the Chistiyye Order. From the 12th century onwards, another type of hagiographical work appeared in Persian Sufi literature that was entirely devoted to the life and words of one sheikh. The appearance of this kind of work can be seen, to a certain extent, as a continuation of the tradition of writings on the life of the Prophet of Islam, one of the most celebrated of which was the Sira by Ebn-Heshâm (d. 828 or 833), which in 1215 was eloquently translated into Persian prose by Rafi’-al-Din Eshâq of Hamadan, the qadi of Abarquh.41 One of the Sufi biographers of Nishapur in the 10th century was Abu-Sa’d Vâ’ez Khargushi (d. 1016), whose book on the Prophet entitled Sharaf al-Nabi (The Eminence of the Prophet), was translated into Persian by Najm-al-Din Râvandi in the 12th century. Although the Arabic text of this work has not yet been published, the Persian translation is available in a printed edition.42 Besides the Prophet, the lives of the companions, ascetics, hermits and Sufis could also serve as models to believers and travelers on the mystical Path. Initially, Sufi writers such as Abu-No’aym, the author of the Helyat al-owliyâ’, and to a certain extent Hojviri in his Kashf al-mahjub, paid attention in a general manner to the lives of these pious people. With the spread of Sufism and the appearance of the cult of saints, a new genre of hagiographies emerged: books dealing with the life of one sheikh each from the beginning to the end. The composition of books on a single Sufi sheikh had begun in the 10th century in Arabic. In Shiraz, two important works of this genre 40 Cf. C. A. Storey, PL I, p. 1065. 41 Ed. A. Mahdavi, 2 vols. (Tehran, 1981). 42 Ed. M. Rowshan (Tehran, 1982).

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were written on two famous Persian sheikhs of the 10th century: one on Ebn-Khafif of Shiraz (d. 982), and the other on Abu-Eshâq Kâzaruni (d. 1033), under the title Ferdows al-morshediyya fi asrâr al-samadiyya (The Paradise of Instruction in the Eternal Secrets). It is interesting to note that the Arabic originals of both books are lost. Only the Persian versions, composed in subsequent centuries, have been preserved.43 The first sheikh whose biography and collected sayings were written in Persian was Abu-Sa’id b. Abu’l-Kheyr (d. 1049). About a century after his death two of his descendants produced two works on him: one, Hâlât-o sokhanân‑e Abu-Sa’id‑e Abu’l-Kheyr by Jamâl-al-Din Abu-Ruh (d. 1146), and the other, Asrâr al-towhid fi maqâmât Sheykh Abu-Sa’id by Mohammad b. Monavvar, written about 1174–85.44 The latter work is by far the most comprehensive and extensive of the two, and is one of the finest works in Persian prose. In both books numerous stories have been collected about sheikh Abu-Sa’id b. Abu’l-Kheyr and other sheikhs with whom he had been in contact. Some of the stories have historical interest, others are of more moral and didactic value. Yet another group of stories deal with the miracles of the sheikh. Many stories derive their attractiveness from the brief utterances made by the sheikh on all kinds of occasions, as in the following anecdote: One day the sheikh was asked: “O sheikh! So-and-so among your pupils has set out on that-and-that road, blind drunk.” He replied: “Praise be to God that he has set out on the road and has not strayed away from it.” 45

The contents of these two books on Abu-Sa’id are arranged according to the three phases of his life, that is, firstly his childhood, then his adolescence and adult years, and finally the twilight of his life and his death. Usually, whatever is reported from or about a 43

For editions of these two hagiographies see the Bibliography under Deylami and Mahmud b. Othmân. 44 Ed. M.-R. Shafi’i-Kadkani, 2 vols., 2nd printing (Tehran, 1988); tr. by J. O’Kane as The Secrets of God’s Mystical Oneness (Costa Mesa, 1992). 45 Jamâl-al-Din Abu-Ruh, Hâlât va sokhanân, ed. M.-R. Shafi’i-Kadkani (Tehran, 1987), p. 104.

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sheikh is not restricted to his lifetime. Hagiographies are like some Persian miniatures, in which a tree with its branches and leaves breaks through the frame of the painting in one of its corners: the events related to a sheikh are not confined to his lifetime but continue after his death in the dreams of his pupils and companions. After the Asrâr al-towhid several other hagiographies were written on Sufi sheikhs such as Ahmad of Jâm, Ruzbehân‑e Baqli of Shiraz, Owhad-al-Din of Kerman, Safi-al-Din Eshâq of Ardabil, Amin-Mohammad Balyâni (d. 1344), and Shâh Ne’mat-Allâh Vali.46 These were usually sheikhs who had left behind many pupils and followers, and around whose memory a kind of cult had come into being. Generally, such hagiographies not only make us familiar with the personality of the sheikh and his teachings but also give us an idea of the socio-historical, religious, and other currents that were manifesting themselves at various times and places.

5. Sermons Among the subjects to which the accounts of the lives of the sheikhs are partly devoted are their sermons and oral teachings or, in general, the sayings spoken in special sessions (majâles, plural of majles) held for the instruction and guidance of a group of pupils and followers, and sometimes also for ordinary people. Outwardly, the preaching sessions of a Sufi resembled the session of a storyteller, a religious preacher (vâ’ez) or a professional reciter of pious stories (modhakker), and some Sufi sheikhs were actually famous as preachers. Like religious preachers, Sufis admonished their audiences in these sessions, condemning the world and worldliness. They talked about the brevity of life, the darkness of the grave, and the horrors of the Resurrection, stressing the need to preserve the 46 For editions of these hagiographies see the Bibliography, respectively s.vv. Sadid-al-Din Mohammad of Ghazne; Sharaf-al-Din Ebrahim b. Ruzbehân; Manâqeb‑e Owhad-al-Din Kermâni; Ebn‑e Bazzâz of Ardabil; Mahmud b. Othmân (2001); and Ne’mat-Allâh Vali.

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commandments of the Islamic Law and to believe in God. In support of their words, they cited verses from the Qur’an and hadith or commented upon them; in particular, they related stories from the Qur’an and brief anecdotes from many other sources as well as reciting poetry. However, the Sufi sessions also had features that distinguished them from the usual sessions of preachers, storytellers and reciters. For the Sufis were dealing with mystical topics, and in conveying their admonition and advice they resorted to telling moral tales and citing the words of famous sheikhs from the past. They did not just relate any hadith or tell any story. From the 11th century onwards, when the Sufism of love gradually spread throughout Khorasan, and the preaching Sufis of Khorasan increasingly covered topics of Sufi love, love-stories and love-songs became part of their repertoire. The words of some of these sheikhs were written down by their pupils and subsequently collected and put into order. Sometimes they were inserted in their hagiographies. In the Ferdows al-morshediyya on the life of Abu-Eshâq Kâzaruni, for instance, there are chapters on the sessions held by the sheikh. When sessions of Sufi sheikhs were collected and made into separate books, another genre was added to the existing genres of religious literature. Writing down the sermons of Sufi sheikhs and collecting them became common practice from the 11th century onwards. It is reported that the sermons of Abu-Ali Daqqâq (d. 1021) were written down but unfortunately they have been lost. Ahmad Ghazâli was also renowned for his preaching. In the cities of Persia he held sessions in Persian and at Baghdad in Arabic. A collection of his Arabic sermons have been preserved, but his Persian sermons have been lost, except for one anecdote which Farid-al-Din Attâr relates in his Elâhi-nâme.47 Of the sheikhs of the 13th, 14th and 15th centuries numerous sermons are still extant. The collection of sermons given by a particular sheikh were sometimes referred to as majles or majâles, for instance the Majâles‑e sab’e (The Seven Sessions) of 47

Elâhi-nâme, ed. H. Ritter (Leipzig, 1940), p. 359; tr. J. A. Boyle (Manchester, 1976), pp. 328–29.

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Jalâl-al-Din Rumi or the Chehel majles (Forty Sessions) of Alâ-alDowle Semnâni (d. 1336). The words maqâlât ‘talks’ and malfuzât ‘sayings’ were also in use, for instance the Maqâlât of Shams‑e Tabrizi or the Malfuzât of Khwâja Obeyd-Allâh Ahrâr. Occasionally, such collections had special titles, for instance Favâ’ed al-fo’âd (Morals for the Heart), which is the collection of the sessions of Khwâje Nezâm-al-Din Owliyâ.48 The reports made of the sessions of each individual sheikh were of course representative of the Sufi thought of that sheikh and of his mystical experiences and tastes. Usually the sheikhs dealt with speculative topics of Sufism in these sessions as well as with matters of practice. One of the important characteristics of these sessions was that the sheikh did not speak on the basis of any outline or from a prepared written text, but delivered his address extempore. Usually he would start by answering a question put to him during the session itself. If there were no questions, he would begin to explain a verse from the Qur’an which had been recited or a saying of the Prophet that had been quoted at the beginning of the session. In the course of his session the sheikh did not feel bound to keep to any particular order or to remain within the framework of one subject. His mind was free to wander wheresoever it liked, and the session unfolded by association of thoughts. Naturally, there were not a few repetitions in these sessions, and for that reason they were edited, sometimes even under the supervision of the sheikh himself. The editing of the sessions could go as far as the rewriting of the contents. In this manner a sub-genre appeared: treatises which seem to have been substantially written by the sheikh himself, but which have the appearance of orally-delivered sermons. An example of this sub-genre is a short treatise entitled Eyniyye, or Mow’eze, by Ahmad Ghazâli. The five sessions (Majales) of Sa’di may have been composed in the same manner, and the same may be true of Jalâl-alDin Rumi’s Majâles‑e sab’e and Fihi mâ fihi.49 There are also some 48 For editions of these collections of sermons see the Bibliography resp. s.vv. Rumi (1993); Semnâni; Shams-al-Din of Tabriz; Ahrâr; and Nezâm-al-Din Owliyâ. 49 Tr. by A. J. Arberry as Discourses of Rumi (New York, 1972).

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treatises and books which do not take the form of sessions delivered by a sheikh, but which are designed to resemble oral preaching. An example of this kind of work is the Rowh al-arvâh (The Refreshment of Souls) by Shehâb-al-Din Sam’âni (d. ab. 1140).50 This is ostensibly a commentary on the Divine Names, but its contents really represent the same free association of mystical themes and ideas that typify the Sufi sermon. In each chapter the author deals with the subject in various ways, relating anecdotes and citing poems and sayings of the Sufis.

6. Allegories What we have said so far about religious literature in Persian indicates that it was connected in one way or another with the oral tradition in the religious culture of Persia. However, Persian religious literature did not only draw from these oral traditions. In part it was also inspired by metaphysical ideas, that is, Platonic and NeoPlatonic thinking in which metaphysics had become fused with poetry. One of the most influential and fascinating phenomena of this kind of thinking was the use of allegories to set forth the movement or “journey” of the soul. The soul, an exile in a foreign world, stranded far from its homeland, yearns for its original home or “place of origin” (mabda’) or the “place of return” (ma’âd), that is the ultimate Divine Reality. The allegory of the cave which Plato related in his Republic, was not as such employed in Persian religious literature, but we can find the same idea expressed through other allegorical tales. One of these allegories is the journey of the birds to their king, the Simorgh, a mythical bird of ancient Persia who in the Shahname looked after Zâl, the father of Rostam, when he was abandoned as an unwanted infant by his father in the wilderness. The first appearance of this bird in Persian mystical allegories is the Resâlat al-teyr or Dâstân‑e morghân (The Story of the Birds) by 50 Ed. N. Mâyel-Heravi (Tehran, 1989).

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Ahmad Ghazâli. According to this story, a group of birds with different natural dispositions and voices come together and agree that they should have a king who can be no other than the Simorgh. So they all set out for the island where this royal bird resides. On their journey they pass through deserts, high mountains, treacherous seas and cities, and hot and icy climes. They confront many dangers and a number of them sacrifice their lives until finally a small number reach the island of the Simorgh. The treatise of Ahmad Ghazâli, one of this author’s two important Persian works and a masterpiece of mystical literature in Persian, relates in fact a spiritual odyssey, the stages and stopping places of which are described in a symbolic language. In between, there are allusions to verses from the Qur’an and to hadith and, although the treatise is written in prose, lines of verse are inserted which were possibly meant to be sung, making this short treatise on mystical metaphysics into a sublime specimen of literary art. The story of the journey of the birds to their sovereign, and their traversing of seas, mountains, and other hurdles had been told earlier in Arabic and in a somewhat different fashion by the philosopher Avicenna, who highlighted both the philosophical and mystical aspects of the tale. An Arabic translation of Ahmad Ghazâli’s treatise also exists, which has been attributed to his brother Mohammad Ghazâli, though this attribution is in doubt. Most likely, Ahmad Ghazâli himself, or another translator, rendered the Persian treatise into Arabic. This same story was later used by Faridal-Din Attâr as a frame story for his famous mathnavi, the Manteq al-teyr. There is also an early Persian translation of Avicenna’s story of the birds which has been attributed to the Illuminationist philosopher Sohravardi. Another story exists on the journey of the birds towards the Simorgh, or Anqâ, by Najm-al-Din Râzi, known as Dâye, which was influenced by Ghazâli’s story, and was written in the same prose style; it too is accompanied by lines of poetry, Qur’anic verses and traditions. Another allegory, connected with a different work by Avicenna, which entered the realm of Persian religious literature, was the story of the intellectual journey of the Rational Soul (nafs‑e nâteqe), or the human spirit, through the intellectual and spiritual 294

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domains. Avicenna had used the story in his Arabic treatise, Hayy ebn Yaqzân, and it was probably one of his pupils who translated it into Persian with a commentary. This text is regarded as one of the oldest philosophical works of literature in Persian. The main protagonist of the story is the human soul or spirit, the same figure who in the Resâlat al-teyr appears in the role of the birds, and makes the spiritual journey on earth and in the heavens. In Hayy ebn Yaqzân, the journey of our traveler with his traveling companion begins when one day they leave their own city for a walk in a pleasure ground on the outskirts of that city. Suddenly they see an old man, beautiful and radiant, whose face shows no signs of old age and still has all the freshness of youth. This old man, who identifies himself as Hayy b. Yaqzân (The Living, Son of the Awake), symbolizes the active intelligence of the Muslim peripatetic philosophy; in the mystical school of Persian Islam this is one of the angels. The old man (pir) becomes the guide of the spiritual traveler and answers his questions about various countries, about the spring of the Water of Life in the dark region near the pole, about the heavenly spheres, and about beings existing in various places. The traveler then sets upon an intellectual-spiritual journey until he finally attains Realization.51 The story of the spiritual encounter of the human soul with an old enlightened man from the higher world was introduced into Persian mystical poetry by Sanâ’i of Ghazna (d. c. 1130). In a short mathnavi poem, entitled Seyr al-ebâd men al-mabda’ elâ’l-ma’âd (The Journey of the Servants [of God] from the Place of Origin to the Place of Return), Sanâ’i composed the story in verse and gave it a more religious and mystical flavor.52 After Sanâ’i, Farid-al-Din Attâr treated the same story in verse, with much greater detail, in another mathnavi, the Mosibat-nâme (The Book of Affliction). However, Attâr put aside the philosophical ideas of the story and 51 This term is chosen to express the stage at which the spiritual seeker attains the ultimate Reality, identifies with it, and realizes the Truth in himself. In Mobârakshâh’s text, as well as in some other Sufi writings including Attâr’s Mosibat-nâme, the Arabic equivalent is tahqiq. 52 Cf. J. T. P. de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry (Leiden, 1983), pp. 200–218.

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introduced more religious and mystical themes; for instance, the name of the traveler in his story is the “wayfarer of contemplation” (sâlek‑e fekrat), rather than the Rational Soul. After Attâr in the 13th century, we find the story in another narrative poem, the Mesbâh al-arvâh (The Lantern of the Spirits), attributed to Shamsal-Din of Bardsir, although here the mystical and Sufi aspects are accompanied by elements pertaining to love and antinomian expressions which are more typical of the Persian Sufi ghazal.53 These allegorical tales were not only used by Sufi poets as frame stories, but during the following centuries as the tales became better known, they appeared in other works of Persian philosophicalmystical literature. One of the authors who was influenced by Avicenna, and who in his own Persian works made allusions to these allegories and their symbols, was Shehâb-al-Din Yahyâ Sohravardi. In his treatise Mo’nes al-oshshâq (The Intimate Companion of Lovers), for instance, he relates the meeting of a traveler in the spiritual world with an old man of youthful appearance. Whereas Avicenna gave this old man the Arabic name Hayy b. Yaqzân, Sohravardi called him in Persian Jâvid‑e kherad (The Immortal Being, son of the Intellect). In another treatise, al-Ghorbat al-gharbiyya (The Exile in the West), Sohravardi deals with the human being’s exile in the material world and return to the homeland. Of this Arabic treatise an early Persian translation with a commentary has been preserved.54 About a century after Sohravardi, another philosopher called Owhad al-Din Tabib‑e Râzi, wrote the story of the wayfarer, the Rational Soul, and its encounter with its mentor, the Intellect (aql‑e koll) in a book entitled Hakim-nâme (The Philosopher’s ­Treatise).55 The story of the intellectual or spiritual wayfarer, the human soul and its encounter with its mentor, the Universal ­Intellect, is ­narrated by Râzi both in prose and poetry. After learning all the secrets of 53 On this poem see Bo Utas, “A Journey to the other world according to the Lantern of Spirits,” Bulletin of the Asia Institute NS 4 (1990), pp. 307–11. 54 Sohravardi’s Persian treatises were published by H. Corbin and S. H. Nasr in Shihâb-al-Din Yahyâ Suhravardi, Œuvres philosophiques et mystiques II (Tehran and Paris, 1970). 55 Ed. together with “Dheyl‑e Seyr al ebâd,” by N. Pourjavady (Tehran, 2005).

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the world of Creation from the Intellect and acquiring all the moral virtues, the human soul finally reaches the last stage of its journey which is the removal of the veil of selfhood (hejâb‑e khodi). Râzi also wrote the story of the soul’s encounter with the Universal Intellect in a rather short mathnavi entitled, Dheyl‑e Seyr al-ebâd (the supplement to the Seyr al-ebâd). As the title indicated, the philosopher-poet of Ray has attempted to follow the famous poet of Ghazne, Sanâ’i, in the Seyr al-ebâd, in writing the story of the spiritual journey of the soul in his mathnavi. But Râzi’s story is different. The Rational Soul in Râzi’s story is symbolized by a reed-flute which the poet sees in the hands of a young shepherd in a meadow. In an imaginary conversation that takes place between the reed and the poet, the reed, which is emptied of its self and filled with the divine Spirit, or Logos, narrates the story of its life from the time when it was in the reed-bed until it was plucked and separated from the bed and given to the player. Unlike Rumi’s reedflute in his mathnavi, Razi’s instrument does not complain of the pain of separation. The reed which symbolizes the perfect soul acts as the spiritual guide of the poet. There are also other allegories in which the human soul travels towards the spiritual world, finally reaching the Divine Being through annihilation of self (fanâ). One of these is the story of a man, a philosopher-mystic, who sees some words written on a piece of paper and tries to find out who the writer is. Starting his search with the paper itself and asking it why it has besmirched its face with black spots, and the paper defending itself and accusing the ink for this act, the seeker goes to the ink and when he hears a similar response he goes to other intermediary causes until he finally reaches the ultimate and the true cause of the writing, which is no one but God. It is at this stage that the seeker attains spiritual Realization. This story, first narrated by Mohammad Ghazâli, was adopted by a little known poet and one of the ministers and court official of the Ghurid kings, Fakhr-al-Din Mobârakshâh Marvrudi (d. 1206) in a mathnavi entitled Rahiq al-tahqiq (The Pure Wine of Divine Realization).56 Composed in the same meter as the Hadiqa 56 Ed. N Pourjavady (Tehran 2002).

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of Sanâ’i, Marvrudi’s Rahiq is the only mystical mathnavi known to have been composed in Khorasan between Sanâ’i and Attâr. Another story used as an allegory is the movement of the moth towards the candle flame and its being burned in it, which had a deep and far-reaching impact on Persian love literature, especially on poetry. The origin of this tale as a mystical allegory can be traced back to Hallâj, but it was Ahmad Ghazâli who introduced it into Persian literature.57 Another allegorical tale is that of the stoker of the furnace of a bathhouse who, in the same way that Avicenna’s Hayy b. Yaqzân left his town, comes out of his stokehouse (golkhan), the dirtiest of all places, and seeing a young prince in a beautiful pleasure ground falls in love with him, in the end making himself a target for the prince’s arrow. The story of Eskandar and his search for the fountain of life, which he never reaches, is another allegorical story alluded to in various literary texts, including the works of Sohravardi. There also exists an independent mathnavi entitled Eskandar-nâme, composed by a poet from the Horufiyye sect. The many episodes in the story of Majnun’s love for Leyli were given in Persian mystical literature an allegorical meaning referring to themes and doctrines of Sufism.

7. Treatises on Love Apart from his allegory of the birds, Ahmad Ghazâli wrote another longer prose work in Persian, the Savâneh (Meditations on Love).58 This short treatise, which is Ahmad Ghazâli’s best known and most important work, comprises some seventy-seven chapters devoted entirely to the author’s meditations on mystical psychology and the metaphysics of love. With the Savâneh, another genre of religious literature in Persian is born, namely that of the treatise on love (eshq-nâme). 57 Ahmad Ghazâli, Savâneh, ed. N. Pourjavadi (Tehran, 1980), pp. 32–33. 58 Tr. by N. Pourjavadi as Inspirations from the World of Pure Spirits (London, 1986).

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The subject of mystical love had been discussed before Ahmad Gha­ zâli by writers of Sufi manuals such as Qosheyri and Hojviri. But for these authors love was primarily a spiritual station or state that a Sufi experienced in the wayfaring towards God. In Ghazali’s book, however, love is not merely a spiritual state or station, but rather a metaphysical entity, in fact, a divine attribute which is identical with the very Essence of God. This idea had been expressed before Ghazâli, though in a less developed way, by Muslim Neo-­Platonist philosophers and mystics, including Hoseyn b. Mansur Hallâj. Though Love in its essence is a divine Attribute, it also has a role to play in the physical world. To illustrate this role, Ghazâli uses the metaphor of the bird whose nest is in pre-eternity (azal). The bird (i.e., love) flies to this world of temporal existence for a while, but eventually desires to return to primordial nest. To explain love’s relationship to human beings, Ghazâli uses another metaphor, that of horse and its rider; love is said to be the rider while the horse is the spirit. They both come from the Origin to this world in order to find their way back to their Origin again. On their journey back to the Origin, a marvelous reversal of roles takes place: the spirit becomes the rider and love the mount. It is on their return journey that the spirit, being accompanied by love, experiences different spiritual states such as joy and sorrow, “expansion” (bast) and “contraction” (qabz), and other states, referred to technically as “moments” (awqât, sing. waqt). Although the Savâneh is clearly a mystical and metaphysical treatise, it is composed in a rich literary style. The prose is interspersed with numerous poems, usually in the form of a quatrain (robâ’i), some of which have been borrowed from the non-mystical poetic tradition in Persian. Apart from the figures of the bird, the horse and the rider, the author employs other metaphors and allegories such as the moth and the candle as well as including popular romantic anecdotes, for example, those of Leyli and Majnun, and of Sultan Mahmud of Ghazna and his favorite Ayâz. In his use of literary devices to explain Sufi ideas of love and the relationship of the lover and the beloved, Ahmad Ghazâli established a precedent that was followed by many later Sufis who wrote in Persian on the subject of love, including those who composed love treatises. 299

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From the 13th century onwards a number of treatises on love appeared that were either directly or indirectly influenced by Ahmad Ghazâli’s Savâneh. The well-known Lama’ât (Flashes) of Fakhr-alDin Erâqi was written directly under the influence of the Savâneh, as was the Lavâyeh (Radiant Manifestations of God) by Hamidal-Din Naguri, which has been wrongly attributed to Ahmad Ghazâli’s student Eyn-al-Qozât of Hamadân.59 Another love treatise that was modelled on the Savâneh was the Nozhat al-âsheqin (The Pleasure Trips of the Lovers) by one of Sa’di’s contemporaries, Mohammad Zangi of Bukhara.60 Although Ghazali’s Savâneh was the first treatise on love to have been written in Persian and the most influential in the establishment of this genre, it was not the only work that contributed to its development. Mention should be made of two other works, written in the second half of the 13th century by two famous authors who were not familiar with Ghazali’s work. One of these authors was the above-mentioned philosopher Shehâb-al-Din Sohravardi. He wrote a Persian treatise on love which is known by two titles: Fi haqiqat al-eshq (On the Reality of Love), or Mo’nes al-oshshâq (The Intimate Companion of Lovers). Generally, the authors of love treatises, beginning with the Savâneh, not only dealt with love in all its states and modes, but also with beauty, particularly as it is manifested in the beloved. In Sohravardi’s treatise, however, a third concept is added to the previous two, namely that of “sorrow” (anduh or hozn). Love, Beauty, and Sorrow are said to be three brothers whose father is the Intellect, the first emanation from God. Beauty is the eldest brother, the first emanation from the Intellect, Love the second, and Sorrow the third. Each one of these brothers has a career, a role to play, in the world of humanity. To explain these roles, Sohravardi draws on three key figures in the Qur’anic story of Joseph which he uses to symbolize the three concepts: Joseph represents Beauty, his lover Zoleykhâ represents Love, and his father Jacob, Sorrow.

59 Ed. R. Farmânesh (Tehran, 1958). 60 Ed. I. Afshâr, in Zangi-nâme (Tehran, 1993), pp. 121–65.

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Another treatise on love, written independently of both the Savâneh and Mo’nes al-oshshâq, was the Abhar al-âsheqin (The Jasmin of Lovers), by Ruzbehân Baqli of Shiraz (d. 1209), a wellknown Sufi author. In the thirty-two chapters of his book, Ruzbehân discusses the Sufi understanding of Love and Beauty, treating the various manifestations of love such the Love of God for man and man’s love for God as well as man’s love for other human beings. In this work, the different stages and modes of human love for God and psychological states of the lover, such as fear and hope, ecstasy (vajd), certainty (yaqin), and unveiling (mokâshefe), are explained in an ornate style, with abundant use of metaphors in addition to citations from the Qur’an and the hadith. Persian treatises on loves did not all take the form of prose mixed with poetry. From the 13th century onwards, Sufi poets composed love treatises in the mathnavi form, sometimes combined with ghazals. An early example of this kind of mathnavi is the ­Oshshâq-nâme (Book of Lovers) by Ezz-al-Din Atâ’i, which has been wrongly attributed to Fakhr-al-Din Erâqi.61 Atâ’i seems to have known both Ahmad Ghazâli and Ruzbehân Baqli, though he seems to have been merely under the influence of the Savâneh and evidently shared Ahmad Ghazâli’s interest in gazing at handsome young men who as “witnesses” (shâheds) represented the Eternal Beauty. Another treatise on love in verse is the Konuz al-asrâr va romuz al-ahrâr (The Treasures of Secrets and the Symbols of the Noble), commonly known as the Eshq-nâme and attributed to the poet Sanâ’i.62 The author of this mathnavi has limited himself to presenting the contents of the Savâneh in verse form, though it is arranged in a different order. Yet another treatise in verse is the Si nâme (Thirty Letters) by Amir Hoseyni of Herat (d. 1318).63 This 61 See N. Pourjavady, “Erfân‑e asil‑e Irâni dar Safine-ye Tabriz,” in Eshrâq-o Erfân (Tehran, 2001), pp. 218–19. 62 Published as a work by Ezz-al-Din Mahmud of Kashan, in A. Mojâhed, ed., Shoruh‑e Savâneh (Tehran, 1994), pp. 3–30; cf. J. T. P. de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry, p. 114. 63 Ed. M. Torâbi in Mathnavihâ-ye erfâni-ye Amir Hoseini Haravi (Tehran, 1992), pp. 141–203.

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mathnavi, comprising 1360 lines, is divided into thirty sections, each in the form of a letter, through which the author attempts to explain the stages of love, the psychological states of the lover, and the relation of the lover to the beloved.64 The discussion of the degrees of love and the states of the lover, descriptions of the beloved, tales about lovers and the love poems that are found in works of this kind made a considerable impact on Persian literature in general and on the ghazal in particular. From the 12th century onwards, the Persian ghazal in the divâns of poets such as Attâr, Erâqi, Sa’di, Hâfez and tens of other great poets reached its highest level of refinement and beauty. Overall, Persian poetry became greatly enriched by the themes and metaphors of love.

8. Didactic and Theoretical Works in Prose Although the subject of love was particularly appealing to Sufi writers, and Sufis made abundant use of love stories and romances which they adopted into their writings by giving an allegorical perspective to them, there were other aspects of Sufism which could not be encompassed by this theme. Sufi writers and poets, therefore, developed a genre with a wider scope than the theme of love. Within the framework of this new genre, the perimeters of which were not clearly drawn, authors could talk about the love of God and the need to detach oneself from the world and its affairs in the manner of the qalandars, while at the same time dealing with moral teachings for the reader and calling him to piety and ascetic life. They spoke about the necessity of respecting the norms of social conduct and also discussed theological questions such as the unity of the Divine Being, the revelation, prophethood, sainthood, death, and the afterlife. This genre might be called “Sufi wisdom 64 For a list of other love treatises, see M.-T. Dâneshpazhuh, “Rasâ’el‑e eshqi,” in Majmu’e-ye sokhanrânihâ-ye duvvomin kongre-ye tahqiqât‑e Irâni II (Mashad, 1973), pp. 624–47.

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l­ iterature,” as it encompassed both matters of speculative thought and of practice and morality. They might be discussed in the language of mysticism or of philosophy, and at the same time in a literary language, using poetry, narratives, and parables. Moreover, it was not only prose writers who welcomed this genre. Poets also treated the same range of subjects, creating the well-known mathnavis on Sufi wisdom. A prose work that is partly related to this genre is the Tamhidât (Prolegomena to Sufi Doctrine) by Eyn-al-Qozât of Hamadan (d. 1130). In the ten chapters (or ten tamhids, as they are called by the author) the following topics are discussed: the difference between acquired and inspired knowledge (elm‑e ladonni); the conditions for traveling along the Path to God; the threefold inborn nature of mankind; the knowledge of self, which leads to the knowledge of God; the mystical interpretation of the five Pillars of Islam (the confession of divine Unity and prophethood of Mohammad, prayer, almsgiving, fasting, and the pilgrimage); Reality and the stages of love; the spirit and the heart; the secrets of the Qur’an; the esoteric meaning of belief and unbelief (kofr); the light of Mohammad and the “light of Eblis [the devil].” In his discussion of these themes, and in particular of love, Eyn-al-Qozât shows the influence of his spiritual master, Ahmad Ghazâli, but at the same time he retains an independence of thought on many issues. His way of thinking and the terms which he uses show a philosophical bent which cannot be detected in Ahmad Ghazâli. The tone of his discourse in his Persian writings, both the Tamhidât and the numerous letters that he wrote to his pupils, is full of fervor. Although he extensively uses verses from the Qur’an and the hadith, and occasionally introduces long sentences of Arabic into his Persian prose, yet his words have a distinct stylistic charm, partly on account of his frequent citations of Persian poems. Eyn-al-Qozât could equally have written the Tamhidât and his letters in Arabic, with which he was fully conversant. Moreover, we may assume that his readers must have had a reasonable grasp of Arabic, otherwise he would not have mixed his Persian prose with so many Arabic passages. The reason why he chose to write these works in Persian was that this language had become established 303

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as the medium for the expression of the subtleties associated with the mystical doctrines of love. The same holds true for many other “bi-lingual” Persian writers such as Ahmad Ghazâli, Meybodi and Sam’âni, who could write in Arabic with ease, and yet chose Persian as the more appropriate medium for many of their compositions.65 For this reason, it can be said that from the beginning of the 12th century onwards, Persian followed closely upon Arabic as far as the expression of religious and mystical matters were concerned, and even took the lead over Arabic in a number of Sufi subjects, especially those concerned with the theme of love. The growth of Persian Sufi poetry, in particular love poems and ghazals, provides a solid historical proof for this contention. To the same genre belong the works of Ahmad of Jâm (d. 1140), known as Zhande-pil (“The Huge [or Furious] Elephant”), a prolific writer on Sufi doctrines and practice in Khorasan during the 11th and early 12th century. One of his most important works is Ons al-tâ’ebin (The Intimacy of the Repentant), containing the author’s answers to questions about religious topics from a Sufi point of view. The chapter headings in this book are in the form of questions; for instance, the heading of the first chapter on reason and the rational thinker runs as follows: “It is asked: what is reason and who is a rational thinker?;” the second, on gnosis (erfân) and the gnostic: “It is asked: what is gnosis and who is a gnostic?” These questions were not raised by any person in particular but were actually formulated by the author himself as a device to introduce the subject to be discussed in each chapter. As is explained in the author’s preface, this book does not deal with topics of Islamic Law (shari’a) and external religious practices, which had already been treated in earlier books either by the author himself or by others. The issues to be discussed here concern esoteric knowledge, a kind of knowledge which “is not within everyone’s reach, nor is the road towards it shown to all people.”66 65 See A. Keeler, “Persian, Language of the Heart in Maybudi’s Kashf al-asrâr,” in Proceedings of the Symposium on Religious Texts in Iranian Languages, Copenhagen, May, 2002 (forthcoming). 66 Ahmad of Jâm, Ons al-tâ’ebin, ed. A. Fâzel (Tehran, 1989), p. 13.

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The Ons al-tâ’ebin comprises an introduction and forty-five chapters, treating concepts such as reason, repentance, sincerity, knowledge, Sufism, asceticism (zohd), fear of God (taqvâ), contentment (rezâ), patience, gratitude, transcendental and human love, musical performances and mystical experiences. The prose style is simple and attractive like that of other writers from Khorasan. Some of the chapters are interesting from a historical and socio-historical point of view. On the whole, Ahmad of Jâm was an original author who not merely related and translated the words of others but also set forth his own ideas. As he claims in the Introduction, he wrote this book “under Divine inspiration.” Ahmad of Jâm wrote other Persian books which are more or less comparable to the Ons al-tâ’ebin, and sometimes he treated the same topics in different works; for instance, one can find discussions of repentance, asceticism, fear of God and contentment also in his Meftâh al-najât (The Key to Salvation). In his Serâj al-sâ’erin (Lamp for Wayfarers), from which so far only a selection has been published, he expounds his views on the meaning of the spirit (ruh) and the soul (nafs), the different kinds of love, as well as on getting married. The latter book has another original feature, namely, employing the method applied by some Arab lexicographers like Abu-Helâl Askari (d. 1010) to explain the distinction between two or three words with almost the same or opposite meanings.67 He repeats the phrase “The distinction between …” in the headings of the chapters: e.g., the third chapter is on the distinction between running a Sufi center (khâneqâh) and running a shop; the ninth chapter: the distinction between going [towards God] and being pulled [by Him] (ravesh-o kashbesh); the tenth: the distinction between friendship (khollat) and love; the fourteenth: the distinction between love and desire; and the twentieth: the distinction between the married state and celibacy. Some of these issues had not been explicitly explained in Sufi literature before, as when in the thirteenth chapter he discusses the distinction between coquetry (nâz) and need (niyâz), two concepts which often occur in Persian love poetry. Sometimes 67 See on this Arab philologist J. W. Fück, EI2 , s.v. al-‘Askarī.

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Zhande-pil quotes lines of Persian verse as evidence, particularly in the chapters dealing with aspects of love. Books on various religious topics, on Islamic law and on Sufism, were also composed in less well known cities of Khorasan. At ­Sarakhs, for instance, Abu-Nasr Tâher b. Mohammad Khâneqâhi wrote a book entitled by the editor Gozide dar akhlâq o tasavvof (An Anthology on Ethics and Sufism), a work which mostly consists of a translation of selected extracts from earlier Sufi works.68 On the whole, the subjects dealt with in these books differ according to the spirituality of the author, the demands of his readers and the conditions of the time and place of their composition. In the Gozide there are chapters on the punishments for adultery and sodomy, and for hoarding and usury which normally are not found in Sufi books. One chapter in this book is even devoted to holy war. Although this subject is discussed from an esoteric point of view, the insertion of such a topic may perhaps be taken as an indication that the book was written at the time of the occupation of Muslim territories by the Crusaders. Some of these Sufi didactic works resemble manuals in many respects. Among such books is the Sufi-nâme or al-Tasfiya fi ahvâl almotasavvefa (The Purification on the States of Sufis) by Qotb-alDin Abu’l-Mozaffar Mansur b. Ardashir Abbâdi (d. 1152), which is actually an apologia for Sufism.69 In relatively simple Persian the author has tried to explain the origins of Sufism, the practices and states of the Sufis and their terminology. The topics of this book are to some extent comparable to those of the Sufi manuals, and the author has made use of Qosheyri’s Resâle in a number of places. Still, it has never been included among the handbooks of Sufism and, for that reason, only one manuscript copy of it has remained. A rather comprehensive work dealing with religious and mystical doctrine, the practices, customs and rituals of the Sufis, which was written by a Sufi for travelers on the Path, and which has been preserved in many manuscripts, is Mersâd al-ebâd (The Path of God’s Bondsmen) by Najm-al-Din Râzi, nicknamed Dâye 68 For one of the sources of this book, see N. Pourjavady, “Do dastine-ye kohan dar tasavvof,” Ma’âref 20/3 (2004), pp. 3–27. 69 Ed. Gh-H.Yusofi (Tehran, 1968).

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(d. 1256).70 Although he was born in Ray in 1177 and raised in that city, he later went to Khorasan and Khwarazm and became a pupil of Majd-al-Din Baghdâdi, one of the disciples of Najm-al-Din Kobrâ. Therefore, his Sufism continues the tradition of the Sufis of Khorasan. The Mersâd al-ebâd opens with a description of the appearance of the spiritual universe and an exposition of the worlds of Sovereignty (Molk) and Angelic Being (Malakut) and the creation of mankind; then the author speaks in detail about the mystical Path and discusses various points including the necessity of prophethood, the need for a spiritual guide for the purification of the heart, the contemplation of inner lights and the epiphany of the Essence and the Attributes of the Lord. Evident in this work is the influence of Ahmad Ghazâli’s ideas about love and, in general, of the topics dealt with in the Savâneh, to which Râzi is clearly indebted for part of his discussion of love and for a number of the lines of verse cited by him. Râzi is also indebted to earlier Sufi sources written in Arabic.71 Many books and treatises by disciples of Najm-al-Din Kobrâ, treating various speculative and practical issues of Sufism, are related to this genre. One such disciple is Sa’d-al-Din Hamuye (d. 1251), who in his Mesbâh fi’l-tasavvof (The Lamp [shedding light] on Sufism) discusses the meanings of letters and diacritical points, the spirit and the soul, the exegesis of religious concepts and Qur’anic subjects such as the Throne, the Book, and Khezr, and legendary motifs such as the Darkness and Fountain of Life, and the Mirror of Alexander. In its mystical interpretations the Mesbâh resembles Eyn-al-Qozât’s Tamhidât. Hamuye also speaks on the esoteric meanings of the Pillars of faith and the acts of worship. However, the subject of love, and in general the perspective of love mysticism, which is so pervasive in the Tamhidât, is not found in Hamuye’s work. Another author connected to the school of Najm-al-Din Kobrâ who deals with speculative questions in his books, is Aziz-al-Din 70 Ed. M.-A. Riyâhi (Tehran, 1973); tr. by H. Algar as The Path of God’s Bondsmen from Origin to Return (Boulder, Colorado, 1980). 71 For one such source, see N. Pourjavady, “Do dastine,” pp. 27–35.

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Nasafi, a student and spiritual disciple of Hamuye. He wrote works such as the Kashf al-haqâyeq (The Revelation of Realities), and Maqsad al-aqsâ (The Farthest Goal) expounding philosophical and mystical topics.72 One might say, generally speaking, that from the 13th century onwards some Sufi writings in Persian were becoming more philosophical, as it is noticeable in the works of Nasafi and even in those of Hamuye. The spread of the mystical teachings of Mohyial-Din Ebn-Arabi and his school gave a further impetus to this tendency towards a more philosophical mysticism in Sufi writings. Nur-al-Din Abd-al-Rahmân Esfarâyeni (d. 1317) is another author from the school of Kobrâ. In his treatises, for example in his Kâshef al-asrâr (The Revealer of the Secrets), he deals with the speculative, practical and psychological aspects of Sufism from a different angle.73 He shows in his works a greater leaning towards the love mysticism of Khorasan, and especially the kind of Sufism that is to be found in the works of Ahmad Ghazâli and Eyn-al-Qozât. Although all the works we have mentioned in this genre can be subsumed under the general heading of “Sufism” or “Mysticism,” each one manifests the particular view of its author, and therefore the content of these works is quite diverse. This diversity is even to be noted in the works of authors affiliated to the same school. However, the difference is particularly noticeable when we compare the books written by authors who were influenced by the doctrine of Ebn-Arabi with the works of Sufis of Khorasan.

9. Didactic Mathnavis We have already noted that the Sufis made use of the mathnavi form, both for treatises on love and for allegorical tales. The first poet to have employed this genre in a didactic way was Sanâ’i. As we saw in the section on allegory in Persian literature, Sanâ’i was also the first to relate the spiritual journey of the soul in the meta72 Ed. H. Rabbâni (Tehran, 1974). 73 Ed. H. Landolt (Tehran, 1980).

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physical world in the form of a mathnavi, namely the Seyr al-ebâd. The same poet presented his mystical doctrines in another mathnavi, known as the Hadiqat al-haqiqa va shari’at al-tariqa (The Garden of Reality and the Law of the Path).74 In the Hadiqat al-haqiqa, Sanâ’i casts the exposition of his mystical thought in a Neo-platonic mould, adding to it moral advice supported by citations from the Qur’an and the hadith, and by the inclusion of various anecdotes. Although Sanâ’i does speak about love in this work, speculative topics such as the description of reason, the virtues of knowledge, the heavenly spheres and the stars receive equal attention. Sanâ’i’s Sufism, as we find it here, has an aspect of piety and ethics. His aim is to exhort the reader to turn his back on this world, direct himself towards belief and piety, and follow the esoteric path. The model set by the Hadiqat al-haqiqa was more or less followed by other poets who wrote mystical mathnavis. The didactic allegory of Fakhr-al-Din Mobârakhshâh Marvrudi that we introduced before, the Rahiq al-tahqiq, was composed under the influence of Hadiqa. Later and much better known didactic mathnavis, are those of Farid-al-Din Attâr, for example the Elâhi-nâme (The Divine Book) and the Asrâr-nâme (The Book of Secrets), which deal with the speculative doctrines of Sufism as well as with moral prescriptions. They also speak of the secrets of creation, and the esoteric states and stations. Attâr’s ultimate goal is to turn the reader away from the desire for this world and the worship of the lower soul, and to encourage the observation of the commands of Islamic Law and following the esoteric path towards the Lord. In some of these mathnavis, such as the Manteq al-teyr and Elâhi-nâme, Attâr has set the poetic narrative within a frame story.75 A peculiarity 74 Ed. Modarres-Razavi (Tehran, 1950); a shorter version of the poems, under the title Fakhri-nâme, was published by M. Hoseyni (Tehran, 2003). See further J. T. P. de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry, pp. 218–45. 75 Recent translations of Manteq al-tayr are: The Conference of the Birds, trs. Dick Davis and A. Darbandi (Penguin Books, 1984), and Peter Avery’s Speech of the Birds (Cambridge, 1998). The translations of Elāhi-nāma include: the French translation by Fuad Ruhani (Tehran, 1961), and The Book of God, by J. A. Boyle (Manchester, 1976).

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of his spiritual outlook, and one which is noticeable throughout his poetry, is his preoccupation with death. In all his mathnavis he tries to make the reader aware of the transitory nature of life and the approach of death. Although in general the same can be noticed in Sanâ’i’s Hadiqat al-haqiqa, Attâr emphasizes this theme more than his predecessor. The awareness of death is especially prominent in the Asrâr-nâme. However, one of the most important ways in which Attâr’s mathnavis may be distinguished from Sanâ’i’s Hadiqat al-haqiqa is the overwhelming part played in his thinking by the Sufism of love as it is known from Khorasan. The theme of love has cast a shadow over all of Attâr’s thought, so that it can truly be characterized as a mysticism of love; that is to say, the relationship between man and God is specifically expressed in terms of love.76 Of course, the same subject is also clearly reflected in Attâr’s qasides and ghazals in his Divân as well as his quatrains that were assembled in a separate book, the Mokhtâr-nâme (The Anthology Book).77 Love as an expression of the relationship between man and God is equally a key concept in the Mathnavi-ye ma’navi (The Spiritual Mathnavi) by Jalâl-al-Din Rumi, whose Sufism in fact manifests the love mysticism of Khorasan as we know it from the works of Ahmad Ghazâli and Attâr.78 Unlike Sanâ’i’s Hadiqat al-haqiqa and Attâr’s mathnavis, Rumi’s poem does not begin with the praise of God, the Prophet, his Companions and his family, but with a discussion of love, the separation of the reed from the reed-bed, its exile in this world and its desire to return to its origin. This corre76 The classic study on Attâr’s mathnavis is H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele (Lei­ den, 1955), English translation by John O’Kane as The Ocean of the Soul: Man, the World, and God in the Stories of Farid-al-Din Attâr (Leiden and Boston, 2003). 77 Attâr, Divân‑e ghazaliyyât va qasâyed, ed. T. Tafazzoli (Tehran, 1962); idem, Majmu’e-ye robâ’iyyât (Mokhtâr-nâme), ed. M.-R. Shafi’i-Kadkani (Tehran, 1979). (This book has recently been translated into English by John O’Kane and published by Brill.) 78 Ed., tr. and comm. by R. A. Nicholson (Leiden and London, 1925–40); ed. M. Este’lâmi, 7 vols. (Tehran, 1987). On the extensive literature about Rumi cf. F. D. Lewis, Rumi: Past and Present (Oxford, 2000).

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sponds exactly to the arrival of the spirit in the world of existence and its joining love on its journey with which Ghazâli’s Savâneh begins. However, Rumi’s mathnavi is not a “poem of love,” but a comprehensive work dealing with all the subjects related to Sufi speculation and practice in a symbolic language, using a wealth of allusions, parables and stories. The Mathnavi-ye ma’navi has no frame story. In this work as well as in his Majâles and Fihi mâ fihi, Rumi speaks in the same manner as the Sufi preachers. Overall, it can be said that the style of the preachers has made an impact on the mathnavi genre, but this is particularly noticeable in Rumi’s poem. Actually, the use of anecdotes about Sufi sheikhs and even stories about ordinary people, and of parables to express and elucidate subtle and points of theology and mysticism have made this poetical work into the most successful of Sufi mathnavis in the world of Islam. In a written form and in the language of poetry, it has preserved for future generations the tradition of oral teaching by the Sufis and mystics of Persia, which had been gradually developing since in the 8th–9th centuries.

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Chapter 10 Riddles G. Windfuhr

1. Pre-Islamic Period Riddles and riddling are well-documented in pre-Islamic Iranian literary sources, beginning with the Old Avestan texts, and continuing in the literatures of Middle Persian and other Middle Iranian languages. They reflect an ancient Indo-Iranian, in fact, an Indo-European tradition that gradually merged with Near Eastern traditions. In Old Iranian, there are two basic types of enigmatic formulations: One is the question (Avestan frashna, Sanskrit praśna, Middle Persian frashn). The other is the puzzle-like spell, Av. manthra (literally ‘instrument of thought,’ Skt. mantra, Mid. Pers. mânsr), for instruction and protection, and the ridicule and destruction of evil. Manthras and related terms such as Avestan sanha ‘pronouncement’ are characterized as gufra ‘deep, mysterious’ (cf. Skt. gupta), also jafra ‘deep’ (Mid. Pers. zofr, Pers. zharf, cf. Skt. gabhîra), and gūzra ‘hidden’ (rendered by nihân ‘hidden’ in Mid. Pers., cf. Skt. guadha). They are prominently represented in the Gâthâs of Zarathushtra (c. 1000 bce), and make full use of grammatical ambiguity, enigmatic metaphor and allusions, and of dialectic devices, and are pervaded by play with sound, syllable, and word,1 including small and large-scale acrostic patterns. 2 1

Cf. H. Humbach, Die Gathas (Heidelberg, 1959) I, pp. 33–74, and H. Humbach, in collaboration with Josef Elfenbein and Prods O. Skjærvø. The Gâthâs of Zarathushtra and the Other Old Avestan Texts, 2 vols. (Heidel­ berg, 1991) II, p. 116. For the Indo-Iranian tradition of riddling, cf. W. Schultz, “Das Rätsel bei den arischen Völkern,” in Realenzyklopädie des

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The “question” riddle typically concerns a person’s wisdom and knowledge about the world and the divine, as in the cosmological Yasna 44 in the center of the Zoroastrian yasna-ritual. It consists of twenty stanzas of which nineteen are introduced by “That I ask thee, tell me truly, Ahura?”, followed by the specific questions, as in stanza 44.3: “Who through procreation is the primal father of truth? Who created the course of the sun and the stars …” These questions thus “spell” the Zoroastrian truth of the sole creator Ahura Mazda and the course of the world. Among humans, question riddles may decide life or death. A prominent example is found in the Avestan hymn to the female deity Aredvi Sura Anahita (Yasht 5, 81–83). It alludes to—and the Middle Persian text Mâdayân î Jôisht î Fryân narrates—the mortal riddling contest between Yôishta Fryâna of Turân, most skilled in the town of the “riddle-solvers” (Mid. Pers. frashn-wizârân) and the sorcerer Akhtya, who threatened the town with extinction. All the thirtythree riddles posed by Akhtya are solved (ninety-nine in the Yasht), but he cannot answer the three counter-riddles, and is decapitated. Riddling marks a good number of other Middle Persian texts such as some sixty questions in the small encyclopaedic Dânâg u Mênôg î Khrad (The Sage and the Spirit of Wisdom) or the identification riddle in the initial verses of the Drakht î Asūrîg (The Assyrian Tree, v. A. Tafazzoli, Draxt i āsūrīg, EIr), an allegorical boasting contest dating from Parthian times between a goat from Khorasan and an Assyrian date-palm, which consists of the description of an unidentified tree.

2

classischen Altertums (1914), cols. 74–87. Note also S. Anwari-Alhosseyni, “Vorformen der Čistân und Mo’ammâ in der vorislamischen Zeit (Alt- und Mittel­persische Schriften),” in idem, Loġaz und Mo’ammâ (Berlin, 1986), chap. 5.1, pp. 165–69. For the Indo-Aryan tradition, cf. Richard Salomon, “When is a riddle not a riddle? Some comments on riddling and related poetic devices in Classical Sanskrit,” in G. Hasan-Rokem and D. Shulman, eds., Untying the Knot. On Riddles and Other Enigmatic Modes (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), pp. 168–78. Cf. M. Schwartz, “Encryptions in the Gathas: Zarathushtra’s Variations on the Theme of Bliss,” in C. G. Cereti, M. Maggi and E. Provasi, eds., Religious Themes and Texts of Pre-Islamic Iran and Central Asia (Wiesbaden, 2003), pp. 375–90.

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Numerical symbolism is found throughout Old and Young Avesta, including the numbers and arrangement of words and verses, as is the case with the Gâthâs. For example the number of the words in the three most sacred Zoroastrian prayers (manthras), 21-12-15, corresponds exactly to the number of the twenty-one northern, the twelve zodiacal, and the fifteen southern constellations in the Ptolemaic system (2nd century ce), suggesting later scholarly modification of the ancient texts. Emblematic picture and hidden dating are combined in the relief and the thoroughly patterned text of the great inscription of Darius I at Behistun (521 bce), where the number of days and weeks of the decisive year during which he usurped, and defended, the throne is encoded in the number of lines and paragraphs.3

2. The Islamic Period This ancient tradition of the riddling contests is reflected in Persian literature. Best known are a number of episodes in Ferdowsi’s Shahname. One is the testing of Zâl, the father of Rostam, who is wooing Rudâbe. In the presence of the suspicious shah Manuchehr he is asked six riddles by six Zoroastrian priests (mobeds) to prove his knowledge, and acknowledgment of the received truth about the cosmic and thus social order of the Persians. The first is the question about twelve cypresses in a circle, each with thirty branches, which never become less or more in the land of the Persians, affirming the distinctive “Persian,” if not Mithraic, truth about the strictly solar year with twelve months of thirty-days each, and thus about Time.4 3

4

Cf. G. Windfuhr, “Cosmic numerology in the Yasna liturgy. The four sacred manthras,” in W. Bisang and M. G. Schmidt, eds., Philologica et Linguistica. Pluralitas, Universitas (Trier, 2001), pp. 563–71; idem, “Saith ­Darius,” in Achaemenid History VIII (Leiden, 1994), pp. 265–81. Cf. W. Schultz, “Das Rätsel;” J. B. Friedreich, Geschichte des Räthsels (Dresden, 1860), pp. 103–5; A. Taylor, The Literary Riddle before 1600 (Westport, 1948) pp. 38–39; S. Anwari-Alhosseyni, Loġaz und Mo’ammâ (Berlin, 1986), pp. 206–7; Ferdowsi, Shahname I (Moscow, 1960), pp. 217–23, ll. 1233–1306; ed. Khâlighi-Motlagh (New York, 1987), pp. 247–53, ll. 1219–75.

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Other episodes include the riddling exchange between the delegates of the Roman emperor and the chief mobed of Bahrâm Gur,5 and the exchange between the Roman emperor and Khosrow I Anushirvân, who solicits the wit of the imprisoned Bozorgmehr to save the honor of Iran. The latter correctly guesses the contents of the box sent by the emperor, three pearls—one pierced, one half-pierced, one unpierced and virgin—thereby saving also his own neck.6 The latter contest is less a verbal riddle than an example of a Scharf­sinns­ probe ‘test of wits’. It is similar to the series of exchanges and manipulations of pearls in the central story of Turândokht in the Haft Peykar of Nezâmi (d. 1203), by which the Slavic princess and her Persian suitor symbolically affirm their shared view of the world and life, and the intellectual equality of a woman with men. Again, this exchange is framed as a Halslöserätsel ‘neck-saving riddle’ by the mortal threat to the suitor.7

3. Loghaz and mo’ammâ The two basic types of Avestan enigmas, frashna and manthra, though under new premises and impacted by the speculative thought of Late Antiquity, emerged in the literature of Islamic Persia. As one of the smaller, but prominent genres in Persian literature, riddles are classified into two types, the loghaz, and the mo’ammâ. Of these two, the loghaz, approximately ‘misleading passage’ (also loghoz, or loghz, pl. alghâz), in the descriptive or question riddle, is also called chistân (literally ‘what is that?’), a term said to originate in Khorasan. Its subject (mâdde) is usually a thing or concept. Its characteristics are presented in an enigmatic 5 6 7

Cf. Anwari-Alhosseyni, ibid., p. 202; Ferdowsi, Shahname VII ( Moscow, 1970), Bahrâm Gur, ll. 1741–1801. Cf. Anwari-Alhosseyni, ibid., pp. 207–8; Ferdowsi, Shahname VII (Moscow, 1970), Kesrâ and Bozorjmehr, ll. 3471–3655. Cf. W. Schultz, “Das Rätsel;” J. B. Friedreich, Geschichte des Räthsels, pp. 49–54; A. Wesselski, “Quellen und Nachwirkungen der Haft Paikar,” Der Islam 22 (1935), pp. 106–19; Anwari-Alhosseyni, ibid., p. 218.

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and typically contradictory way. Such riddles may include some subtypes of the mo’ammâ. They are in verse, and most are considerably longer than a couplet; for example, the final two lines of a chistân on “speech” (sokhan) by Nâser‑e Khosrow (d. c. 1072): “You want it both warm and cold, but do not think of it as fire or pure water. What is it? It is something which, because of its nobility, the Prophet called permissible magic.” (ham-ash garm-o ham sard khwâhi valik / ma-dân-ash na âtesh na âb‑e zolâl // che chiz ast? chizi-st in k-az sharaf / rasul-ash laqab dâd sehr‑e halâl). 8

The mo’ammâ ‘puzzle, logogriph’, literally ‘blinded, obscured’, is a word riddle in its broad sense. In most cases, the subject of the mo’ammâ is a name, typically that of a person. It is hidden by the segmentation of the word and the multiple manipulations of the segments individually. The task is to find the pieces, to recognize the disguising operations, and to reverse the various operations for the reconstruction of the name. This requires familiarity with the art of punning by which the authors of the logogriph hint at both the operations to be employed and the positions of the pieces. When a name riddle, the mo’ammâ is usually composed for a particular occasion to honor a person and consists of a few lines, in form of a robâ’i, or a qat’e, sometimes a single verse (beyt) or even a half-verse (fard). As such it may be presented to the person honored not unlike a greeting card,9 or it may be included as part of a longer text in verse or prose. The wording should fit the occasion and person, and be consistent with the chosen semantic field, not be overly flowery or wordy, nor too terse, but keep the proper balance and proportions in rhythm, sound, and imagery, and follow the canonical rules of rhetoric and poetics. Ideally, such play with the name and its parts eloquently describes not only the riddler’s feeling toward the person but also reveals the qualities that are traditionally or playfully associated with the name itself10 (see examples below).   8 M. J. Behruzi, Chistân dar adabiyyât‑e fârsi (Tehran, 1971), p. 62.   9 Paul E. Losensky, “Riddles and Fun with Form,” in idem, Welcoming Fighânī (1998), p. 157. 10 E.g., Faqir Dehlavi, Hadâyeq al-balâghe (Calcutta, 1886), p. 84.

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A particular sub-category of the mo’ammâ is represented by chronograms in which a particular historical date is not given directly in number words, but is presented in the form of a puzzle (târikh‑e mo’ammâ’i).

4. Indigenous Tradition and Scholarship Like other literary arts, the foundations of the art of the loghaz, mo’ammâ, and târikh in Persian literature, under the impact of Arabic models, were laid in the 10th and 11th centuries ce, and most of the divans since include riddles as an integral part of the poet’s artistry, though usually in the later sections. While the târikh steadily gained in popularity throughout the following periods into the present century, the loghaz was the favorite during the Ghaznavid and Saljuqid periods, followed by the mo’ammâ during the Il-­K hanid, Timurid, and Safavid periods, coinciding with the increasing role and literary entertainment of the upper urban classes, and the popularization of extremist mysticism and gnosis. Both the loghaz and the mo’ammâ continued to be part of poetic production; for example, Vesâl of Shiraz (d. 1846) composed a chistân on the pocket watch, and Ali-Akbar Tabâtabâ’i wrote Resâle-ye mo’ammâ’iyye (1893), a treatise on the mo’ammâ. Riddling as a verbal art has been included in treatises on rhetorics, following Arabic models, the writers of which include Persians, though mostly in very brief sections, together with other words and letters plays. The first in Persian are the Tarjomân albalâgha of Mohammad b. Omar Râduyâni (middle of the 11th century), the Hadâyeq al-sehr fi daqâyeq al-she’r by Rashid-al-Din Vatvât (d. 1177), written to improve on Râduyâni; the Mo’jam fi ma’âyir ash’âr al-’ajam by Shams-al-Din b. Qeys Râzi (d. after 1230), and the Haqâyeq al-Hadâyeq by Sharaf-al-Din Râmi of Tabriz (d. 1392), a new edition of Vatvât.11 From the 15th century 11 These rhetorical textbooks are discussed in detail by Natasha Chalisova in Chapter 6.

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onwards, riddles began to be collected, and as mo’ammâs became increasingly complex (for example, the poet Sharif Mo’ammâ’i encoded 1000 names of Allâh in a single poem), numerous manuals and collections of solutions appeared. The first Persian manual on the mo’ammâ is the Holal‑e motarraz by Sharaf-al-Din Ali Yazdi (d. 1430). Jâmi (d. 1492), considered the last of the great classical Persian poets, wrote four brief ones. The work of these two scholarpoets became the model for most of the later ones. Mir Hoseyn of Nishâbur, known as Mo’ammâ’i (d. 1498), is the recognized master of this art, who also wrote a major manual on the mo’ammâ, a reference work listing words by their numerical value from 10 to 1050 for the composition of chronograms (târikhs), and a poem on the ninety-nine names of Allâh. Mohammad Nasrâbâdi (d. 1688) compiled a tadhkere with 1000 poets of the Safavid period, the entire last chapter of which is devoted to loghaz, mo’ammâ, and târikh.12

5. Modern Scholarship The high art of Persian literary riddling was recognized in the few general studies on riddling, such as J. B. Friedreich,13 and A. Taylor.14 Their main source was the brief comments by J. von ­HammerPurgstall on the Persian târikh, loghaz, and mo’ammâ.15 The first and only succinct overview of Persian riddles from the Indo­European comparative, mythological, and typological viewpoints, with few notes on the chronogram and logogriph, is by Wolfgang 12

Cf. J. Rypka, HIL, pp. 433–34; Anwari-Alhosseyni, Loġaz und Mo’ammâ, Chapter 2, and pp. 175–93. For the sections on mo’ammâ and loghaz, see: Râduyâni, Tarjomân al-balâghe (Istanbul, 1949), pp. 99–102; Vatvât, Hadâyeq al-sehr (Tehran, 1960), pp. 690–91; Shams‑e Qeys, Mo’jam (Tehran, 1994) pp. 364–68; Sharaf al-Din Râmi, Haqâyeq al-Hadâyeq (Tehran, 1962), pp. 96–100; Nasrâbâdi, Tadhkere (Tehran, 1982), pp. 469–92 (tavârikh), 492–96 (alghâz etc.); 496–536 (mo’ammayât), see also pp. 536–55 (riddles by unknown poets). 13 Geschichte des Räthsels, pp. 166–67. 14 The Literary Riddle before 1600, pp. 38–41. 15 Geschichte der schönen Redekünste Persiens (Vienna, 1818), pp. 33–34.

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Schultz.16 Hermann Ethé includes a brief discussion of riddling in his survey of Persian literature.17 In general, the loghaz and mo’ammâ have been less studied than the chronograms. Summary entries on the former two are found in Dehkhodâ’s Loghat-nâme, and a very brief note in the second edition of the Encyclopaedia of Islam. Ehsan Yarshater,18 Maria Subtelny,19 and Paul Losensky20 wrote succinct studies of the socio-political and literary environment which produced the predilection for the “intricate” during the Timurid period, and included representative examples. Two case studies are O. L. Vil’chevkij, on hidden chronograms in Khâqâni’s poems (d. 1187), 21 and Gernot Windfuhr, on hidden chronograms and mo’ammâ in Hâfez (d. 1388). 22 An important recent collection of riddles was assembled by Mohammad Javâd Behruzi. 23 It contains 555 riddles—sixty-six by named poets—with sections on the chistân, the mo’ammâ, and the folk-riddle (vâgushak) arranged by last letter; they are provided with their solutions, and in some cases further explanations, and brief notes on the art and its history. There are three major studies of riddling as part of rhetoric. 24 One is Grammatik, Poetik und Rhetorik der Perser by the German poet and Orientalist, Friedrich Rückert, and re-edited by W. Pertsch (1874), which is a thoroughly annotated and interpretative translation of the seventh volume of the dictionary Haft Qolzom 16 “Das Rätsel bei den arischen Völkern.” 17 GIPh II, p. 345. 18 She’r‑e fârsi (Tehran, 1965), pp. 239–46. 19 “A Taste for the Intricate,” ZDMG 136 (1986), pp. 72–79. 20 Paul E. Losensky, “Riddles and Fun with Form,” in idem, Welcoming Fighânī: Imitation and poetic individuality in the Safavid-Mughal ghazal (Costa Mesa, 1998), pp. 154–64; and idem, “Logaz and Mo’ammâ,” in the Encyclopaedia Iranica website: www.iranica.com. 21 “Khronogrammy Khaqani,” Epigrafika Vostoka 13 (1960), pp. 59–68; tr. J. Clinton, Iranian Studies 1 (1969), pp. 97–105. Other evidence points to 1199 as the year of Khâqâni’s death, cf. J. Rypka, HIL, p. 218, n. 91 [Ed.]. 22 “Spelling the Mystery of Time,” JAOS 110 (1990), pp. 401–16. 23 Chistân dar adabiyyât‑e fârsi. 24 Francis Gladwin’s translation of one of Jâmi’s treatises (ed. John Hindley, 1811) is apparently lost.

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by Qabul Mohammad (begun in 1814). The other is Rhétorique et prosodie des langues de l’Orient musulman by Joseph Garcin de Tassy (1873), which is an annotated translation of the 1814 version of the widely circulated and reproduced treatise Hadâyeq albalâghe by Shams-al-Din Faqir Dehlavi (d. between 1766–69), who follows those of Yazdi and Jâmi. 25 The decisive study of Persian riddling in general, and of the mo’ammâ in particular, is the Loġaz und Mo’ammâ. Eine Quellenstudie zur Kunstform des persischen Rätsels by Shams Anwari-Alhosseyni (1986). It is based on the study of most published sources, 26 and, more important, on a total of forty-seven unpublished manuscripts, with variants, of manuals, collections of solutions, and other related matters found in Persian and Western collections. It is also the first study, after Schultz (1914), that addresses theoretical aspects of riddling, and its social and political settings. Also noteworthy is the brief but systematic study of the traditional theory of the mo’ammâ, and its technical terminology, by the Turkish scholar A. N. Tarlan (1936). It is based on eight Persian and two related Turkish manuscripts, including Yazdi’s Holal al-motarraz, and Jâmi’s Resâle, whose definitions of terms are consistently cited.

6. The Theory of the mo’ammâ Logogriphic riddling is a quasi-mathematical art of verbal equations with one or more unknowns. As indicated above, it requires familiarity with the technical terminology and the pervasive use of word play, metaphoric language and imagery for both operations and operands, that is, the pieces of the dissected word or name, and for their positions in a word or phrase. Because of their complexity, many mo’ammâs which are not provided with 25 See the sections on riddles in F. Rückert, Grammatik, Poetik und Rhetorik (Gotha, 1874), pp. 317–36; and J. Garcin de Tassy, Rhéthorique et prosodie (Paris, 1873), pp. 163–93. 26 Among the major sources, Faqir Dehlavi and Garcin de Tassy are not mentioned.

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their clue have remained unsolved, and the decoding process of many has remained an enigma even when the solution is provided. One should also note that the presence or extent of a riddle is not always marked. Therefore, not the solving of a mo’ammâ or a târikh, but finding them in the first place may be the most difficult task, with the caution that familiarity with the allusive terminology for mo’ammâ-riddling may lead to the detection of riddles where none were intended. 27 Hammer-Purgstall, the erstwhile Austrian ambassador at the Ottoman court and connoisseur of Persianate poetry and poetics, quoted Dowlatshâh who openly acknowledged that he did not understand the art, 28 as both Easterners and Westerners have admitted before and since. A notable exception was the German poet Rückert, who found the section on the mo’ammâ in the Haft Qolzom the most entertaining, and the problem of decoding quite solvable. The most detailed study of these works so far is included in the monograph by Anwari-Alhosseyni, who discusses the convergence and divergence in their organization. 29 While some are more or less listings of techniques (qavâ’ed) for the manipulation of letter-­numbers and numerically defined sets such as the planets, the days of the week, and the year, others treatises and manuals, beginning with Yazdi and Jâmi, have clearly developed a fairly consistent organization and terminology. It is based on categorical principles (osul) and “operations” (a’mâl). One of the problems in elucidating that theory is the identification of terms and operations. As in other nomenclatures, the meaning of the terms is not easily deductible from their etymology, nor does it reflect the ­common 27 Cf. E. Yarshater, She’r‑e fârsi dar ahd‑e Shâhrokh, p. 242, criticizing an attempt to read the name of Ali in the second hemistich of the opening ghazal of the divân of Hâfez. For sections on riddles, see the studies by E. Yarshater, M. Subtelny, P. E. Losensky, and M. J. Behruzi cited in the previous notes. Ch. Scott, Persian and Arabic Riddles (The Hague, 1965), an attempt to define folk-riddles in terms of anthropological-linguistic structuralism, includes 99 riddles from Tehran, 67 from Kabul, and 82 Arabic riddles. 28 Geschichte der schönen Redekünste, p. 34. 29 Anwari-Alhosseyni cites numerous definitions, but gives no overall, or specific definitions.

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­ eaning of the word, by which the terms are usually rendered m in the three main modern studies discussed. The terms also tend to focus on certain typical functions among a range of functions. Moreover, they may imply the processes of either decoding or encoding. In particular, because of their complexity, most mo’ammâs do not lend themselves easily as examples for demonstrating specific points, and explanations tend to focus as much on explaining other intricate parts of the riddle at hand as on the main point to be illustrated. Nevertheless, reflecting the long tradition as well as the complexity of the mo’ammâ, the developed indigenous theory is both sophisticated and simple. The essential two aspects of the mo’ammâ are the subject (mâdde), and its literal form (surat). The latter implies that basically only the consonantal skeleton of the word counts (khatt, or shakl), e.g., hoseyn = ḤSYN, Musâ = MVSY, al-Din = #LDYN (# stands for alef; for the sequence of the letters as used in riddles and their numerical values, see the Appendix at the end of the chapter). The “Persian” letters P, Č, Ž, G count the same as the letters from which they are derived, B, J, Z, K. Most mo’ammâs have a primary operand (moqavveme), which is usually also the syntactic and semantic focus, and represents the letters of the name, or a good portion of it. This is to be combined with secondary operands (motammeme) representing component syllables, or individual letters, as part of different words. There also may be “embellishing” accessories (lavâheq‑e ­mo­hassene), with supporting hints as well as “confusing” ones (lavâheq‑e moshavveshe), which may nevertheless be useful. Any others are unaffected (lavâheq‑e sâleme).30 Decoding depends on the proper identification of the operations to be executed; on the identification of the words, parts of the words, and individual letters to be operated on; and on finding the correct sequence of the operations to reconstitute the name. The clues to the solution may be provided in increasing detail: 1. to the meaning of the word only, in which case the word, and thus the letters, have to be entirely guessed first; 2. to the letters, individually 30 Ibid.

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or in syllables and letter groups, already hidden in one or several words; 3. to their arrangement; and, rarely, 4. to diacritic dotting and to vocalization and other diacritical marks.31 The position of a letter at the beginning, end, or within a word is indicated by a multitude of puns and metaphors; e.g., dâman‑e gol ‘lap of the rose’, where “lap” = “final” letter of GL, thus L.32 Most manuals of the mo’ammâ organize the operations into four main categories: (1) tashil ‘facilitation’, operations which focus on the first and major step, the identification of the position and distribution of the operands, that is, the pieces to be operated on; (2) tahsil‑e mâdde, operations for the retrieval of those operands; (3) takmil‑e surat, further operations on the recombined pieces; (4) tazyil, operations on secondary diacritics. In particular, the sub-categories of retrieval (tahsil) are evidently defined by two intersecting parameters, letter group vs. letter, and the recognition of operand present vs. supplying operand by equations and the substitution of one word with another, including language shift by replacing a Persian word with an Arabic word, or vice versa. The following examples may suffice to exemplify the process: (1) Ey ªsabâ chun rasi be ân del-ju // avval az âh o dard o mehnat gu “O east wind, when you reach that beloved // first speak of sighs and pain and suffering.”

The first clue is the direction avval az … gu ‘first speak of …’, which gives the hint to take the first letters of the following words: A > âh ‘sigh’, D > dard ‘pain’, M > mehnat ‘suffering’ = #-D-M = Adam (Anwari-Hosseyni, op. cit., p. 121). That is, the riddler created a message in the form of a pleasing micro-acrostic about his longing for the recipient, at the same time alluding to Allah’s breathing of life into the clay that was to be Adam and took a long 40 days, according to the Qur’an. (2) tâ gereftâr‑e ruy‑e jânân ast // in del âshofte o parishân ast “As long as he is longing for the face of the beloved, this heart is agitated and disturbed.” 31 32

Garcin de Tassy, Rhétorique et prosodie, p. 168. Garcin de Tassy, Rhétorique et prosodie, p. 185.

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The ready clue is ruy‑e jânân ‘face of the beloved’, where “face” implies the first letter of the following word, J. The one longing for it is, literally, the first word tâ T#, which combined with J yields T#J tâj ‘crown’. This, however, is only part of the name as hinted at in the second half-line. It says that in del ‘this heart’ = #YNDL is disturbed, that is, scrambled, which when unscrambled reveals the frequent component of names, #LDYN > al-din, yielding the full name Tâj al-Din (Anwari-Hosseyni, op. cit., p. 125). The riddler thus divided the name and manipulated the two halves separately. He then dissected the first into the conjunction tâ which appropriately expresses length of time, and expanded the remaining letter to one of the terms for “beloved,” and then scrambled the second half, operations which iconically reflect separation and the state of a lover torn and confused by longing. While mo’ammâs like these are typically collected in the back of divans or riddle collections and thus recognized, mo’ammâs that are integral parts of the dialectic and embellishment of longer poems more often than not have remained hidden. Two examples may suffice, one found in a ghazal by Hafez and the other in a ghazal by Rumi: (1) ze ‘eshq‑e nâ-tamâm‑e mâ jamâl‑e yâr mostaghni-st // be âb o rang o khâl o khaªtªt che hâjat rūy‑e zibâ râ? “The beauty of our friend does not need our incomplete love // what need does a beautiful face have for water and color, and beauty mole and eye-line?” (Hafez, Divan #3)

Here, the words eshq‑e nâtamâm ‘love incomplete’ hint at deleting the final letter of the word for “love,” which yields two letters of the intended name: ‘eshq *ShQ > *-Sh (the symbol * stands for ‘eyn). The other letters are hidden in the cosmetological imagery of the second half-line: The first named âb ‘water’, but also ‘luster, dignity,’ together with rang ‘color’, but also ‘power’, suggest the dignified first letter of the alphabet, # (alef). The beauty mole and eye-line together hint at the swing of the ­letter J with its diacritic dot. These two letters, #-J, which the friend implicitly does need, are to touch up the beautiful face, i.e., are to be inserted between *-Sh, thus *-(#J)-Sh, which appropriately is the “mirror” image of 324

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the well-known name ShJ#* = Shojâ’. This, however, was the name of the vain ruler who had Hafez exiled from Shiraz, whom Hafez here ridicules and deconstructs by means of a defiant and witty mo’ammâ on his name, hidden in the middle his most famous ghazal.33 (2) ze har do ‘âlam pahlu-ye khod tohi kardam // chu hey, neshaste be pahlu-ye lâm‑e allâh-am “I made my own sides empty from both worlds, like the H I was seated beside the L of Allah.” (Rumi, Divan #1728).

Here, the name implied is Rumi’s own, Jalâl. When “emptied” of its side letters J-L, it yields the symbolically interlocked letter pair lâm-alef, L#. Thereby a correlation is established between Allâh and Jalâl: #-(L’)-H and J-(L’)-L.34 In a further step, the emptied JL together with the H form the frame for the divine jalâl ‘beauty’, and yield the well-known phrase JL JL’L-H = jalla (jalâlo)-hu ‘Exalted is His glory’.

7. Hesâb‑e abjad The terms hesâb‑e abjad, or hesâb‑e jomal, refer to operations with the numerical value of letters (see the table in the Appendix).35 These operations are sometimes discussed as a separate major category. Several subcategories are distinguished. Basically, a letter may be hinted at directly by name, or indirectly by the word for its numerical value, such as si SY “30” for the letter L. Inversely, 33 G. Windfuhr, “Spelling the Mystery of Time,” JAOS 110 (1990), pp. 401–16. 34 Kolliyât‑e Shams, ed. Badi’ozzamân Foruzânfar, 1335/1977, vol. 4, 61; the translation is that by A. Schimmel in “Letter Symbolism in Sufi Literature,” in her Mystical Dimensions, 1975, 420, where she cites this line as an example for the mystical connotation of the circular letter H and huwa ‘He’. 35 Besides the basic abjad sequence, there are at least two more complex schemes, for which see Q. Ahmad, “A note on the art of composing chronograms,” Islamic Culture 46 (1972), and Anwari-Alhosseyni, Loġaz und Mo’ammâ, p. 150.

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a number word may be hinted at by its letter, as in the following example on the name Seyf SYF: jân az lab‑e ḻa‘l‑e to o del az sar‑e zolf-at // juyande-ye âb‑e Khezr o ‘omr‑e derâz-and ‘My soul from thy ruby lips and my heart from the tips of thy curls // are seeking (the prophet) Khezr’s water (of life = kiss) and a long life’. The name is dissected into SY and F. Then SY = si ‘30’ is replaced by the letter with that value, L, which in turn is made the ‘lip’ of l-a’l ‘ruby’. F is made the sar ‘head’ of FLZ felez ‘metal’, which is scrambled, “curled,” to ZLF zolf ‘curls, locks’. The solution “seeks” these two components (Yarshater, op. cit., p. 242). There may be multiple conversions back and forth, and whole sequences of operations may yield just a single letter.36 The operation by calculation (ehsâ’i) involves mathematical riddles where the intended letter results from more complex mathematical operations, such as halving the value of a syllable or word, or by the calculation of ratios; e.g., S + Y = 60 + 10 = 70 = the letter ‘eyn. In gereftam nimeye ân lab be dandân ‘I took half of that lip between my teeth,’ the word lab LB = 30 + 2 divided by half = 16 = 10 + 6 = Y + V.37 In “limited” (enhesâri) number sets the symbolic value of letters is determined according to fixed epistemological sets, such as planets (e.g., “the sun” = a planet in the fourth celestial sphere = D; “the moon” = a planet with a cycle of 30 days = L); or Islamic lore, such as mi’âd‑e kalim ‘the meeting of Moses’ with his Lord, lasting “forty nights”(cf. Qur’an VII:142) = 40 days = M). The operation called raqami ‘cipherlike’ refers to the arqâm‑e hendese, the “Indian” or “geometrical” ciphers (as opposed to the abjad-letters), e.g., the letter alef together with the circle of the letter H look like the number 10 = Y; the uprighted cluster of the letter ‘eyn together with the oblique stroke of the letter R looks like the cipher “6” = the letter V.

36 Cf. the example in F. Rückert, Grammatik, p. 331. 37 Anwari-Alhosseyni, p. 132.

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8. Târikh38 As in other traditions, chronograms serve as a mnemonic of memorable past, present, or future events, be it a natural wonder or a disaster, passages in human life of high and low, or crucial points in the construction of buildings, or of literary texts. They may be isolated verses, collected in the final sections of divans, together with specimens of loghaz and mo’amma,39 or may be found embedded in lyrics, whether a quatrain or brief occasional poem (qat’e), or ghazal, or in longer narratives and masnavis, usually towards the beginning or end of the whole or of sections. In some cases different dates reflect various versions through time,40 useful evidence for textual transmission. Chronograms in the form of number words are found since the very beginning of Persian literature, particularly in the early mathnavis.41 The challenging mo’ammâtype applying the hesâb‑e jomal appeared by the 11th century. The more complex types became popular by the Timurid period, and became favorites on the Indian Subcontinent. Chronograms are still c­ omposed.42 The presence of a chronogram is usually clearly marked by terms such as târikh, zamân(e) ‘time(s)’, hangâm ‘season, time’, or 38 The most recent and succinct overview is J. T. P. de Bruijn, EIr s.v. Chronograms. Very brief is F. C. de Blois, EI2, s.v. Ta’rīkh iii. For discussions, cf. Rückert, Grammatik, pp. 223–68, and Anwari-Alhosseyni, Loġaz und Mo’ammâ, pp. 194–96. For discussions and collections, see Nasrâbâdi, Tadhkere (cf. above n. 10), and the modern compilations by H. Nakhjavâni; T. W. Beale; C. J. Rodgers, and the detailed study by M. Derakhshân (for further details consult the Bibliography). 39 E.g., the târikhs and mo’ammâs assembled from Hâfez’s Divân, in the ed. Eyvazi and Behruz (Tehran, 1977), pp. 547–50; 563–64, and Jâmi, Kolliyyât (Tehran, 1983), pp. 556–67. 40 E.g., in the final lines of Ferdowsi’s Shahname IX (Moscow, 1971), p. 382; cf. Rypka, HIL, pp. 155–56. 41 E.g., Abu Shakur, cf. Lazard, Les premiers poetes persans (Paris and Tehran, 1964), I, p. 28. 42 For the living tradition of composing chronograms on the Subcontinent, cf. Kh. H. Qadiri, Janâb Maulânâ Hâmid Qâdirî and the Art of the Chronogram (London, 1988).

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sâl ‘year’. The developed theory, such as found in Qabul Mohammad’s work, distinguishes four types,43 which can be reduced to two basic types: those which give the date in plain number words, and those which give the date by means of the numerical value of the letters. Thereby the dating is converted into a quasi-mathematical play with words or phrases, which in turn can be manipulated by any type of operations and the sum-total of which is the number of the date. For example, simply additive are phrases like bi mesl ‘without equal’ = BYMThL = 2-10-40-500-30 = 582 Q, on the death of Anvari in 1186 ce, or bi mesâl, with the addition of an alef = 583 Q, on the death of Khâqâni in 1187 ce. Simple subtraction is hinted at by khâli ‘empty’ in az Mohammad zamâne khâli mând ‘The temporal world remained empty of Mohammad’. Here, ZM#NH = 103 is to be emptied of MḤMD = 92, which equals the year of the death of the Prophet, i.e. year 11 of the lunar Hejri calendar.44 In the following chronogram the date 951 Q is given directly in form of number words, and simultaneously indirectly by the total of the numerical values of the letters that make up these words: ma’navi lafzi bovad târikh‑e ân: sâl‑e hejrat nohsad o panjâh o yak “Both numerically and verbally its date is: the year of the Hejra nine-hundred-and-fifty-one,” where the numerical value of S#L HJRT NHṢD V BNJ#H V YK indeed equals 951 (# stands for alef ).45 In this type the total may be off by one year from the correct date.46 Chronograms may include the day and month, and normally follow the Muslim lunar calendar, although O. L. Vil’chevskij showed that passages by Khâqâni can be read according to both the lunar Hejri and Julian calendars.47 Such may also be the case in the hidden chronogram in the last beyt of Rumi’s “Song of the Reed-flute” that introduces his Mathnavi: dar nayâbad hâl‑e pokhte hich khâm // 43 Cf. also H. Nakhjavâni, Mavâdd‑e tavârikh (Tehran, 1964), pp. v–t. 44 Ibid. p. 225. 45 F. Rückert, Grammatik, p. 224 46 Cf. ibid., p. 268; also F. Steingass, Persian-English Dictionary, s.v. tashif. A good number of more complex methods are found in divination. 47 “Khronogrammy Khaqani;” see also J. Rypka, HIL, pp. 572–73.

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pas sokhan kutâh bâyad va-s-salâm ‘Nothing raw will find out the state of the cooked // so let my speech be short, and Peace be with you!’. Here the hint is to shorten sokhan = SKhN which yields S‑Kh = 60-600 = 660 Q (1261–62 ce), and is a likely date when work on the Mathnavi was begun.48 However, in a further reading of the hints, the phrasing va salâm ‘plus salâm’ implies to add SL#M = 131 to sokhan-kutâh SKhN-KVT’H, thus 710-432-131 = 1273, which is the Christian date of Rumi’s year of death and suggests later pious editorial modification. Such combinations of chronograms with the multiple operations of the mo’ammâ have produced most complex examples of riddling. For example, Mohtasham of Kâshân wrote six quatrains on the accession of the Safavid Esmâ’il II in 1576 ce, in which the date 984 Q is encoded in each hemistich, such that in each hemistich the numerical values of dotted and undotted letters each yield half of that number. Moreover, by freely combining the undotted letters of any hemistich with the dotted ones of any other, and vice versa, a total of 1104 combinations yield the date, in addition to the basic twenty four.49 An example for a chronogram requiring the operation of substitution is found hidden in a line of the well-known third ghazal in the divan of Hafez, already mentioned above, where he gives the clue for the presence of a târikh by the time-term dahr ‘time,’ and plainly points the reader to in mo’ammâ ‘this mo’ammâ’: ªhadis az moªtreb o mey gu o râz‑e dahr kam-tar ju // ke kas nagshud o na-gshâyad be hekmat in mo’ammâ râ “Tell the story of minstrel and wine and seek less the secret of time, as no one has solved nor shall solve this enigma with philosophy.”

48 See further G. Windfuhr, “References to Zoroaster and Zoroastrian time reckoning in Rumi’s Masnavi,” in Proceedings of the 3rd International Congress, K. R. Cama Oriental Institute (Bombay, 2001), pp. 58–70. 49 Cf. Nasrâbâdi, Tadhkere, pp. 473–74, and the explanation by V. Shirâzi, Armaghân 11 (1933), pp. 271–72. Such feats could be combined with acrostic arrangements; see also F. Rückert, Grammatik, pp. 246–50; and the detailed discussion of the overwhelming multiple acrostic and even colorcoded panegyric qaside of 160 verses by Ahli of Shiraz in P. E. Losensky, Welcoming Fighânī (1998), pp. 160–64.

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Here the overt operation is subtraction: ‘say/take hadis az moªtreb o mey’ = ḤDYS#Z-MṬRB-V-MY = 834, and ‘seek less/subtract râz‑e dahr’ = R#Z-DHR = 417, which yields exactly half of 834, but not a date in the lifetime of Hafez. This suggests to operate be hekmat ‘with philosophy,’ that is to find a philosophical equivalent of ‘secret of time’, thus Allâh = #LL#H = 1-30-30-1-5 = 67, and 834-67 = 767 Q (1365–66 ce), which is a date in Hafez’s middle years and a likely date for his expulsion from Shiraz by Shah Shojâ’.50

9. The Gnostic-Mystical Factor The underlying theory, or technique, derives from Hellenistic NeoPythagorean and Neoplatonic cosmogonic and cosmological letter and number speculations. Names and significant words were considered sequences of letters and signs whose manipulation by the elect and visionaries leads to the discovery of the secrets, or spirits, veiled by the letter-words. Sought were either connections with specific sacred texts or the secret names or attributes of the deity. These gnostic-mystical origins and context of “hiding” by mo’ammâ are already clearly indicated in the first Persian manual by Sharaf-al-Din Yazdi, who plainly states that the function of the mo’ammâ is not the interpretation of the external, but the unveiling by the gnostic of the hidden and concealed (kashf al-asrâr, or kashf‑e batn‑e batn).51 A major input was magic and divination, including prognostication, attributed to priests (magoi) and magicians, and thus ultimately to the enigmatic figure of Zoroaster, who, together with Thot-Hermes, was considered to be the founder of astrology and alchemy, and an apocalyptic seer. This would make the ultimate origin of the Muslim term for divination, jafr, from Avestan gufra or jafra ‘deep, mysterious’, quite likely. Jafr is correlated mainly with the Shi’ite notion of the prophetic afflatus 50 For more detail, cf. G. Windfuhr, “Spelling the Mystery of Time,” JAOS 119 (1990), pp. 401–16. 51 Cf. Anwari-Alhosseyni, Luġaz und Mo’ammâ, p. 213.

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transmitted from Adam through Mohammad to the descendants of Fâteme, the Alids. The most important aspects of jafr-literature are the apocalyptic predictions (malâhem) based on the Biblical Book of Daniel, divination on the basis of the knowledge of signs (simiyâ), and the science of the letters (elm‑e horuf).52 The crucial knowledge was encapsulated in secret tablets, applied by the diviner. The secret Ketâb‑e Jafr is supposed to have been in the possession of the sixth Imam Ja’far al-Sâdeq (d. 765). Jafr, focused on the allegorical exegesis (ta’vil) of the Qur’an, is well documented during the Umayyad, and more so during the Abbasid periods. There has been a continuous line of minds and heretic extremist movements engaged in this kind of alpha-numerical speculations, based on the belief in the divine nature, the creative and existential function of letters, and the efficacy of quasi-alchemistical manipulation for the revelation of the secrets of names, of nature, and the outcome of historical events.53

Appendix The following table shows the abjad system of the Arabic-Persian alphabet. On the first row are the letters, on the second the numerical values, on the third the phonemic values of the letters, on the fourth their Arabic names. (Note that the sequence of the first 22 letters, alef to tâ, follows the sequence of the 22 letters of the Aramaic alphabet). Please note that adding Aramaic and Arabic, as well as Persian, one reads from right to left.

52 Cf. T. Fahd, EI2 s.v. Djafr. There is also cited the traditional etymology, or explanation, of the term as the skin of jafr, a small camel or lamb, on which the divinatory texts were assumed to have been written. See also the same EI2 s.vv. Sīmīyā; Ḥurūf. 53 See further K. Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiah: Cultural landscape of Early Modern Iran (Cambridge, Mass., 2002), and A. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill, 1975), pp. 411–25, Appendix 1: “Letter symbolism in Sufi literature.”

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Abjad ‫ی‬

‫ط‬

‫ح‬

‫ز‬/‫ژ‬

‫و‬

‫ه‬

‫د‬

‫ج‬/‫چ‬

‫ب‬/‫پ‬

‫ﺃ‬

10

9

8

7

6

5

4

3

2

1

y

ªṭ

ªḥ

z/zh

v

h

d

j/ch

b/p

#

yâ

ªtâ

ªḥâ

zâ

vâv

hâ

dâl

jīm

bâ

#alef

‫ک‬/‫گ‬

‫ق‬ ‫ق‬

‫ص‬

‫ف‬

‫ع‬

‫س‬

‫ن‬

‫م‬

‫ل‬

100

90

80

70

60

50

40

30

20

q

ªṣ

f

*

s

n

m

l

k/g

qâf

ªṡâd

fe

*eyn

sīn

nūn

mīm

lâm

kâf

‫ظ‬

‫ض‬

‫ذ‬

‫خ‬

‫ث‬

‫ت‬

‫ش‬

‫ر‬

1000

900

800

700

600

500

400

300

200

gh

ẓ

ªż

dh

kh

th

t

š

r

gheyn

ẓâ

ªżâd

dhâl

khâ

thâ

tâ

šīn

râ

‫غ‬ ‫غ‬

A sequence of meaningless words is used to memorize the alphabet in the order of its numerical values: #aBJaD—HaVvaZ—ḤoṬiY—KaLaMaN—Sa*FaṢ—­QaRaShaT— ThaKhaDh—ZāẒaGh

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Chapter 11 Pre-Islamic Iranian  and Indian Influences  on Persian Literature F. de Blois The conquest of the Sasanid Empire by the Arabs in the middle of the 7th century marked a decisive turning point in the political, religious, and cultural history of Persia. To be sure, we do not have any statistics that would enable us to establish the speed with which the Persian population converted to the religion of the conquerors, but there is good reason to think that within about a century of the conquest a large portion of the urban elite in the formerly Sasanid territories had accepted Islam, and the Arab religion must have made rapid progress in the countryside as well in the ensuing centuries. Zoroastrianism increasingly became the faith of outof-the-way rural communities. Christians and Jews maintained a stronger presence in the towns but they too were probably soon outnumbered by Muslims. Manichaeism enjoyed a short revival under the Umayyads, but was severely persecuted at the time of the Abbasids al-Mahdi and al-Hâdi between 779 and 786 and disappeared soon thereafter everywhere in the Muslim world apart from Transoxiana. The Islamization of the Iranian world had a profound impact on cultural life in Persia. The Persians did manage to keep their own language. In this respect Persia was different from, for example, Egypt, where not only the Muslim converts, but even the still very significant Christian minority eventually lost their native Coptic language and adopted Arabic. In Persia the Muslim elite certainly spoke Arabic. For several centuries they wrote only in Arabic and 333

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the Persian language adopted a very large number of Arabic words, but it remained, in its basic grammatical structure, undeniably Persian. However, for two centuries after the conquest Muslim Persians wrote nothing in Persian; even in the 3rd century of the Hejra they wrote virtually nothing and only from the 4th century (10th century ce) was there any significant use of Persian writing by Muslims. During all this time Persian texts were still being written by Zoroastrians and, probably to a lesser extent, also by Christians, Jews, and Manichaeans, but these texts were not read by Muslims, not least because they were put down in scripts that Muslims could not read (Pahlavi, Syriac, Hebrew and Manichaean scripts). This means that although the Persian language survived as a spoken idiom among Muslims it was an idiom that was cut off from the Persian literary tradition. The Islamicized Persian population certainly retained a number of customs and folk traditions from pre-Islamic times, particularly in the countryside. Along with the language, these were a link with the past, but their importance should not be exaggerated. The adoption of Islamic religion and culture did cut the Persians off from the religious (Zoroastrian) roots of the old national culture, and the extinction of Zoroastrian book learning among Muslim converts and their abandonment of the Middle Persian written language meant that Sasanid literature, indeed the whole of Sasanid “high” culture, was unknown to Persian Muslims. The link with pre-Islamic Iranian literature and with the “high” culture of the Sasanid period was eventually reestablished through translations of Middle Persian books, translations made by Zoroastrians or recent converts from Zoroastrianism. These translations were an important vehicle of cultural influence also from India. We can distinguish two principal waves of transmission: for one, in translations from Middle Persian to Arabic, made during the early Abbasid period, first and most famously by Ebn-Moqaffa’ (d. ca. 755). Then, beginning about two centuries later, we find translations of Sasanid books, either from Arabic or (less commonly) directly from Middle Persian, into (New) Persian, notably under the patronage of the Samanids. Although the number of books translated in both waves must have been very great indeed, only a small 334

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portion has survived to the present, and of these only a minute number have come down to us in the original language as well. The reason for this is that the Middle Persian books that have been preserved by Zoroastrians are almost entirely of religious content, while those translated by (or for) Muslims were virtually without exception of a non-religious nature. Thus, the extant corpus of Middle Persian books and that of Arabic (or Persian) translations from the Middle Persian complement one another and overlap only to a very small degree. We can look now at six of the ancient Persian and Indian books that made their way into Islamic Persia.

1. Kalile and Demne Kalile va Demne is a famous collection of didactic fables, mostly of Indian origin.1 The book, which takes its name from those of the two jackals who figure in its first story (and which are corruptions of Sanskrit Karaṭaka and Damanaka, respectively), was translated into Arabic by Ebn-Moqaffa’ around the middle of the 8th century ce from an original in Middle Persian, which in turn had been compiled by the physician Burzôy during the reign of the Sasanid Emperor Khosrow I (531–79). The Sasanid original is lost, but we do have a Syriac translation made directly from the Middle Persian, most probably in the 6th century ce, and by confronting it with the Arabic version we can form a fairly precise picture of the contents of their common source. This, like the Syriac translation, evidently contained ten frame-stories (each with a number of inserted substories, and sometimes even sub-sub-stories). The first five (“The lion and the ox,” “The ring-dove and her companions,” “The owls and the crows,” “The ape and the tortoise,” and “The ascetic and the weasel”) are a translation of the five chapters of the Pañcatantra, the most celebrated story-book in Sanskrit. The next three (“The 1

For a detailed discussion, see F. de Blois, Burzôy’s Voyage to India (London, 1990), with copious bibliography.

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mouse and the cat,” “The king and the bird,” and “The lion and the jackal”) are taken from the twelfth book of the Mahâbhârata, the Indian national epic. One (“The king and his eight dreams”) is derived from a lost Buddhist Sanskrit source (the story survives in Tibetan, Pali and Chinese Buddhist versions), while the last chapter (“The king of the mice and his ministers”) was apparently written by Burzôy himself. The Arabic version of Ebn-Moqaffa’ began (at least in its original form) with an introduction by the Arabic translator. This was followed by a brief account of how Burzôy journeyed to India in search of medicinal herbs, but brought back books instead. 2 The third chapter was Burzôy’s own autobiographical introduction, doubtless translated from the Middle Persian original (though lost in the Syriac version); this contains a very remarkable passage rejecting all established religions and preaching asceticism. These three introductory sections are followed by the translation of the ten stories contained in the Sasanid original, but after “The lion and the ox” someone (most probably Ebn-Moqaffa’ himself) inserted a sequel of his own composition describing the trial and punishment of the treacherous jackal, Demne. At the end of the book there are four stories that were probably not part of Burzôy’s compilation: two (“The traveler and the goldsmith,” and “The king’s son and his companions”) are of Indian origin, the other two (“The lioness and the horseman,” and “The ascetic and his guest”) have not been traced to any earlier source. The story of how Kalile and Demne found its way back into Persian is told in the so-called old introduction to the Shahname of Ferdowsi. This tells us that the Samanid ruler Nasr b. Ahmad heard about how Ebn-Moqaffa’ had translated Kalile and Demne from Middle Persian to Arabic, he requested his minister Khwâja Bal’ami to translate it from the Arabic into Persian and thus the book fell into the hands of men, and everyone turned its pages. Then he ordered Rudaki to turn it into verse. And so Kalile and Demne was on the tongues of the high and

2 The chapter is published and translated in F. de Blois, ibid., pp. 81–87; the story of Burzôy’s journey as found in the printed editions is spurious.

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Pre-Islamic Iranian and Indian Influences the low, and his name has lived on and this book became a memorial to him.3

Of Bal’ami’s Persian translation (evidently in prose) no trace has remained. Rudaki’s once much celebrated versification of the same has also disappeared, but we do have a fair number of fragments of it, for the most part single verses quoted in the oldest surviving Persian dictionary, the Loghat-e fors of Asadi, to illustrate the rare words in them. Although the just-quoted passage from the “Old Introduction” states that Bal’ami’s version was made from the Arabic, it can be noted that the surviving fragments of Rudaki’s poem sometimes agree more closely with the old Syriac translation (from the Middle Persian) than with the Arabic version and its offshoots, suggesting that the Samanid translators also had access to the Sasanid original. In his famous Fehrest, an Arabic bibliography of the books known in Baghdad in about 988, Ebn-Nadim, after telling how ­K alile and Demne had been translated into Arabic by Ebn-­Moqaffa’, adds that “the poets of the Persians (al-’ajam) have reworked this book in poetry and translated it into the Persian language in Arabic (script?),” referring, doubtless, to Rudaki’s.4 This appears to be the only explicit reference to Persian literature in the whole of the Fehrest, a striking testimony to the importance of Rudaki’s book for the history of Persian literature. Apart from the meager surviving fragments of Rudaki’s poem, the oldest extant Persian translations of Kalile and Demne are two roughly contemporary versions from the middle of the 12th century, one by Mohammad b. Abd-Allâh Bokhâri, written for the atabeg of Mosul, while the other, better known version was written by Abu’l-Ma’âli Nasr-Allâh and dedicated to the Ghaznavid Sultan Bahrâmshâh. The latter is the source of all the later Persian reworkings, among them a 13th-century versification by Ahmad b. Mahmud Qâne’i5, dedicated to one of the Saljuq rulers of ­Anatolia, 3

Cf. the edition by Mohammad Qazvini in I. Sadiq, ed., Ketâb-e hazâre-ye Ferdowsi (Tehran, 1943), pp. 135–36. 4 Ebn-Nadim, Fehrest, ed. M.-R. Tajaddod (Tehran, 1973), p. 364. 5 The text of Qâne’i’s poem was ed. by Magali T’odua in 1979.

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and the prose adaptation called Anvâr-e soheyli by Hoseyn b. Ali Vâ’ez-e Kâshefi, the prolific author and the court preacher of the Timurids in Herat, and by Abu’l-Fazl, for the Mughal emperor Akbar in Delhi, from the beginning and the third quarter of the 16th century respectively.

2. The Book of Kings Towards the end of the Sasanid period an official compendium of the legendary and (from the time of Alexander onwards) semi-­legendary history of Iran was compiled in Middle Persian, to which early Arabic authors refer either by its name in Middle Persian (­Khwadâynâmag) or in Arabic (Siyar al-moluk). This was evidently in prose; there is no evidence that the various episodes of the Iranian national saga were ever collected into a single epic poem before the Islamic period. The book was translated from Middle Persian into Arabic by Ebn-Moqaffa’. Both the Persian original and the Arabic translation are lost, but we can form some idea of the contents of the latter from the account of pre-Islamic Iran given by such historians as Tabari and Hamze Esfahâni. The already cited Old Introduction to Ferdowsi’s Shahname says that the governor of Tus, Mohammad b. Abd-al-Razzâq, after hearing the story of how Nasr b. Ahmad had sponsored the translation of Kalile va Demne, decided to emulate that king in the pursuit of fame by having the Khwadây-nâmag translated into Persian; this was in 957. The translation was prepared (still according to the Old Introduction) with the participation of four men bearing obviously Zoroastrian names; it is thus likely that the “four men” contributed material from Middle Persian books, though it would be most surprising if the authors had not also used the then well-known Arabic offshoots of the Persian Book of Kings.6 This translation was evidently one of the sources, though probably not the only written source, used by Ferdowsi in his great retelling of the Book of Kings in Persian verse. 6 See F.de Blois, PL v, pp. 120–22.

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Ferdowsi indicates in quite a number of passages that his poem is based on an “old book,” that is to say on one or more written sources in Persian prose; by contrast the passages in which the poet appears to invoke oral informants can be shown to go back to his written sources. In other words, when the poet says that he has “heard” a story from such-and-such a person he is merely repeating in verse what his source had already said in prose. In reworking these books into poetry, Ferdowsi had a number of distinguished predecessors both among the Arabic and the Persian poets. Already around the year 815 Abân Lâheqi had put a number of books of Sasanid origin (among them the Book of Mazdak, one of the stories that eventually went into the Shahname) into Arabic rhymed couplets in rajaz metre. Before the middle of the 10th century, Mas’udi of Marv compiled a version of the Book of Kings in Persian rhymed couplets and in hazaj metre, a metre built out of the same rhythmic elements as the Arabic rajaz. We have now only the three verses from this poem quoted in the Ketâb al-bad’ va’l-târikh of Motahhar Maqdesi (ca. 966). Then, in the second half of the 10th century, the poet Daqiqi took it upon himself to put the whole of the Book of Kings into Persian verse for a second time; this enterprise was cut short by his death, but some thousand verses of his account of the reign of Goshtâsp (largely agreeing in content with the Middle-Persian Ayâdgâr i Zarêrân) were incorporated by Ferdowsi into his own Shahname and thus preserved for posterity.

3. The Book of Sendbâd The Sendbâd-nâme, containing the “Story of the seven vizirs,” has nothing to do with the tales about “Sendbâd the Sailor” of the Arabian Nights, but is a collection of didactic fables embedded (like those in Kalile and Demne) in a frame-story. Ebn-Nadim, in his list of “Indian books” known to Muslims, mentions a “great” and a “small” Book of Sendbâd 7, and elsewhere the same author mentions 7 Ebn-Nadim, Fehrest, p. 364.

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this book, alongside Kalile and Demne, among the titles which Abân Lâheqi “transmitted [that is, translated into Arabic verse] from the books of the Persians and others.”8 The oldest surviving versions of the story are the Syriac, preserved in a single incomplete manuscript,9 and the Greek translation of this same Syriac version, made towards the end of the 11th century by Michael Andreopoulos.10 Some linguistic features of the Syriac text indicate that it is based on an Arabic original. The Greek, for its part, has an introduction mentioning “Mousos the Persian” as the “author” of the book, apparently meaning that a certain Musâ was responsible for the Arabic translation (presumably from the Middle Persian) on which the extant Syriac version is based. These are followed by the Persian Sendbâd-nâme of Mohammad b. Ali Zahiri of Samarqand from around 1161.11 This has a rather puzzling passage in its introduction in which Zahiri speaks of an earlier Persian translation made for the Samanids by one Abu’l-Favâres Fanâruzi in 950, and says that before that time the book had existed “in Pahlavi” (i.e., Middle Persian) and that “no-one had translated it” (e.g., into Persian). This would seem to imply that Fanâruzi had made his translation not from Arabic, but directly from Middle Persian; however, one must ask whether Zahiri is likely to have had reliable information on this matter. Some of the surviving fragments of Rudaki’s poetry evidently belong to stories from the Book of Sendbâd, but it is not certain whether he translated the whole of the book in verse (presumably before the date mentioned by Zahiri) since Rudaki is reported to have died in 940, or merely included some of the Sendbâd stories in his version of Kalile and Demne. The late and unreliable author Dowlatshâh claims that the poet Azraqi (who flourished in the third quarter of the 11th century) wrote a version of the Book of Sendbâd, but this is probably wrong.12   8 Ibid., p. 186.   9 Ed. together with a German tr. by F. Baethgen (Leipzig, 1879). The best overall study of the Sendbâd-nâme is still T. Nöldeke’s detailed review of Baethgen’s edition in ZDMG 23 (1879), pp. 513–36. 10 Mich. Andreopuli Liber Syntipae, ed. Victor Jernstedt (St.-Petersburg, 1912). 11 Ed. by A. Ateş (Istanbul, 1948). 12 See F. de Blois, PL v, pp. 93–94.

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The question of whether or not the Book of Sendbâd is really of Indian origin has been hotly debated (notably, but much too narrowmindedly, by the classicist B. E. Perry, who denies such an origin).13 There is no clear Indian parallel for the frame-story, although this does have some striking similarities with the frame-story of the Pañcatantra (in a version not retained by Kalile and Demne). As for the sub-stories, some of these do occur in Indian collections (two are clearly taken from Kalile and Demne and thus probably do not come directly from an Indian source), but most have not been traced to demonstrably early Indian books. The work also contains at least one quotation from an Indian book on state-craft, the Cânakya-nîtiśâstra.14 It would seem on the whole most likely that the Book of Sendbâd, as such, was originally compiled in Sasanid Persia, in the Middle Persian language, and is not a translation of a pre-existing Sanskrit work, but that its author was familiar with Indian narrative and gnomic works, presumably in Middle Persian translations.

4. Belawhar and Budhâsaf The story of Belawhar and Budhâsaf is a Middle Eastern version of the life of the Buddha.15 It was translated into Arabic at an early date, presumably from a Middle-Persian translation of some Indian work, but no trace of the Middle Persian text has survived. Then it was translated from Arabic to Georgian in a superficially Christianized version around the end of the 10th century. The Georgian text is in turn the basis of the Greek story of Barlaam and Joasaph, a very influential work of medieval Christian homiletic literature formerly (but wrongly) attributed to St John of Damascus (8th ­century). 13

Cf. B. E Perry, “The origin of the book of Sindbad,” Fabula 3/1–2 (1959), pp. 1–94. 14 See F. de Blois, “Two sources of the Handarz of Ōšnar,” Iran 31 (1993), pp. 95–97. 15 See E. Kuhn, Barlaam und Joasaph. Eine bibliographisch-­literargeschichtliche Studie (Munich, 1894); D. M. Lang, The wisdom of Balahvar (London, 1957); and D. Gimaret, Le Livre de Bilawhar et Būḏāsf (Paris, 1971).

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Several Arabic versions of Belawhar and Budhâsaf survive, among them the one incorporated by the Shi’ite scholar EbnBâbaveyh, or Bâbuyeh (d. 991) into his Ketâb ekmâl al-din va etmâm al-ne’ma, which version was translated into Persian by a famous Shi’ite author of the Safavid period, Mohammad-Bâqer Majlesi (d. 1699).16 But at a much earlier date (not later than the first half of the 10th century) the story was put into Persian rhymed couplets by an anonymous poet; a small fragment of this, transcribed into Manichaean script, was discovered at Turfan.17 A version of Belawhar and Budhâsaf in Persian prose was made by an author who calls himself “Ali b. Mohammad, known as Nezâm,” doubtless the Timurid historian Nezâm-al-Din Shâmi. The autograph copy of this translation in the British Library is dated 801–3/1398–140118 and describes itself as an abridgement of an earlier translation by Serâj-al-Mella va’l-Din Mohammad b. Mohammad of Ghazne, whom it has not been possible to identify. It is evidently independent of the version used by Ebn-Bâbuyeh.

5. Vis and Râmin The love story of Vis and Râmin is the subject of a long narrative poem by Fakhr-al-Din Gorgâni composed not long after 1050 and dedicated to the governor of Isfahan. In his introduction the poet indicates that it is based on a book put together by six men “in Pahlavi” and which was used by people wishing to learn that language. From 16 Mohammad-Bâqer Majlesi, Eyn al-hayât (Tehran, 1968), pp. 276–341. 17 Text and tr. in W. B. Henning, “Persian poetical manuscripts …,” in A Locust’s Leg (London, 1962), pp. 89–104. See also the same, “Die älteste persische Gedichthandschrift,” in Akten des 24. Intern. Orientalisten-Kongresses (Wiesbaden, 1959), pp. 305–7; and D. Gimaret, Le Livre de Bilawhar et Būḏāsf, pp. 41–42. See now also F. de Blois et al., Dictionary of Manichaean Texts, II, Texts from Iraq and Iran (Turnhout, 2006), pp. 89–91. 18 For this translation and for the identity of the author see D. Gimaret, ibid., pp. 43–47. For the manuscript see also M. I. Waley, The British Library Oriental and India Office Collections: Supplementary Handlist of Persian Manuscripts, 1966–1998, London, 1998, p. 67.

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this it is clear that “Pahlavi” here means Middle Persian, that is, a literary language that one can learn from a book, and not (as it sometimes does in Persian) some non-literary dialect. But it is not quite clear from the text whether this “Pahlavi” book was in verse or prose. The book seems to have had, as Vladimir Minorsky has cogently argued, a Parthian origin19 which must have been rendered into Middle Persian. Whether Fakhr-al-Din in fact knew Middle Persian four centuries after the advent of Islam does not seem likely; yet this is what the poet says. The point has been debated by the editors of the text and the historians of Persian literature.20

6. The Letter of Tansar This letter is a political treatise from Sasanid Persia which became known in the Islamic world through an Arabic translation, probably by Ebn-Moqaffa’, from a lost original in Middle Persian. It was ostensibly written by “Tansar,” most probably a misreading of the Pahlavi script, for Tusar21 (the letters ‘n’ and ‘w’ = ‘u’ are identical in Pahlavi book-script), the chief priest of the first Sasanid king, Ardashir I (ca. 224–240), to Goshtâsp, the king of Tabaristan, encouraging him to submit to Ardashir and, more generally, justifying the Sasanid polity. Brief quotations explicitly from this epistle can be found in the Arabic works of Mas’udi 22 and Biruni, 23 and 19

V. Minorsky, “Vis u Ramin: A Parthian Romance,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, vol. XI. (1943–46), pp. 741–763. 20 See the introductions to the editions of M. Minovi (Tehran 1935), M.-J. Mahjub (Tehran 1959) and Magali A. Todua and Alexander A. Gwakharia (Tehran 1970), and Dh. Safa’s Târikh-e Adabiyyât dar Iran, vol. 2, pp. 370–83; see further Dick Davis, Panthea’s Children: Hellenistic Novels and Medieval Persian Romances (New York, 2002), p. 40 and by the index. 21 Cf. M. Boyce, The Letter of Tansar (Rome, 1968), p. 7. 22 Abu’l-Hasan Ali Mas’udi, Ketâb al-Tanbih va’l-eshrâf, ed. M. J. De Goeje (Leiden, 1893–94), pp. 99–100, quoting “Tansar,” adding however “but some call him Dwsr.” 23 Abu-Reyhân Biruni, Ketâb fi tahqiq mâ le-’l-Hend (Al-Biruni’s India), ed. E. Sachau (London, 1887), p. 53, quoting “the Ketâb Tusar.”

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there is a third incorrectly credited quotation in Ebn-Faqih;24 this is all that survives of the Arabic text. But a complete, if painfully ornate, Persian translation of the letter of “Tansar” was included by the 13th-century author Ebn-Esfandyâr in his Târikh-e Tabarestân, where the underlying Arabic version is expressly attributed to Ebn-Moqaffa’. This attribution is presumably correct, despite the fact that the letter is not listed in any old list of Ebn-Moqaffa’s writings. 25 “Tansar”/Tusar is clearly a historical person, but the text preserved by Ebn-Esfandyâr contains several obvious anachronisms, and it has been suggested that the whole letter is a literary fiction from the late Sasanid period (6th century ce). However, J. Darme­ste­ ter and M. Boyce have both maintained, with plausible arguments, that it does contain a genuine kernel from the time of Ardashir. Boyce has also shown that it contains sub-stories of Indian origin. These examples illustrate the importance of Sasanid literature and of Sasanid translations of Indian literature for the development of poetry and prose in Persian. Although there were translations directly from Middle Persian to Persian (most probably in the case of Vis and Râmin), in most instances these works exerted their influence in Persian through the medium of earlier Arabic translations, though occasionally the information in the Arabic translations seems to have been supplemented by material supplied by Zoroastrian scholars from Middle Persian books.

24 For this passage see F. de Blois, “The ‘four great kingdoms’ in the Mani­ chaean Kephalaia,” in Orbis Aethiopicus (Albstadt, 1992), pp. 221–30. 25 The Persian text was first published, with a French translation, by J. Darme­ steter in JA série 9, tome 3 (1894), pp. 185–250, 502–55, then republished from a better manuscript by M. Minovi (Nâme-ye Tansar, Tehran, 1932), and again by Abbâs Eqbâl-Âshtiyâni in his edition of the whole of EbnEsfandyâr’s history (Tehran, 1942, pp. 12–41) and tr. with an introd. and valuable notes, by M. Boyce, The Letter of Tansar (Rome, 1968). See also by the same, “The Indian fables in the Letter of Tansar,” Asia Major 5 (1956), pp. 50–58.

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Chapter 12 Hellenistic Influences in Classical Persian Literature1 C. van Ruymbeke The study of the adoption of Hellenistic cultural elements within classical Persian literature is a challenging subject that has not yet received the comprehensive treatment it deserves. In the course of their studies of individual poets and writers, or of separate aspects of Persian literature, numerous scholars have touched upon the subject without, however, concentrating their full attention upon it. Amongst others, A. Schimmel studied the imagery in Persian literature, especially in the works of Rumi (1207–73), and she mentions several separate examples for the influence of Hellenism in Persian literature. J. C. Bürgel, for his part, has tackled another branch of this vast question in his studies of Greek-Islamic philosophy, Greek wisdom, and magical sciences, particularly as used in Nezâmi of Ganje’s Eskandar-nâme.2 These two diverging approaches, amongst others, illustrate the vastness of the question. The surface influences such as the use of Greek names, Greek vocabulary, the presentation of Greek characters, the loan of Greek themes and stories or of scientific elements indebted to the 1 I wish to thank both Professors J. C. Bürgel and E. Yarshater, to whose input this article owes a lot. The responsibility for the choice of the aspects mentioned and, evidently, for any error rests with me alone. 2 See, e.g., A. Schimmel, The Triumphal Sun (The Hague, 1978), for ex. p. 211; idem, A Two-Colored Brocade (Chapel Hill and London, 1992), pp. 108–122; J. C. Bürgel, The Feather of the Simurgh (New York and London, 1988), for ex. pp. 36–37 and 40–41; Nezâmi of Ganja, Das Alexanderbuch. Iskandarname, tr. J. C. Bürgel (Zürich, 1991), especially the second part, the Eqbâl-nâme.

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Greek-Hellenistic heritage, are easy to apprehend. An analysis of the development of these influences would probably yield the hardly surprising conclusion that Persian poetry evolved in the direction of increasing abstraction. The tendency is towards gradually robbing the images of their original meanings and roots, diluting them within the general adab varnish necessary to write or understand medieval Persian prose and verse. Other aspects of the question of Greek influences are harder to analyze, though they are weightier; we have formulated them here as two questions: 1) did Greek rhetorical and poetical theories and usages influence Persian literature? And 2) how far did Greek philosophy and logic penetrate Islamic philosophy and Sufism, and thus color Persian literature? The scope of this study allows no aspirations towards exhaustive source hunting, nor expansive treatment of the subject matter. Accordingly, the present chapter proposes only a brief presentation of the above-mentioned “surface influences,” and a very general attempt at answering the weightier questions. A limited number of examples illustrate the global view of the main domains of Hellenistic influences in Persian literature, with a marked emphasis on Persian poetry. It is important first to define what is understood here by Greek/ Hellenistic elements and by classical Persian literature. By the first are meant scientific, philosophical, historical, or any other cultural elements, which originated in the Greek, Hellenistic or even Hellenized Roman worlds—what is termed, more generally speaking, as “Classical Antiquity.” (In the course of this chapter, no difference is intended between the use of “Greek” and “Hellenistic.”) The second can be defined as the literature written in the Islamic Iranian lands beginning in the 9th century, and continuing to the end of the 19th century, evolving very slowly with its main characteristics and formal and rhetorical features remaining fairly constant. A ­prerequisite to the understanding of the penetration of foreign influences on this literature is the awareness of the intermediary position of Arabic literature and Islamic philosophy. We cannot consider the formation of Persian literature, and a good portion of its themes, in isolation from the Arabic ones. Even though the 346

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two traditions went independent ways, it is safe to state that, at first, most Persian literary theories, and many of its literary themes, were adopted from, or influenced by, Arabic.3 Contacts between the Greek and Persian cultures date back a long way in history and took several forms. There are evident historical moments of meeting and of political and cultural interchange between the two neighboring civilizations, such as the Persian rule over Ionian cities, Darius’ and Xerxes’ failed attempts at invading Greece (490–480 bce), the overthrow of the Achaemenid Empire by Alexander the Great (356–323 bce), the decision by the Sasanid Shâpur I (r. 241–47) to settle Greek and Roman war prisoners in Jondishâpur, or the reception by Khosrow I Anushiravân (r. 531–79) of the Greek Neoplatonic school exiled from Athens. What is harder to gauge is the ancestral similarity between these two Indo-European civilizations, the Greek and the Persian. Common Indo-European characteristics form the basis on which each built its own culture while receiving external influences. Furthermore, the influence of the Iranian culture on its Greek neighbor ought also to be considered,4 as in the case of romances and popular epics (see below). When confronted with similarities between, for example, the general spirit of Persian and Greek wisdom literatures or the strength of feminine characters in both Hellenistic and Persian romances, one must be aware that resemblance or identity does not necessarily mean derivation of one from the other. And one must examine, as far as possible, whether such resemblances derive from a common Indo-European heritage or are the fruit of a conscious or unconscious adoption or adaptation process. The Arab-Muslim conquest of Persia in the 7th century deeply disrupted the Persian civilization. While the impact of Islam and its related elements are fairly clear, the purely Arab influence on Persian civilization is more difficult to fathom. The early Islamic civilization, which came into being as a combination of ­contributions from the Arabs and their conquered peoples, was for a good part

3 See chapters 5, 6, and 13 in this volume. 4 See M. Miller, “Greco-Persian Cultural Relations,” in EIr, vol. XI, pp. 301–19.

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influenced by the Hellenistic culture which was already present in the Middle East. Some of the conquered lands—such as Syria, a Byzantine domain, Egypt, which had been governed by the descendants of Ptolemy, and many cities of northern Iraq, such as Nisibis and Hatra that had been a bone of contention between Byzantines and Sasanid Persians—were all steeped in, or familiar with, Hellenistic culture. Even in Persia, whose Sasanid dynasty pursued a Zoroastrian national and anti-Hellenistic policy, traces of Hellenism inherited from the Seleucid and Parthian times remained.5 The Islamic civilization, which began to take shape under the Umayyads, was in full bloom in the 9th century under the Abbasid caliphs before the Persian language was seriously committed to paper, and the classical Persian literature began in the same century. These developments should be kept in mind even though the more palpable and more evident Greek influence began with the translation of Greek scientific and philosophical works via Syriac. Although such translations began even before the Abbasids came to power, they gathered momentum during the early Abbasid period, particularly under Ma’mun (r. 813–33) who founded in 830 the Bayt al-Hekma (House of Wisdom), an institution dedicated to the translation of scientific and philosophical works, and to the propagation of Mu’tazilite theology. Later caliphs, more particularly Motavakkel (r. 847–61), continued to sponsor this momentous translation movement in which the Persian world, through its scientists, was directly involved. Greek philosophical and scientific works by such figures as Aristotle (d. 322 bce), Ptolemy (fl. 2nd century), Euclid (fl. ca. 300 bce), Hippocrates (d. ca. 375 bce), or Galen (d. ca. 220)6 were now available to the Arabic-speaking community and the thesaurus of classical and Hellenistic science and philosophy was adopted (though not of Greek belles lettres). 5 See D. Schlumberger, “Parthian Art,” in CHI 3/2, pp. 1027–54. 6 See D. Gutas, Greek thought, Arabic culture. The Graeco-Arabic Translation Movement in Baghdad and Early ‘Abbasid Society (London and New York, 1998), passim; M. Ullmann, Islamic medicine, Islamic Surveys 11, (Edinburgh 1978), pp. 8–14 and 30–31; De Lacy O’Leary, How Greek science passed to the Arabs (reprint, 1951), pp. 155–75.

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Melted together with other influences, amongst which the Arab, Persian, and Indian were prominent, they formed what is considered “the Classical Islamic Arabo-Persian culture.” As shown by D. Gutas, the ideology of the early Islamic society, around the 9th century, was not yet strong enough to influence the society concerning a uniform adoption or rejection of the massive Greek elements that were invading Islamic science and philosophy.7 These played a prominent and pervasive role as they colored part of the Islamic thought, dialectics, and methods, even those of the declared opponents of Greek philosophy. A case in point is AbuHâmed Mohammad Ghazâli’s (d. 1111) criticism of the Hellenizing philosophers, while his argumentation makes use of the very logic and rational dialectics that he condemns.8 The well-known statement of the philosopher Kendi (d. ca. 866) illustrates the positive attitude towards Greek thought: We ought not to be ashamed of appreciating the truth and of acquiring it wherever it comes from, even if it comes from races distant and notions different from us. For the seeker of truth, nothing takes precedence over the truth, and there is no disparagement of the truth, no belittling either of him who speaks it or of him who conveys it.9

Whatever the conscious reaction towards this Hellenistic influence, it may be concluded that the heritage of Classical Antiquity was merged with Islam, and participated in giving it an intellectual direction. There exists amongst some scholars a radical point of view which, denying the influence of Persian, Indian, and Central Asian elements, recognizes only Greek influences on the greatest part (or the totality) of Islamic intellectual life: Islamic rational scholarship, which we have mainly in mind when we speak of the greatness of Muslim civilization, depends in its entirety on classical antiquity, down to such fundamental factors as the

7 D. Gutas, Greek thought, pp. 158–59. 8 H. Corbin, Histoire de la Philosophie islamique (Paris, 1986), p. 257, analysing Ghazâli’s Tahâfot al-falâsefa (The incoherence of the philosophers). 9 Cited by D. Gutas, Greek thought, pp. 158–59, from Kendi, Metaphysics, tr. A. L. Ivry (Albany, 1974), p. 58.

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General Introduction to Persian Literature e­ lementary principles of scholarly and scientific research. More than that, the intellectual life of Islam in its most intimate expressions bowed to the Greek spirit.10

This is directly opposed to other scholars who deny the presence of Greek elements as such, and favor the image of a strong Islamic culture absorbing and transforming foreign influences, amongst them the Hellenistic. These authors rather emphasize the fact that it is actually the Islamic culture that had a great influence upon late Medieval Western science when treatises in Arabic were translated into Latin.11

1. Surface Traces of Hellenistic Influences Greek Vocabulary in Persian Literature When the Syriac and Arabic translators of Greek scientific works failed to find Arabic equivalents for some Greek terms, or simply were not familiar with what was meant in the original text, they used transliterations of them. These transliterated and sometimes odd sounding words were taken over in Persian scientific works or translations, and were in turn often borrowed in Persian belleslettres. Persian dictionaries contain difficult words of identifiable Greek origin which were used by the classical poets. We may mention but three examples that occur in a qaside by Khâqâni (d. 1199)12: ostorlâb ‘astrolabe’, âbnus ‘ebony’, and arghanun ‘musical instrument’ [of Venus]. To name but a few categories in which Greek loanwords in medieval Persian are present: anthroponyms (e.g., aflâtun for Plato), biblionyms (e.g., urganun for Aristotle’s Organon), alchemical terms (e.g., kimia from khumeia, alchemy), to religion (e.g., eblis from diabolos, the Devil), to units of currency 10 F. Rosenthal, The Classical Heritage in Islam (London, 1975), p. 13. 11 S. H. Nasr, Science and Civilisation in Islam (Cambridge, 1987). 12 Khâqâni, Divân, ed. S. Sajjâdî (reprint Tehran, 1994), pp. 127–29 (with the radif “namâyad”), ll. 48, 52, 21.

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(e.g., derham from drakhme), and general terms (e.g., qalam from kalamos, reed).13 The use of Greek vocabulary reflecting the veneer of high culture reaches a climax in the Saljuq period, when poets draw on various scientific disciplines to enrich and embellish their prose and poetry, and enhance their similes and metaphors. With these writers, such as the poets Khâqâni and Nezâmi of Ganje, the use of precise terms borrowed from the Greek scientific realm must have been conscious, and felt as poetic refinement and reflection of a high culture. This phenomenon must be distinguished from Rumi’s use, almost a century later, of everyday Greek vocabulary, which is the result of his living in Konya where he was in touch with a Greek population, and not the Greek influence on Persian letters. In a ghazal of the Divân-e Shams, he even addresses his friend with the radif of âghâ pûs(i), ‘beloved’ (Greek agapos).14 Another example is the anecdote cited in the Mathnavi-ye ma’navi, illustrating the unnecessary fuss made over different names given to similar (religious or mystical) concepts. It presents four persons (a Persian, an Arab, a Turk, and a Greek) who ask for grape in their respective languages (angur, enab, üzüm and estâfil) and do not realize that they are talking about the same thing.15

Greek Names in Persian Literature Greek names taken from history, mythology or science—but rarely from the Greek epic, lyric or dramatic poetry, which were left untranslated in the Muslim world—are present in moral, epic, lyric, mystical, romantic, and scientific medieval Persian literature. Scientific authors make a point of mentioning their sources and in such cases the attributions are mostly trustworthy or, at 13 See L. Richter-Bernburg, “Greece. xiv Greek loanwords in medieval New Persian,” in EIr. 14 Rumi, Kolliyât-e Shams, nr. 2542, cited in A. Schimmel, I am wind, you are fire (Boston and London, 1996), p. 45. 15 Rumi, Mathnavi-ye Ma’navi, II, lines 3681–85.

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least, made in good faith. A similar attitude sometimes occurs in literature as, for example, in the fourth discourse of NezâmiAruzi’s Chahâr Maqâle (composed ca. 1156) concerning medicine. The author is well-informed about the works of Greek authors such as Aristotle (Arestâtâlis), Hippocrates (Boqrât), and Galen (Jâlinus).16 The knowledge was not exceptional, as we see that Ebn-Nadim (d. ca. 991), in his Fehrest, had given a comprehensive account of the biographies of famous Greek philosophers and scholars, and had listed the Greek works that were known to the early Islamic world.17 In many cases, however, especially in moral and mystical literature, we are faced with pseudepigrapha. The frequent use of Greek names, especially Plato, Aristotle, and Alexander, as authors of well known wise sayings are attempts, not to identify the source of the texts, but to redeem the authors from “the sin of invention,” to show their worth and encourage their preservation, transmission, and future use. Famous Arabic, Persian or Christian names are treated in a similar manner. An example is the concluding chapter of the Akhlâq-e Nâseri of Nasir-al-Din of Tus (d. 1274), containing “testaments attributable to Plato,”18 though it is in fact a Persian translation of Meskawayh (d. 1030).19 The attribution to Plato shows how important it was for Nasir-al-Din to invoke a Greek authority at the conclusion of a literary work that owed a good deal to the Hellenistic tradition through Arabic intermediaries. The twenty-second discourse of the poem Elâhi-nâme by Faridal-Din Attâr (d. ca. 1220) presents an example of the use of Greek characters, unrelated to their actual life or work, as representatives

16

Nezâmi-Aruzi, Chahâr Maqâle, ed. M. Qazwini and M. Mo’in (Tehran, 1955–57), pp. 106–34; tr. by. E. G. Browne (reprint London, 1978), pp. 110–11. 17 Ebn-Nadim, The Fihrist of Ibn al-Nadîm, tr. B. Dodge (New York and London, 1970). 18 Nasir-al-Din Tusi, Akhlâq-e Nâseri (Lahore, 1952), pp. 346–49; tr. G. Wic­ kens (London, 1964), pp. 258–60. 19 C. H. de Fouchecour, Moralia (Paris, 1986), p. 81, citing from Meskawayh’s al-Hekmat al-khâleda.

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of a non-Islamic spiritual attitude. 20 Plato, having discovered the alchemical elixir to make gold, lost interest in the precious metal, and set out to discover the elixir of his own essence. He retired for a thousand years, found the divine secrets, and lost sense of both temperature and hunger. “His nature was kept in equilibrium. Nothing happened to alter the humors.” When Aristotle and Alexander visited him they found him with a heart full of anxiety, refusing talk, food or sleep, and preferring solitude to their company. Attâr gave his anecdote a Hellenistic flavor in order to illustrate how worthless this non-Islamic knowledge is that does not lead to a spiritual transformation. A similar opposition between types of knowledge is to be found in Nezâmi’s story of Beshr and Malikhâ in his Haft Peykar 21 as well as in a passage by Nâser-e Khosrow, which we will mention later. 22 It may be safe to say that, as a rule, the Persian authors display both a poor knowledge of the actual lives of their Greek characters, and a casual disregard for chronology. In the Eqbâl-nâme, Nezâmi gathers seven sages around Alexander, though their respective dates make such a gathering impossible: Aristotle, Socrates, Plato, Hermes Trismegistus, Appolonius, Porphyry, and Thales. Similarly, it did not bother Hâfez (d. 1388) that it was not, as he has it, Plato who lived in a barrel, but Diogenes, a Greek sage. 23 As is the case with many other elements in Persian poetry, and although trustworthy biographies and information about these Greek characters were available in medieval Islam, their names tend to become set images. Alexander’s failure to find the water of life became a topos, as did a poet’s boast of superiority over Plato’s or his having greater knowledge than Alexander. 24 These are then 20 Attâr, The Ilāhī-nāma or Book of God, tr. J. A. Boyle (Manchester, 1976), pp. 323–25. 21 Nezâmi Ganjavi, Haft Peykar, eds. H. Ritter and J. Rypka (Prague, 1934), pp. 164–78; English tr. J. S. Meisami (Oxford, 1995), pp. 145–58. 22 See below, n. 66. 23 Hâfez, Divân, ed. P. N. Khânlari, ghazal nr. 256, l. 5.; cf. A. Schimmel, A Two-Colored Brocade, p. 121. 24 Anvari, Divân, I, ed. M.-T. Modarres-e Razavi (reprint Tehran, 1993), qaside nr. 85, l. 42; cf. A. Schimmel, A Two-Colored Brocade, pp. 121 and 365, n. 59.

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constantly repeated or turned into ever stronger hyperboles. For example, Rumi likens love to Galen and Plato as it can cure all ailments. 25 For Jâmi (1414–92), on the contrary, “Galen has no power over the lovesick person!”26 Although we have mentioned the absence of direct influences from classical literary works into Islamic Arabic and Persian belles lettres, an isolated example is provided by Onsori’s (d. 1039) romance Wâmeq o Adhrâ, of which only fragments have been preserved. The story and the characters go back to a known Greek original, identified by B. Utas and T. Hägg as the Parthenope Romance. 27 Many proper names and toponyms are mirror translations from the Greek. However, the romance’s way into Persian literature still remains shrouded in mystery. D. Davis has continued the study of the origins of Persian romances and conjectures that other stories, such as Varaqe o Golshâh, and possibly also Vis o Râmin, which also show a Greek influence, might actually have originated in Persia, from where they passed to Greek-speaking regions, to later return and influence Persian authors. 28

Greek Characters: The Figure of Alexander the Great Alexander (Eskandar or Sekandar in Persian) is certainly the historical character from Hellenistic antiquity who received the most interesting and prominent development in early Arabic and Persian works. By a remarkable adoption process, and after some tampering with historical facts, Eskandar is presented as the half-brother of the last Achaemenid king, Dârâ, and thus continues the Persian royal lineage. He forms with Aristotle a couple consisting of 25 Cited without a reference in A. Schimmel, A Two-Colored Brocade, p. 121. 26 Jâmi, Divân-e Kâmel, ed. H. Rezâ (Tehran, 1962), p. 153, nr. 54, l. 4; cf. A. Schimmel, A Two-Colored Brocade, p. 121. 27 See the reconstruction of the Greek and the Persian texts in T. Hägg and B. Utas, The Virgin and her Lover (Leiden, 2003). See also D. Davis. “Greece. iv Greek and Persian Romances,” EIr, vol. XI, pp. 339–42. 28 See D. Davis, Panthea’s Children: Hellenistic Novels and Medieval Persian Romances (New York, 2002).

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a king and a counselor, paralleling Khosrow Anushiravân and Bozorgmehr. Different currents helped to form Alexander’s character in medieval Persian culture: the hate for the historical Alexander who deeply offended the Zoroastrian religious establishment, the Christian and Jewish traditions about Alexander’s being invested with an apocalyptic mission, and finally the Greek historical tradition. 29 The literary fiction of Aristotle’s wise advice to Alexander, known in Islam through their Arabic version in the pseudo-Aristotelian Serr al-Asrâr (The secret of secrets), goes back to the Alexander Romance composed between ca. 300 bce and the 1st century ce, supposedly by a Hellenized Egyptian, who is known as Pseudo-Callisthenes. This author merged three so-called letters of Alexander to his mother with a correspondence between Alexander and Aristotle.30 Eskandar has also been identified with the (or one of the) prophet(s) Dhu’l-Qarneyn, mentioned in the Qur’an (Sura XVIII: 83–98). When poets such as Ferdowsi (d. ca. 1020), Nezâmi, Amir Khosrow of Delhi (1253–1324), and Jâmi made him the hero of their epics, they synthesized the several facets of his personality. Following a tradition already present in the anonymous 10th century prose Eskandar-nâme, Nezami shifted the emphasis of Alexander’s career from conqueror to philosopher to prophet, thus giving discussions between Alexander and Greek thinkers on philosophical and moral questions an all important place in the second part of his Eskandar-nâme. The numerous Greek names and Greek-related adventures in popular Persian epics, such as Tarsusi’s 12th century Dârâb-nâme,31 29 An analysis of the anonymous prose Eskandar-nâme shows that, surprisingly, very few of its elements were inherited from the Greek cycle of stories on Alexander. See E. Venetis, The Iskandarnama: An analysis of an anonymous Medieval Persian Prose Romance, unpublished PhD Thesis, University of Edinburgh, 2006. 30 See C. H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, pp. 69–81; J. S. Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry (1987), p. 200, n. 28. 31 Tarsusi, Dârâb-nâme, ed. by Dh. Safâ, 2 vols., (Tehran, 1965–67); M. Gaillard, Tarsusi. Alexandre le Grand en Iran (Paris, 2005) and W. Hanaway, Persian Popular Romances before the Safavid Period, PhD dissertation, Columbia University, New York, 1970.

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show the centuries old influence of Byzantium on Iran. The presence of the terms Rum and Rumi in Persian poetry also reflect the contacts between the Byzantine and the Persian Empires.

2. Borrowed Greek Themes The loan of Greek themes is another domain in which Hellenistic influences are readily discernible. Only four examples are mentioned here.

Greek Love Theories A number of Greek concepts are found in the Islamic and Persian representations of love. The theme of passionate love, and its acute stage, lovesickness, a disease that enduringly disturbs the delicate natural balance of body and soul and leads to madness or physical death, are traceable to Greek thought. The symptoms of lovesickness were detailed in Arabic scientific medical treatises and adopted by Persian poets as a favorite topic, especially as this worldly love mirrored the mystical love of the Sufi (see below).32 Savâneh, a treatise on love by Ahmad Ghazâli (d. 1126), cites numerous Greek thinkers on the subject.33 A celebrated anecdote in Persian literature tells how a physician cured a love-struck prince who refused to disclose the nature of his malady, by feeling his pulse as the name of his beloved is uttered. The cure proposed is marriage. This story is retold by several authors, as e.g., in Nezâmi-Aruzi’s Chahâr Maqâle, on the authority of Avicenna (d. 1037),34 and in the first tale of Rumi’s 32 A. Schimmel, A Two-Colored Brocade, p. 265; see also J. C. Bürgel, “Liebes­ theorien” (1990), p. 482. 33 Ahmad Ghazzâli, Savâneh, ed. H. Ritter (Istanbul, 1942); English tr. N. Pourjavady (Tehran, 1986). 34 Nezâmi-Aruzi, Chahâr Maqâle, pp. 113–14; English tr. E. G. Browne, pp. 121–24.

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Mathnavi.35 The same anecdote, but with an additional didactic lesson to the king and father of the lovesick prince, is found in Jâmi’s Kherad-nâme-ye Eskandari as part of “the philosophical letter by Hippocrates.”36 Furthermore, the relation between scientific literature and the belles lettres is illustrated in this case, as these literary instances parallel an account given in the medical thesaurus Dhakhire-ye Khwârazmshâhi of Jorjâni (d. circa. 1136).37 Islamic philosophy adopted another Greek idea on love mentioned in Plato’s Symposion, namely the theory of the affinity of the souls. It purports that human beings are created as spherical forms and then cut into two halves, each forming a separate body. When these two bodies meet, their souls recognize each other because of their original unity and a love craving for reunion is aroused. According to H. Corbin, the story of the man between the two women in Avicenna’s Salâmân and Absâl symbolizes the Platonic splitting of the souls.38 A. Schimmel further recognizes in the frequent image of the kiss, conceived as an exchange of souls, a common theme in classical Antiquity. She cites as an example a line from a ghazal of Attâr : “And if you say ‘I’ll give you my soul via my lip’ / it is with this very hope that my soul came onto my lip.”39 A number of Greek themes on love are also present in Persian poetry, among them the love of boys and male youths which pervades Persian lyric poetry; Plato’s idea that love is a divine mania to be neither praised nor blamed; and the Neoplatonic idea of love as a cosmic force. Odhrite love motives combine in Persian ghazals with Neoplatonic mystical representations to form a love religion crystallized around the person of the beloved.40 35 Rumi, Mathnavi-ye Ma’navi, I, pp. 5–8. 36 Jâmi, Mathnavi-ye Haft Owrang II (Tehran, 1999), pp. 461–65; cf. J. C. Bürgel, “Some medical passages.” 37 Cited in Nezâmi-Aruzi, Chahâr Maqâle, tr. E. G. Browne, p. 122. 38 H. Corbin, Avicenne et le récit visionnaire I (Tehran and Paris, 1952–54), pp. 269–79; cf. J. C. Bürgel, “Liebestheorien” in W. Heinrichs, ed., Neues Handbuch der Literaturwissenschaft 5 (Wiesbaden, 1990), p. 489. 39 Cited in A. Schimmel, A Two-Colored Brocade, p. 348, n. 130. 40 A. A. Seyed-Gohrab, Laylī and Majnūn (Leiden, 2003), pp. 5–6; J. C. Bürgel, “Liebestheorien,” p. 488.

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Wisdom Literature Wisdom literatures stem from universal moral reflexes and reflection. Persian wisdom literature is part of the huge body of such literatures compiled in the ancient and medieval worlds and was understood as such. At the end of his study of Persian, Indian, Arabic, and Greek wisdoms, Meskawayh remarks that although people are different, wisdom is the same for all.41 Pseudepigrapha flourished, making it almost impossible to distinguish a saying attributed to Plato, for example, from others attributed to Anushiravân or Ali, who are meant to represent ancient Persian and early Islamic wisdom, respectively.42 Sa’di’s (d. ca. 1292) moral views, which represent the summit of Persian wisdom literature—a summit which had been building up over centuries, reflect a syncretism of all the direct or indirect influences to which he had been subjected, notably elements taken from Aristotle and Plato, Neoplatonism, Stoicism, Hermetism, and historical knowledge found in the biographies of prophets and saints as well as pre-Islamic kings. A striking example of this common tradition is the ethical message contained in political theories. A virtuous governor was thought to produce a virtuous society, the aim of all politics and all laws being “to accomplish what is good,” as it is stated by Aristotle.43 The ethical contents of a great number of Persian works in prose and poetry show the wide dispersal of this fundamental idea, common to Iranian and Greek thought.

Historiography Because of the fact that Sasanid historiography, culled from Arabo­Persian histories and the Shahname, mentions neither the Medes 41 See above n. 17. 42 C. H. de Fouchecour, Moralia, p. 21. 43 On Greek influences on Islamic law, see E. J. Rosenthal, Political thought in Medieval Islam (Cambridge, 1958; corrected reprint. 1968); C. H. de Fouchécour, Moralia, p. 361, citing from Aristotle’s Politics.

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nor the Achaemenids, it appears that Sasanid historians did not consult Greek sources, to which these dynasties were known, but were rather influenced by the Zoroastrian tradition, which ignores these. It is also difficult to argue that Greek historiography particularly influenced the Persian historiographers during the medieval period. However, some punctual cases of puzzling similarity may probably be related to direct influences, as in the following episode in Ferdowsi’s Shahname, a work which bridges Persian historiography proper and Persian belles-lettres. Though it may not indicate a direct influence of the Greek historian on Ferdowsi, and might well simply be the result of common lore, the similarity between the story of Heracles’ meeting with a viper-maiden, as recounted by Herodotus in the 4th Book of his Histories, and the episode in the Shahname of the meeting between Rostam and Tahmine is striking.44 Furthermore, as J. Mohl suggested, Ferdowsi must have used translated Greek data on Alexander.45 Ferdowsi’s view of the universe has also been described as that of an “entirely pessimistic and implacable fate” and the sister of the view that dominates Greek tragedy.46

The Influence of Greek Science on Persian Poetry The Pythagorean theory of numbers, Ptolemy’s cosmology and astronomy, Empedocles’ four elements, and Hippocrates’ four humors, are examples of Greek scientific concepts that were adopted in Islamic science and adab, and also in Persian writings. A particularly favorite form of the figure of speech “harmony of imagery” (tanâsob) consists in mentioning together two or all four elements 44 See Dj. Khaleghi-Motlagh, Die Frauen im Schahname (Freiburg, 1971), pp. 48–52. 45 Ferdowsi, Le Livre des Rois, tr. J. Mohl (Paris, 1876), Preface, lvii. See also M. Bahar, Asâtir-e Iran, (Tehran, 1973), pp. 61–65, who has found a parallel to the battle of Rostam and Esfandiar, and the battle of Achilles and Hector, and therefore a Greek influence. 46 Cl. Huart – [H. Massé], EI2 s.v. Firdawsī. 

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(earth, wind, fire, and water) inherited from the Greek. Examples of this case of tanâsob abound. Astronomical concepts of Mesopotamian and also of later Hellenistic origin have been adopted in the curriculum of the educated. In a complicated work such as Nezâmi’s Haft Peykar, the author is heavily indebted, amongst others, to the heritage of Ptolemy and Pythagoras, probably through the intermediary of the Treatises of the Ekhvân al-Safâ’ (10th century), who endeavored to blend religious Islamic traditions with Greek philosophy and natural science. The relationship between the seven continents (keshvars) of the world, the seven planets, the seven days of the week, and the seven colours of the pavilions of Bahrâm Gur’s palace goes back to Greek macrocosmic theories.47 The 12th century poets, such as Khâqâni and Nezâmi, make abundant use of scientific imagery and vocabulary. Medicine and pharmacology represent another branch of science that is constantly referred to by these “learned poets.” The theory of the humors is among the Greek ideas that had a weighty impact on Islamic medicine and pharmacology, which was developed into a sophisticated system by the Roman physician Galen (ca. 129–200).48 For example, Attâr refers to the Galenic theory in the anecdote on Plato in his Elâhi-nâme cited above. The following passage in Nezâmi’s Khosrow o Shirin contains a reference to Galen’s theory of the humors: Don’t be melancholic (i.e. produce black bile) because Shirin is cross; one should not expect anything from sweet substances (shirini) except anger (i.e., the effect of yellow bile). Don’t be unhappy because of the heated temper of Shirin; sweet substances are necessarily warm.49

47

G. Krotkoff, “Colour and number in the Haft Paykar,” in R. M. Savory and D. A. Agius, Logos Islamikos (Toronto, 1984), pp. 97–118. Cf. Nezâmi, Haft Peykar. English tr. J. S. Meisami, p. xv; German tr. J.C. Bürgel, p. 382. 48 See, e.g., S. H. Nasr, Science and civilization in Islam, pp. 219–29. 49 Nezâmi, Kolliyyât, ed. Vahid Dastgerdi (reprint Tehran, 1993): Khosrow o Shirin, I, p. 77, ll. 28–29.

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While punning in a rather straightforward manner on the name of the heroine and its other meanings such as sweetness and sweets, the poet also refers both to the warming property produced by sweet foods, and to the opposition between black bile and yellow bile and their action on a person’s temperament, which is similar to information found in Galen.50 Occult sciences are another branch of Greek learning that deserves to be studied in relation to Persian poetry. Mention should be made of the “ring of Gyges,”51 a theme from Plato’s Republic which found its way into the Treatises of the Ekhvân al-Safâ’ and was transformed in Nezâmi’s Eqbâl-nâme into the story of the shepherd succumbing to the temptation of magic and destructive powers.52

The Possible Greek Influence on Rhetorical Theory  and Poetical Practice This question covers two levels in Persian literature: practical theory, and the study of the foundations of rhetorical and poetical ideas. As to the first, it is remarkable that in spite of the great variety of Greek works translated into Arabic, hardly any Greek belles lettres were included. Homer might have been known to Syriac and Arabic translators, but the Homeric citations found in Arabic works are second-hand: translations of citations found in the works of Aristotle and the Pseudo-Plutarch.53 In the eyes of the Muslims, Homer’s value lay in his wisdom and learning—he was known as a physician and an alchemist, not a poet. However, Greek works 50 Galen, On Food and Diet, tr. M. Grant (London and New York, 2000), p. 17, on the humors and p. 188, on the powers of food. 51 Gyges was a king of Lydia who murdered his predecessor and was killed in a Cimmerian invasion. 52 See J. C. Bürgel, “Conquérant, Philosophe et Prophète,” in C. Balaÿ et al., eds., Pand-o Sokhan (Tehran, 1995), p. 71. 53 T. Fahd, “La traduction arabe de l’Iliade,” in B. S. Amoretti, ed., Yâd-nâma (Rome, 1991), pp. 363–70; D. Gutas, Greek thought, p. 194.

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belonging to popular and wisdom literature were translated into Arabic. Two classical treatises on literary theory were translated into Arabic: Aristotle’s Rhetoric and Poetics, though they were transformed considerably in the Syriac and Arabic translations and commentaries.54 Authors like Fârâbi, Ebn-Sinâ, and Bar Hebraeus commented upon these works, but the interest for them remained within the circle of the philosophers.55 At any rate, they seem not to have had a direct impact on Arabic or Persian literary theories. Aristotle treats the technical aspect of rhetorical figures only in passing and in a manner quite different from that of the Arabs. One must, however, mention the isolated attempt by Hâzim al­Qartâjanni (d. 1256) to use the philosophical Poetics as a basis for the Arabic poetical definitions.56 In a more general way, a good number of the equivalents of Arabic and Persian figures of speech are found in manuals of classical rhetoric, e.g., metaphor (este’âre), hyperbole (mobâleghe), homonymy (tajnis).57 Aristotle’s work had an impact on the thoughts in the Persian world about the condition and the mission of poets and writers. There is, for example, a possible affiliation between Aristotle’s definition of rhetoric and that of poetry by Nezâmi-Aruzi. Both authors insist on the necessity for a poet or rhetorician to be of an “honest nature.” However, they also recognize that good rhetoric is little concerned with truth when one tries to convince an audience of either a fact or its opposite.58 In his Poetics, Aristotle also 54 See the mention of both works and their translations in Ebn-Nadîm, The Fihrist, pp. 598 and 601–2. 55 O J. Schrier, “The Syriac and Arabic versions of Aristotle’s Poetics,” in G. Endress and R. Kruk, eds., The Ancient Tradition in Christian and Islamic Hellenism (Leiden, 1997), pp. 253, 261 and 268. 56 W. Heinrichs, Arabische Dichtung and Griechische Poetik (Beirut, 1969). 57 Abd-al-Qâher Jorjâni, Asrâr-al-balâgha, ed. H. Ritter (Istanbul, 1954), Introduction p. 4. 58 B. Utas, “The Aesthetic use of New Persian,” Edebiyât 9 (1998), p. 3, who notes that this is not unique in Persian poetics, citing Nezâmi-Aruzi; see also Aristotle, Rhétorique, tr. M. Dufour (Saint-Amand, 1991), pp. 20, and 22–23.

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mentions, as does Nezâmi-Aruzi, the poet’s power to arouse the emotions of his audience.59 Another similarity between the Greek and Persian understanding of the poet’s role is the representation of the poet as a moral preceptor. This is prominent in panegyrics where the poet usually takes the opportunity to stress models of ideal kingship, or else he discourses on ethical conduct, as Sa’di often does in his qasides. As J. S. Meisami remarks, the efficacy of the poetry of praise [according to Plato] depends on its ability to arouse ‘emulation’ or ‘imitation’. The incentive that it offers is the prospect of immortality through verse … The idea that poets are the special custodians of fame is repeated by Horace, Cicero, and a host of other classical writers.60

Thus, it is usually accepted that Greek influences on Persian poetical and rhetorical theories were minimal, though elements of the moral attitudes of the poets of antiquity and the Persian poets bear similarities to each other. Very few Greek technical elements are recognized as incorporated directly into Arabic poetical theory. But one might wonder whether or not a direct or—more probably—indirect Hellenistic influence (next to the Indian influence, considering the striking resemblances between the Arabic rhetorics of Khalil b. Ahmad and Sanskrit poetics) can be recognized in the abundant rhetorical figures of literary Arabic which characterized the “new style” (badi’) of the Abbasid period. However, there is no doubt that the Mo’tazelites, who flourished in the early Abbasid period, especially under the caliph Ma’mun, had enriched their stores of arguments with dialectics discovered in the study of Hellenistic philosophy.61

59 Aristotle, The Poetics of Aristotle, tr. S. Halliwell (London, 1987), e.g., pp. 45–46; Nezâmi-Aruzi, Chahâr Maqâle, pp. 42–44; English tr., pp. 42–43; French tr., p. 60. 60 J. S. Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry (Princeton, 1986), pp. 44–45, citing from O. B. Hardison Jr., The Enduring Monument, p. 27. 61 S. P. Stetkevych, Abū Tammām and the Poetics of the ‘Abbāsid Age (Leiden, 1991), pp. 5–37; see also Abd-al-Qâher Jorjâni, Asrâr-al-balâgha, p. 3.

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Greek Philosophy and Logic Coloring Persian Literature The analysis of Greek thought, especially Peripatetic and Neoplatonic ideas, in Persian literature, is complex and somewhat delicate. This influence passed via the intermediaries of either the “Hellenizing philosophers,” as H. Corbin terms them—including Kendi, Fârâbi (d. 950), and Avicenna, but also the Ekhwân al-safâ, the Mo’tazelites and later philosophers such as Sohravardi (d. 1191)— or through Islamic mystics. Purely philosophical treatises written in Persian are not considered here, but very early on authors chose to express their philosophical or theological thought in verse. An example is provided by the Ismaili apologist poet and philosopher Nâser-e Khosrow (d. ca. 1070), in whose work a reconciliation of Ismaili creed with Greek philosophy can be seen.62 In one of his qasides, he apostrophizes the Platonists and, as Attâr and Nezâmi (see above) did later, refutes their attempt at explaining natural phenomena with the exclusive help of Greek ideas, explaining that there is a need for a Creator behind and above any natural ­phenomenon. “Tell me,” asks the poet, what or who does give every fruit its taste, color, form and perfume? Nothing there comes from the four elements! You say that the form of an apple and that of a quince recall the celestial spheres. The golden skin of the quince is the color of Venus, while the apple is red like Mars. But, tell me, who is the Creator of these yellow and red colors?63

Another instance of the interest for, and knowledge of Greek, philosophy is given by the argument of Nezâmi’s Eskandar-nâme, especially its second part, the Eqbâl-nâme. J. C. Bürgel describes Nezâmi as “a Platonic author from beginning to end.” 64 For example, the dialogue between Alexander and Socrates is a paraphrase of

62 Nâser-e Khosrow, Ketâb-e Jâme’ al-Hekmateyn, eds. H. Corbin and M. Mo’in (Tehran and Paris, 1953); French tr. I. de Gastines (Paris, 1990). 63 Nâser-e Khosrow, Divân, ed. Sayyed Nasr-Allâh Taqavi (Tehran, 1928), p. 354, ll. 20–24 and p. 355, ll. 1–4. 64 Nezâmi, Iskandar-nâme, tr. J. C. Bürgel, Nachwort, p. 617.

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the classical dialogue between Socrates and Diogenes.65 The work speaks of Alexander’s search for universal wisdom once he had become a world-ruler, of his acquiring a philosopher’s status, and of his final attainment of prophethood. In Alexander’s triple personality Bürgel has recognized a striking analogy with the qualities of the Neoplatonic ideal head of state of Fârâbi, with which he endowed the Prophet Mohammed. After intensive interactions with the seven Greek philosophers gathered around him (see above), Alexander himself becomes a philosopher. Nezâmi’s sympathy for Platonic and Aristotelian thought is obvious throughout the work, but a finer analysis discloses his particular sympathy for Platonism. This is illustrated, for example, by Plato’s victory over Aristotle in their magical musical duel (which is also an instance of the importance given to the occult sciences in this work). This tendency reflects the comparative loss of importance of the Peripatetic school of thinking—which disappears altogether with the death of Averroes (Ebn-Roshd) in 1198—and the contemporary flourishing of Sohravardi’s (Neo-)Platonism. Shortly after the time of Nezâmi (d. 1209), the Neoplatonic color that Ebn-al-Arabi (d. 1240) gave to Islamic mysticism through his mystical philosophy of the Unity of Being (vahdat al-vojud), became a major influence on Persian literature.66 However, the most pervasive influence of Greek thought on Persian literature, and especially on its poetry, has certainly been exercised by Sufism. Infiltration from Greek philosophy in the 10th century brought into existence a more correct metaphysical vocabulary … But this vocabulary became amalgamated with the pseudo-theology of Aristotle, with Platonic idealism and the Platonian doctrine of emanation, which influenced profoundly the further development of Sufism.67

65 P. Chelkowski, “Nizami’s Iskandarnâmeh,” in Colloquio sul poet Nizâmî (Rome, 1977), p. 24. 66 J. C. Bürgel, “Conquérant, Philosophe et Prophète,” pp. 70–71 and 77–78. 67 L. Massignon [/B. Radtke], EI2 s.v. Taṣawwuf.

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The extent to which Hellenistic thought actually acted on Sufism remains open to debate. There is a consensus to accept that Islamic mysticism was influenced, to a degree, by Neoplatonic philosophy, amongst which the idea of emanation was prominent, and by Neo-Pythagorean, Hermetic, Aristotelian and Gnostic ideas of Hellenistic origin. At the very least, this “provided the philosophical and scientific building blocks of a theoretical framework which gave some coherence to the diverse maxims of practical philosophers.” 68 But a complete and detailed analysis of this aspect of Sufism remains a desideratum. Persian poetry, for its part, has from very early on been influenced by Sufism and been employed by the Sufis. Sanâ’i (d. ca. 1130) was the first to use the mathnavi form for a Persian Sufi didactic poem. He was followed by great Sufi poets such as Attâr, Rumi, and Jâmi. Other forms like the ghazal were favored also for expressing mystical beliefs. In R. A. Nicholson’s words: The great poets of Persia, with few exceptions, have borrowed the ideas and speak the language of Sufism. These again fall into two classes. Some, like Hafiz, make the mystic terminology … serve the function of a mask or a lady’s fan … The majority, however, are themselves Sufis by profession or conviction.69

The enormous amount of mystical poems composed in Persian, the diversity of the mystical trends, and a mode of thought heavily characterized by individuality, make an overall view of the Greek elements in Persian mystical poetry extremely difficult. Furthermore, as research advances, accepted ideas are re-­examined and corrected. The much-debated poetry of Rumi is a case in point. Nicholson’s analysis of Rumi’s indebtedness to Neoplatonism has been challenged as has the idea of his having been directly influ-

68 J. T. P. de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry. The interaction of Religion and Literature in the Life and Works of Ḥakīm Sanā’ī of Ghazna (Leiden, 1983), p. 183. 69 Rumi, Selected poems from the Dīvāni Shamsi Tabrīz, ed. and tr. R. A. Nichol­son (Cambridge, 1898), Introduction, pp. xxv–xxvi.

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enced by a mystic philosopher like Ebn-al-Arabi.70 The ­question may be asked, for instance, whether or not a direct influence can be assumed from the similarities between the Socratic mode of enquiry and the methods employed by Rumi throughout his Mathnavi, according to Meyerovitch.71 In conclusion, Persian poets and prose writers were undoubtedly indebted to a certain degree to Greek lore, both in some of the images they used, and in the thoughts they expressed. This statement must be qualified as there were many other influences than Greek working on Persian belles letters, such as Sasanid, Arabian, Central Asian, Manichaean, Indian, and Buddhist. The Greek elements sometimes imparted to Persian writing a scientific veneer that was much appreciated during some periods. Sometimes they are little more than a varnish of superficial knowledge about foreign names and terms, but they could at times also express genuine interest in foreign wisdom and learning. It might be said that older authors seemed more aware of the contents of Greek works and the biographies of figures from Greek antiquity than the post-Mongol poets, who appear to have lost track of most of the exact knowledge, or lost interest in any preciseness about the names that they mentioned. Hellenism found its way into Persian literature especially through the channel of Sufism. Due to the diversity of Sufi thought (which might be said to be one of the main ingredients of classical Persian lyric poetry) and the complexity of its nature, a comprehensive analysis of its Greek elements, of their adoption and their full meaning in Persian poetry, has as yet not been successfully achieved. Again, the focus of this article might have given an unbalanced idea of the constituting elements present in Sufism. The 70 Ibid., pp. xxx–xxxvi and pp. 333–36 (Appendix I, B: Traces of Neo-Platonist influence); W. C. Chittick, “Rūmī and Waḥdat al-wujūd,” in A. Banani a. o., eds., Poetry and Mysticism in Islam (Cambridge, New York, and Melbourne, 1994), pp. 70–111. 71 See E. de Vitray Meyerovitch, Mystique et poésie en Islam. Djalâl ud-Dîn Rûmî et l’Ordre des Derviches tourneurs, 4th printing. (Bar le Duc, 1972), pp. 67–83.

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influence of elements taken from other religions and philosophies such as Indian mysticism, Buddhism, and Manichaeism are also traceable in Islamic mystic thought and must be kept in mind. The conclusion given here is that, though these foreign influences may have colored the Sufi mode of thought, expression, vocabulary, and imagery, it is important to remember that mysticism develops in most religions without the need for external influences. Likewise, it must be noted that the present chapter has perhaps presented an over-emphasized image of the Greek presence, if only because it is impossible to pinpoint in detail any other cultural influence on Persian literature than Arabic. The research concerning the possible influence of Greek poetical and rhetorical theories on Arabic poetry—and subsequently on Persian poetry—is not sufficiently advanced yet to have reached entirely valid or definitive conclusions. More detailed analyses of early Persian poems are needed, as well as comparative work on the ancient Greek and Persian poetical traditions. The field is thus open for further research, and some of the conclusions expressed in this essay must be considered tentative.

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Chapter 13 Arabic Influences  on Persian Literature J. P. T. De Bruijn Classical Persian literature was born in an environment dominated by Arabic Islamic culture. Unlike most of the nations conquered by the Arabs, the Persians successfully resisted assimilation to their new masters, both ethnically and linguistically, but they did go through a process of profound acculturation which transformed them from Zoroastrian subjects of the Sasanid kings into full participants in a commonwealth of Muslims. Until the first half of the 9th century, the standard form of Arabic (al-arabiyyat al-foshâ) was the exclusive medium of literary expression in the international culture of Islam. This earliest phase of Persian Islamic history was also the period when the sciences and the main genres of literature that were to remain characteristic of Muslim civilization were created and reached their mature forms. Especially from the mid8th century onwards, when the Abbasid caliphs, who had come to power with the help of their Persian supporters, chose Iraq—the seat of the Persian royal court since Achaemenid times—as their place of residence, the number of Persians taking part in the cultural life of the Muslim commonwealth increased considerably. There is no branch of Islamic learning where Persian names do not occur on the lists of the most prominent scholars. This is even the case in those sciences that are specifically concerned with the Arabic language, such as grammar and lexicography, and no less in literature in a stricter sense, such as poetry, artistic prose, and adab works. Some of the Arab poets of the early Abbasid period were ethnic Persians, the most celebrated of which were Bashshâr b. Bord (714–83), and Abu-Novâs (d. ca. 815); the latter ­occasionally 369

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used his mother tongue in his poems. The most curious instance of cultural integration was the discussion among the Abbasid literati in the 8th to 9th centuries known as the Sho’ubiyya, “the discussion about the nations.” In this debate we find Persians not only among the proponents of the rights of other national traditions, but also on the side of the defenders of the Arabic privilege. The use of Persian as a literary language in the context of Islamic civilization is first documented in the most eastern parts of the Abbasid caliphate, areas far removed from the center of Muslim power and Arabic culture. However, it was also here that the settlement of Arab tribes had been substantial. In the cities of Khorasan and Transoxiana the population was partly Arabicized. The need for the use of the vernacular in writing, next to the official language of religion and learning, was felt most strongly in local administrative elite circles, recruited from indigenous converts to Islam who, with reference to their social position as “clients” of their Arab masters, were called the mavâli. The literary kind of Persian that came into existence was from the start so permeated by Arabic elements that it almost seemed akin to a mixed language. The lexicon was deeply imbued with Arabic words and the New Persian alphabet was based on the Arabic alphabet. The literary forms that soon emerged were even closer to the models provided by Arabic literature. In spite of this great impact of a Semitic language such as Arabic, the Indo-European character of Persian grammar and syntax remained essentially intact.1 The emergence of a literary Persian language did not put an end to the use of Arabic, which only gradually ceded most of its former hegemony. There is an important difference here with other sources of outside influence on Persian literature. The literatures of the ancient Indians, Iranians, and Greeks, whatever their contributions may have been, disappeared beyond the horizon of Islamicized Persian culture, leaving only traces of their immediate contacts in the past. However, the Arabic tradition lived on as a highly productive factor in Persian civilization. As a matter of course, the 1 See further J. Perry’s contribution in Chapter 2 of the present volume.

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sacred language of Islam has continued to dominate in the field of religion up to the present day, especially in theology and Islamic jurisprudence. A profound influence of the Qur’an is noticeable in the works of many Persian writers and poets. 2 Although an impressive mystical literature, both in prose and poetry, was written in Persian, Arabic also remained an important medium of expression to the Sufis.3 For a long time, major works in the realms of philosophy and science were exclusively composed in Arabic. Literary scholarship, encompassing the theories of prosody and rhetoric, continued to be essentially an Arabic branch of learning, although since the 11th century these subjects have also been treated in Persian. The close links between Arabic and Persian literary scholarship are examined in the contributions by Bo Utas, Geert-Jan van Gelder, and Natasha Chalisova to the present volume.4 For a considerable time, Arabic also rivaled Persian as a language of poetry. The Arabic poetry composed in the Persian provinces is documented in a number of anthologies compiled from the 10th century onwards by Persian scholars such as Tha’âlebi, Bâkharzi, Hariri, and Kâteb-e Esfahâni. In the 11th century, the courts of the vizier Sâheb b. Abbâd at Ray and of the Buyid rulers at Shiraz, both cities lying in the heartlands of Persia, were among the renowned centers where Arabic literature was cultivated. Nevertheless, this was also a time when the writing of poetry and prose in Persian was expanding to courts in the central and northwestern Persian provinces. The symbiosis of the two literatures is further exemplified in the qualification “master of the two languages” (dhu’l-loghateyn), a title of great distinction for a poet. Even such prominent Persian poets as Sa’di (13th century), and Hâfez (14th century), wrote the occasional Arabic poem. For centuries Arabic was the only foreign language taught to Persian children and it remains a major subject at all levels of education. 2 See, e.g., B. Khorramshâhi, “Qur’an va oslub-e honari-ye Hâfez,” in idem, Dhehn va zabân-e Hâfez, 5th printing (Tehran, 1995) pp. 41–60. 3 The various genres of religious literature are discussed by N. Pourjavady in Chapter 9. 4 Respectively in the Chapters 4, 5, and 6.

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An awareness of the symbiosis between Arabic and Persian literature has always existed. According to legend, the Sasanid King Bahrâm V Gur (412–439 ce), who was raised amongst the Arabs, was the first to write poems in both languages.5 Medieval critics were convinced that Persian poetry was entirely based on Arabic models. Introducing his chapter on metrics Shams-e Qeys, who wrote about 1230, stated categorically: The art of poetry (senâ’at-e she’r) is originally an invention of the Arab genius. They have laid the foundation and in all branches the Persians were the followers, not the initiators.6

Persian literature was exclusively seen as a product of Islamic culture. All its conventions were borrowings from Arabic poetry. No allowance was made for literary survivals from Persia’s own preIslamic past, and hardly any for the new inventions made by the first Persian poets in Islamic times. The prosodical system of classical Persian poetry indeed shows an almost complete dependence on Arabic models, at least in theory. It is an inescapable fact that its terminology is almost entirely of Arabic derivation. However, in practice important deviations from the foreign norms can be noticed. It is hardly possible to go further than mere speculation in establishing links with poetic forms existing in Persia before the coming of Islam because of the extreme scarcity of the available documentation, but there can be no doubt that they played their role. It must also be accepted that many new features in Persian literature emerged during the process of adapting Arabic models to the quite different characteristics of the Persian language. The closest to Arabic origins remained the qaside, both as the most important medium of court panegyrics, and as a poem of pietistic admonition. Structurally however the Persian courtly qaside shows many differences from its Arabic predecessor. Also very similar is the use of the more informal topical poem (qat’e or moqatta’e, lit. ‘fragment’) in both traditions for the treatment of a wider range of subjects than could be dealt 5 Owfi, Lobâb al-albâb I (London/Leiden, 1906) pp. 19–20. 6 Shams-e Qeys, Mo’jam (Tehran, 1959) p. 68.

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with in the qaside. As far as the ghazal (short love poems) is concerned, Arabic and Persian love poetry have much of their themes and images in common. However, in the ghazal a highly successful classical type developed, especially marked by the insertion of the poet’s pen name at the end of the poem, a feature unknown in Arabic poetry. The case of the mathnavi, which consists of rhyming couplets, is much more complicated. The Arabic mozdavej, based on the same principle, is attested already at the beginning of the 8th century, notably in the poems in the meter rajaz by Abân alLâheqi (d. 815), which he adopted for rendering Indian and Persian stories and romanticized tales about Sasanid kings. Although the Persian mathnavi is not on record before the late 9th and early 10th centuries, it is most likely that early Persian versifiers shaped this form, in spite of its Arabic name, out of a Middle Persian epic form and Arabic quantitative metrics. It soon proved its extraordinary value as a vehicle of Persian epic poetry, but it should not be overlooked that from the very beginning the couplets of the mathnavi were used for many other purposes as well.7 The origins of the quatrain (robâ’i), with its characteristic meter, is still unclear, but it was known as a Persian form before it became a part of Arabic poetry under the Persian name do-beyti.8 The Arabic mosammat, a type of stanzaic poem, probably gave birth to comparable Persian forms such as tarji’-band and tarkib-band, which are known for the first time from the works of poets of the early 11th century such as Manuchehri and Farrokhi.9 With the important exception of epic poetry, practically all the genres of poetry and prose current in Persian literature have more or less close parallels in the Arabic tradition. In most cases this can be attributed to the coexistence of the two literatures which has never really come to an end during the classical period. A narrative genre in very ornate prose, usually regarded as typically Arabic, was the maqâmât, the most celebrated examples of which had been given by Hamadhâni (968–1008), and Hariri (1054–1122). It was 7 8 9

Cf. J. T. P. de Bruijn, EI2 s.v. Mathnawī. Cf. W. Stoetzer, EI2 s.v. Rubā’ī 3. In Arabic. Cf. F. Thiesen, EI2 s.v. Tardjī’-band.

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imitated in Persian by the qadi Hamid-al-Din Abu-Bakr Omar of Balkh (1269), but in Persian literature the genre never achieved anything like the popularity of its Arabic model. The resâle, a short prose composition, usually on a scientific or a religious subject, is a more successful example of the formal parallelism between the two traditions. Types of books which were essential to the transmission of poetry such as the divân and the various kinds of anthologies and miscellaneous volumes also had their origins in the Arabic tradition, though they developed into specific forms within the Persian context, some of which were very successful. The tadhkere, a genre merging biography and anthology, grew in full flourish in the wake of Dowlatshâh’s Tadhkerat al-sho’arâ (Memoirs of the Poets), compiled in the late 15th century, although it had its medieval predecessors both in the Arabic and Persian traditions.10 Both in Arabic and Persian philology a number of genres is distinguished which need not always be associated with particular forms of poetry. The terms in use are derivations formed by the addition of the Arabic feminine plural morpheme -iyyât. They are telling signs of literary influences, although the genres that they cover may have developed differently in each tradition. Often these terms are applied as tags to the divisions made in a divân. The examples one could mention refer to major categories such as “poems of praise” (madhiyyât), “ascetic poems” (zohdiyyât), “poems of wine” (khamriyyât), and “nature poems” (rabi’iyyât). In view of the composite nature of some kinds of poems, in particular the qaside, these tags may only refer to a part of the contents of the poem assembled under such headings. In early manuscripts, the term ghazaliyyât occurs as the heading of a section with “poems of love,” which are not necessarily restricted to the form of the classical Persian ghazal. More specialized genres such as kofriyyât (blasphemous poems on non-Islamic cults), qalandariyyât (antinomian poems and poems inspired by the attitude of anti-social vagabonds) and habsiyyât (prison poems), though they do have their roots in Arabic literature, adopted different meanings in Persian usage. 10 See further W. Hanaway’s essay in Chapter 3 of this volume.

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The Arabic device of rhyming prose (saj’) also took root in classical Persian prose, especially in the style used by the secretaries (monshis) attached to the administrative office of the rulers. This went together with an ever increasing use of the rhetorical figures prescribed by the handbooks of badi’, which were intended for prose writers as well as for poets. Eventually poetic embellishment became an obligatory feature of elevated Persian style, first of all in writings of a very formal nature such as documents, prefaces, and official letters. These were the kinds of compositions assembled as models for aspiring writers in epistolary albums, the so-called enshâ works. Persian historiography and, as far as belletristic literature is concerned, works of the mirror-for-princes genre were equally afflicted by this ornate style, which catered to a taste for extreme rhetorical refinement at the cost of clarity of expression. The extreme verbosity of this style was enhanced by the circumstance that the vocabulary of Arabic, with its rich morphological possibilities, could be drawn upon at the writer’s pleasure. Another stylistic feature of Arabic origin was the insertion of poems into a prose text. These were often very short pieces, no more than a quatrain or a single distich, which poetically illustrated a point made in the prosaic context. Both Arabic and Persian lines could be chosen for this purpose. Although all these additions to a plain text did not have a very favorable effect on classical Persian prose, if they were applied with talent and moderation, the result could not be unattractive, even to a modern taste. The stylistic qualities of such masterpieces of Persian prose literature as Abu’l-Ma’âli Nashr-­Allâh Monshi’s Kalile va Demne (actually a translation of the simple Arabic version by Ebn-Moqaffa’ in an ornate Persian), and Sa’di’s Golestân, prove this beyond any doubt. Both works have been given a prominent place in the canon of works used in Persian literary education. Apparently classical Persian poets saw Arabic poetry and their own as connected by an unbroken line of tradition. Many poets have expressed their indebtedness to their Arabic predecessors by singling out certain names for special mention. On such lists occur the names of poets from the pre-Islamic period such as Emra’lQeys and A’shâ, and of Islamic poets, such as Jarir, Abu-Novâs, 375

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Abu-Tammâm (also referred to as “Tâ’i”), and Bohtori. No one exerted a deeper influence than Motanabbi (915–65), who was a ­contemporary of the Persian poets at the court of the Samanids of Bukhara.11 In the qasides of Onsori passages have been detected which appear to be directly translated from Arabic poems.12 Sometimes Persian poems are mere pastiches of typically Arabic poems, e.g., the qaside by Manuchehri in which the scheme of a pre-Islamic Arabic qaside is faithfully followed.13 Khâqâni (1121–99) responded in Persian to a famous Arabic poem by Bohtori on the remains of the Sasanid palace—known as either Ivân Kesrâ or Tâq-e Khosrow (“the Arch of Chosroes”)—as they are standing to this very day on the bank of the Tigris where the Sasanid capital Ctesiphon once stood, in Arabic called Madâ’en. Both poems are specimens of admonitory poetry giving the reader a “warning” (ebrat) on the futility of earthly power, but they did not carry the nationalistic message modern readers like to read in these medieval poems.14 Arabic lines were used within the framework of a Persian poem through the device of macaronic verse in so-called “patchwork poems” (ash’âr-e molamma’), consisting of the alternation of verses in each language. It can be found in the poetry of the Samanid period, but the device was still applied by later poets such as Sa’di, Rumi, and Hâfez. Arabic lines could also play a role in the structure of a Persian poem. For instance, in the opening ghazal of his divân, Hâfez used Arabic half-verses to open and to conclude his poem:

11

Motanabbi’s great impact on the poetry of Sa’di has been studied by Hoseyn-Ali Mahfuz, Motanabbi va Sa’di va ma’âkhedh-e mazâmin-e Sa’di dar adabiyyât-e Arabi (Tehran, 1957). 12 A few examples in B. Foruzânfar, Sokhan va sokhanvarân (2nd ed., Tehran, 1971), p. 113. 13 Manuchehri, Divân, ed. M. Dabir-Siyâqi (Tehran, 1968), pp. 53–59. The poem was translated and analyzed by E. G. Browne, HPL II, pp. 30–34. See also V. Kik, Ta’thir-e farhang-e Arab dar ash’âr-e Manuchehri-ye Dâmghâni (Beirut, 1971). 14 J. W. Clinton, “The Madāen Qasida of Xāqāni Sharvāni,” Edebiyât 1 (1976), pp. 153–70; 2 (1977), pp. 191–206.

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Arabic Influences Allâ yâ ayyohâ ’l-sâqi ader ka’san va nâvelhâ ke eshq âsân namud avval vali oftâd moshkelhâ  … hozuri gar hami khwâhi azu ghâyeb mashow Hâfez matâ mâ talqe man tahvi da’ al-donyâ va ahmelhâ Come, oh come, Cup-bearer! Pass round the bowl! Love seemed such an easy thing at first, but problems have arisen.  … If you seek admission, do not be make yourself absent, Hâfez. When you have met the one you love, leave the world aside, ­abandon it!15

Persian imagery, of which an extensive inventory can be found elsewhere in this volume,16 contains a wide range of similarities with Arabic poetry. Umar Muhammad Daudpota even concluded that, in this respect, the two traditions were virtually identical. There are a few pairs of synonymous names of which only one occurs in Arabic whereas both are used by Persian poets, e.g., the name of the fabulous bird which the Arabs called Anqâ and which corresponds to the Persian Simorgh. A number of parallel items were used in nature poetry which fulfill similar functions, e.g., Arabic sanowbar ‘fir tree’ and Persian sarv ‘cypress’; the Arabic qomri ‘turtledove’ and the Persian bolbol ‘nightingale’.17 Recently Julie Scott Meisami has published a monograph examining and comparing aspects of compositional structure in Arabic and Persian poems.18 There are, however, also typical differences in the handling of imagery and tropical expressions between Arabic and Persian poetry. The details of these differences have yet to be systematically explored. A few general lines were drawn by Hellmut Ritter in his 15

16 17 18

Divân (Tehran, 1983), p. 18. The Arabic lines and their translations are in italics. In the last half verse hozur is often taken to refer to the mystical concept of hozur-e qalb, the state of one’s heart being open to receive divine inspiration. Cf. the contribution by R. Zipoli in Chapter 7. The Influence of Arabic Poetry on The Development of Persian Poetry (Bombay, 1934). Structure and Meaning in Medieval Arabic and Persian Poetry. Orient Pearls (London, 2003).

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famous essay on the rhetorically elaborated imagery of the epic poet Nezâmi of Ganje, who lived in the second half of the 12th century. Ritter noticed a fundamental contrast between the ways in which, on the one hand, an Arabic poet of the ancient pre-Islamic style, and on the other, a classical Persian poet looked at the world around them, and how they dealt with their impressions in poetic comparisons. The former, he states, is above all concerned to catch the details as precisely as possible; his poetic feelings are satisfied when this aim has been achieved. (… vor allem um eine möglichst genaue Erfassung der Einzelheiten zu tun ist, daß sein dichterischer Affekt befriedigt ist, wenn dies erreicht ist;)

whereas the Persian poet becomes enthusiastic when the object observed appeals to his creative imagination and takes a pleasure … beyond everything else in the fantastic transformation of the objects he observes in themselves. He has another way of looking at things than the Arab. (… entzündet an dem geschauten Gegenstand seine bildnerische Phantasie und genießt … vor allem die phantastische Umbildung der geschauten Gegenstände selbst. Er hat eine andere Art zu sehen, als der Araber.)

That the difference of the languages as such was not the decisive factor which produced this contrast in seeing things and responding to them poetically, is proven by the fact the “Persian style of description and comparison” can be found already in the “modern” (mohdath) Arabic poetry of the early Abbasid period (8th–9th centuries ce). However, there is no reason either to attribute them to a difference of racial characteristics, as Ritter suggested.19 In an extensive article on the problems of what he called “the Arabo-Persian poetical community before the invasion of the Mongols,” Benedikt Reinert added to this a number of other typical elements of Persian poetic style, such as an excessive use of hyperbolic expressions, and the description of nature as a theme of the prologue of a qaside. In addition to this he mentions some prosodical characteristics of Persian poetry, in particular the use of the radif 19

Über die Bildersprache Nizāmīs (Berlin/Leipzig, 1927), esp. p. 14.

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rhyme (a word or phrase repeated at the end of each line after the rhyme, and in couplets, at the end of each hemistich), and a strict application of the quantitative principle in Persian metrics. 20 Typically, Arabic anecdotes occur frequently in mystical and entertaining works, e.g., in the didactic poems of Sanâ’i, Attâr, and Rumi, and in works such as Sa’di’s Golestân and Jâmi’s Bahârestân. Exemplary figures were derived from religious sources such as the Qur’an (the wealthy Qârun, the tyrant Fer’own), and the lives of the prophets (Ebrâhim, Yusof, Musâ), as well as from Islamic history, Sufi hagiography, and other literary material, especially the Arabic adab-works (e.g., the caliph Hârun al-Rashid, the generous man Hâtem Tâ’i, the sage Loqmân, and the Arab clowns Juhâ and Bohlul). The anecdotes are often situated in an Arabic environment (e.g., Baghdad, Basra, the pilgrimage route to Mecca). Several of these figures and places also occur in Persian humoristic texts in which the influence of Arabic popular literature is particularly strong. Typical examples can be found in the collection of funny stories (motâyyebât) constituting the sixth chapter of Jâmi’s Bahârestân. 21 If the Persians borrowed a great amount of anecdotal materials to be used in their rich didactical literature, larger stories derived from Arabic sources are comparatively rare. It may be that the marked difference in the appreciation of fiction in the two traditions played a role in this. In Arabic literature storytelling remained very much restricted to popular culture, and before the rise of modern narrative forms such as the novel and the short story, was considered not to belong properly to the domain of polite literature. Epic forms never developed in Arabic classical poetry and even in artistic prose fictional narrative was limited to a single genre, the maqâmât. The Persians, on the other hand, regarded storytelling as a legitimate part of their poetic tradition. They created a ­variety 20 “Probleme der vormongolischen arabisch-persischen Poesiegemeeinschaft und ihr Reflex in der Poetik,” in G. E. von Grunebaum, ed., Arabic Poetry. Theory and Development (Wiesbaden, 1973), esp. pp. 72–82. 21 Ed. A’lâ-Khân Afsahzâd (Tehran, 2000), pp. 96–120. See further J. T. P. de Bruijn, EIr, s.v. Humor.

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of genres and applied all the artifices of poetic ­rhetoric to the language used in their mathnavis. It is not surprising, therefore, that in this particular area the impact of Arabic literature was not very substantial. Only two Arabic stories really became successful in Persian literature. One was the Qur’anic tale of the Prophet Yusof and his lover Zoleykhâ, styled in its ultimate Islamic source as the “fairest of stories” (ahsan al-qesas, Sura XII: 3). In early Persian commentaries of the Qur’an the story already had been given monographic treatment and it was particularly favored by Sufis. 22 At a still uncertain date (but probably not later than 11th century ce) the story was treated in a mathnavi of which at least two versions, of differing lengths, have been preserved. The attribution to Ferdowsi in some manuscripts has been proven false, but the true authorship has never become firmly established. In the late 15th century, Jâmi chose the story of Yusof and Zoleykhâ for his great mystical allegory, which found a number of imitators. 23 The other story was derived from a secular tradition. In the early th 8 century a new type of love poetry had developed among the Bedouins of the northern Arabian desert. It was called “Odhrite poetry” after the Banu Odhra, the tribe which became particularly famous for a kind of eroticism. Its special characteristic was the excessive devotion of the lover whose idealizing of the beloved excluded any possibility of a fulfillment. Romantic anecdotes were put into circulation about several Odhrite poets, providing a fictional context to their poems. One of the most celebrated was a probably non-historical figure named Qeys b. Molawwah, who is better known as Majnun (“the possessed”) because of his frantic love for the Bedouin girl, Laylâ. He also became the hero of this kind of anecdotes. In Arabic literature they remained unconnected “stories” (akhbâr), transmitted as special collections or integrated into larger anthologies such as the voluminous Ketâb al-aghâni (Book of Songs) of Abu ’l-Faraj of Isfahan (d. 967). Only in Persian

22 Cf. N. Pourjavady in Chapter 9 of the present volume. 23 See F. de Blois PL V, pp. 576–84; J. T. P. de Bruijn, EI2 s.v. Yūsuf and Zulaykhā, with further references.

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were the separate stories amalgamated to form a romantic novel with a continuous plot about the tragic romance of Majnun and Leyli. This novel was the creation of Nezâmi of Ganje, who adopted this Arabic tale for his successful collection of didactic and romantic epics, the Khamse. 24 After him the story became one of the greatest subjects of Persian narrative literature and also found numerous imitators in Turkish, Urdu, and other Islamic languages. Far less successful was the love story about another Odhrite poet, equally situated in Arabia, which was treated in the mathnavi Varqe and Golshâh by Ayyuqi, a poet who in the early 11th century was probably attached to the court of Ghazne. 25 Allegorical tales are another narrative genre in which Arabic models have made an obvious impact. In imitation of their Greek predecessors the Muslim philosophers were wont to compose brief allegories, usually in a condensed and enigmatic style, next to their major discursive works. Perhaps the most famous is the Hayy ebn Yaqzân (Living, son of Waking) written by Ebn-Sinâ (Avicenna) in 1021, of which a Persian version with a commentary has been preserved. 26 Its influence on Persian writings, diffuse but unmistakable, is most evident in a mystical mathnavi Mesbâh al-arvâh (Lantern of Spirits) by Mohammad Bardâsiri, an obscure 12th century poet. 27 Another philosophical allegory is Meskaweyh’s Loghz Qâbes (Riddle of Qâbes), based on a pseudepigraphical Platonic dialogue, which became famous also in Europe as the Cebetis Tabula (Picture of Cebes). This may have influenced, directly or indirectly, several Persian poets including Sanâ’i, Attâr, and Khâqâni. 28 The most prolific writer of Persian allegories was Shehâb al-Din Yahyâ

24 A recent study of the poem is A.-A. Seyed-Gohrab, Laylī and Majnūn: Love, Madness and Mystic Longing in Niẓāmī’ Epic Romance (Leiden, 2003). 25 Cf. Dh. Safâ’s introduction to his edition of the mathnavi (Tehran, 1964), pp. ix–xii. 26 Edited by H. Corbin, Avicenne et le récit visionnaire, II: Le récit de Hayy ibn Yaqzan (Tehran and Paris, 1954). 27 Cf. B. Utas, “A journey to the Other World according to the Lantern of Spirits,” Bulletin of the Asia Institute, N.S. 4 (1990), pp. 307–11. 28 See further J. T. P. de Bruijn, EIr, s.v. Fiction I. Traditional Forms, p. 578.

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Sohravardi, the “Sheykh-e eshrâq” (executed in 1191). However, he wrote his most famous work in this genre, Qessat al-­ghorbat al-gharbiyya (Story of the Western Exile), in Arabic; a Persian translation with a commentary has also been preserved. 29 Naturally, translation had an important role to play in the interaction of the two literatures. In the great wave of translations that occurred in the 8th and 9th centuries, not only Greek and Syriac texts but also many Middle Persian works surviving from the Sasanid period were translated and brought within the compass of Islamic culture. The difficult and religiously suspect Pahlavi texts had become inaccessible to nearly all Persian Muslims, but there were still recent converts to Islam who could help out in this cultural transfer. The most brilliant among them was Ebn-Moqaffa’ (720–56), a first-generation Muslim still knowledgeable about the Sasanid tradition of his ancestors. His fame rests in particular on the Arabic versions he made of the collection of moralistic fables Kalile and Demne and the Khwadây-nâmag (The Book of Kings), the codification of the legends about ancient Persian kings prepared in Middle Persian for the later Sasanid rulers.30 The former survived as one of the most popular Arabic prose works and was at the basis of a long line of adaptations in New Persian poetry and prose starting in the 10th century with the Samanid poet Rudaki. The latter work was not preserved, either in Pahlavi or in Arabic, but it lived on through the excerpts cited in Arabic adab works, such as Ebn-Qoteyba’s Oyun al-akhbâr and Ma’âref, and general histories, such as Tabari’s Târikh al-rosul va’l-moluk, and Tha’âlebi’s Ghorar al-siar. The Fehrest, the famous inventory of books drawn up by Ebn-Nadim, is our best source to measure the extent of the Middle Persian material still available in Baghdad around 987, most of which has since disappeared.31 Along this path, Arabic literature served for the Persians as a vital link with their own pre-Islamic past. 29 Ed. by H. Corbin, in Sohrawardi, Oeuvres philosophique et mystiques I (Tehran and Paris, 1952). 30 See J. Derek Latham in EIr, s.v. Ebn al-Moqaffa’. 31 Cf. F. de Blois in EIr, s.v. Fehrest ii, with further references.

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In the case of works written during the Islamic period, except the early period when a fairly large number of works were translated from Middle Persian into Arabic by the likes of Ebn-­Moqaffa’, the direction of the translation was nearly always from Arabic into Persian. A notable exception is the translation in Arabic prose of Ferdowsi’s Shahname, made by the historian Bondâri in the early 13th century. Translation also was of vital importance to the development of prose literature in Persian. Foremost among the prose texts written in the Samanid period (10th century) are the adaptations of Tabari’s monumental Târikh and his Tafsir, one of the greatest Sunni commentaries of the Qur’an ever written. To the order of the Samanid emir Mansur b. Nuh (r. 961–76) these two projects were carried out by his vizier Abu-Ali Mohammad Bal’ami and his assistants. The process of translation actually consisted of a “Persianisation of form,” i.e. “the transformation of Tabari’s discrete accounts into continuous narrative.”32 In this manner, a virtually new work was created which was much more accessible to a Persian audience that did not care for the scholarly apparatus of transmissions in the Arabic original. In the case of Bal’ami’s Târikh, this resulted in a certain looseness of the text manifesting itself in the many different versions found in ancient manuscripts.33 A similar contrast in stylistic level also marks many later Persian adaptations of Arabic works. A well-known example is Mohammad Ghazâli’s Kimiyâ-ye sa’âdat (Elixir of Happiness), written by the author himself as a Persian counterpart to his Ehyâ olum al-din (Revivification of Religious Scholarship). The writing of commentaries constituted another interface between Arabic and Persian texts. Sometimes a Persian commentary could outgrow its basic text, not only in size but also in importance. Such was the case with another mystical work, the extensive commentary Sharh al-Ta’arrof le-madhhab al-tasavvof (Commentary on the Knowledge About the School of Sufism) by Mohammad Mostamli 32 33

J. Scott Meisami, Persian Historiography (Edinburgh, 1999), p. 29. Cf. G. Lazard, La langue des plus anciens monuments de la prose persane (Paris, 1963), pp. 38–41.

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(d. 1042), which overshadowed the original Arabic Ta’arrof written by Kalâbâdhi (d. 990).34 The close relationship of Arabic and Persian could be described as a kind of literary bilingualism. It remained in effect for more than a millennium, although it manifested itself in ever changing degrees of intensity. Therefore, its importance to the history of Persian literature varies greatly depending on the period and the genre under consideration. It was, however, never entirely absent and should be reckoned with in all serious studies of our subject, whatever their focus. In the present brief survey only some of the main lines of Arabic impact could be drawn. For more detailed information the reader should turn to other chapters in the present volume as well as to forthcoming volumes in this series.

34 G. Lazard, Ibid., pp. 67–71; see also N. Pourjavady, Chapter 9 in this ­volume.

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Chapter 14 Persian Literature  and the Arts of the Book P. P. Soucek The creation of luxurious copies of Persian literary texts, particularly those copied by skilled calligraphers, protected by handsome bindings, and embellished with decorations or illustrations in gold and glowing colors, is one of the most distinctive accomplishments of Islamic Persian culture. The production and distribution of such manuscripts spanned more than a millennium, from at least the 9th to 19th centuries, and reflects an appreciation for the texts which they contained. Moreover, such books also became an instrument for the dissemination and popularization of the Persian language and Perso-Islamic culture within Persia as well as far beyond that country’s present territorial boundaries. This chapter will outline the principal stages in the physical history of such manuscripts and draw attention to the various ways in which the addition of decorated bindings, elaborate illumination, and illustrations reflects an appreciation of the texts which they contained. Whereas the study of a literary work, per se, tends to focus on the analysis of its text, the identification of its creator, and the circumstances which gave rise to its initial composition, the examination of manuscripts provides insight into how such a text was transmitted from one generation or place to another. Thus the study of manuscripts provides a kind of physical history of a text and helps to measure its broader impact. Indeed, the production, distribution, and preservation of luxurious literary manuscripts can provide an indication of a text’s reception in periods and places often far removed from those of its initial creation. 385

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Although it is customary to define the artistic production of Islamic Persia in dynastic terms, not every dynastic shift entailed major changes in the production and use of books. For that reason this essay will be divided into three broad periods each of which encompasses the rule of more than one dynasty. The first, formative phase stretches from the Islamic conquest in the 7th century until the consolidation of Mongol rule in the mid-13th century; the principal phase stretches from the mid-13th until the end of the 16th century; and the final phase includes the 17th to 19th centuries. The six centuries that separate the Islamic conquest of Persia in the 7th century and the establishment of the Ilkhanid Mongol state in the middle of the 13th century encompass many phases in that country’s literary life, but only some of them are adequately represented among the extant Persian manuscripts. As for the middle period from the mid-13th to 17th centuries, it constitutes the apogee of Persian luxury manuscript production in Persia and adjacent regions; it also demonstrates that the appreciation of Persian literature had expanded beyond the confines of Persian princely courts, and even far beyond the boundaries of modern Iran into Anatolia, the Caucasus, Central Asia, and the Indian Subcontinent. Moreover, the techniques and skills used to embellish Persian literary manuscripts were also applied to texts written in a variety of other languages, especially Turkish and Urdu. The final period, from the 17th to 19th centuries, witnessed a further diffusion and internationalization of Persian book production. The number of centers producing Persian manuscripts continued to grow, particularly within the Indian Subcontinent where widespread use of Persian as a language of culture and administration generated an expanding demand for illuminated and illustrated literary texts. The scanty available information makes it difficult to measure the degree to which the physical features of the earliest Persian literary manuscripts of the Islamic era were indebted to other traditions of book production, such as that of the Sasanids, or those used among the far-flung Manichaean community. Evidence about Sasanid book production is somewhat contradictory. Toward the end of Sasanid rule, Zoroastrian scholars apparently transcribed many religious texts which had previously been transmitted only orally. 386

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Legends and historical traditions that glorified the achievements of Persia’s rulers also began to be collected and written down, a process which continued in the first Islamic centuries. Muslim authors such as Hamza of Isfahan, Mas’udi, and Estakhri make mention of having seen a luxuriously produced chronicle in Pahlavi that was written on leather in gold or silver ink, and illustrated in color by the portrait of each sovereign made at the time of his death, in his characteristic vestments and with other royal paraphernalia.1 Fables and moralizing stories translated into Pahlavi from various languages may also have contained illustrations. 2 There is both literary and physical evidence that the Manichaean community produced and distributed copies of Mani’s religious treatises and related texts, and that some of them were written in gold and embellished with colorful designs including figural paintings. A considerable volume of Manichaean texts has been preserved, particularly in the ruins of settlements along the “Silk-Road” connecting Iran with China. Manichaean scribes also recorded and circulated an assortment of fables and moralizing tales which included stories deriving from the Buddhist Jataka literature along with fables appreciated in the Greco-Roman world, thereby helping to further popularize this genre. Extant manuscripts do not include copies of the Arzhang, a series of paintings remembered as works of power and beauty, probably portraying the salvation of the elect and the punishment of the damned, whose design is credited to Mani himself.3 Despite such antecedents, however, available evidence suggests that until the 12th century copies of highly decorated or illustrated Persian literary texts were rare. Luxury books are composite creations and it appears likely that their four principal features—handsome calligraphy, decorated bindings, textual illuminations, and illustrations—were only gradually combined to embellish literary 1 2

J. Pedersen, The Arabic Book (Princeton, 1984), p. 93. J. Raby, “The Earliest Illustrations of Kalilah wa Dimnah,” in E. Grube, ed., A Mirror for Princes from India (Bombay, 1991), pp. 22–26. 3 H.-J. Klimkeit, Manichaean Art and Calligraphy (Leiden, 1982), pp. 14–22, 33–43.

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works. The most basic of these elements, scripts for the transcription of the text that are both clearly legible and visually pleasing, evolved in the first Islamic centuries in the metropolitan centers of Syria and Iraq where the profession of varrâq (‘scribe’, and sometimes, by extension, book-publisher or book-dealer) was already well-established by the 8th and 9th centuries. In contrast, the earliest surviving manuscripts from the Persian region signed by varrâqs date to the mid-11th century.4 Although professional copyists must have already been active there before that time, principally in the service of various rulers, it is impossible to estimate the quantity of manuscripts that they produced. The prominence of epigraphic ornament on ceramics and metalwork produced in Persia between the 9th and 12th centuries ce suggests that such decoration had a wide appeal. In particular, finely executed inscriptions of Arabic aphorisms and proverbs play a dominant role in the white-glazed ceramics produced in Khorasan and Transoxiana during the 9th to 11th centuries, a circumstance that suggests both craftsmen and their clients were literate.5 This conclusion is bolstered by other evidence from Afrasiyab/Samarqand. Excavation of its 9th –11th century levels have yielded numerous ceramic ink wells and pen-boxes, and the city was also renowned as a center of paper production during the Islamic period.6 The early popularity of paper for book-making in the Persian region is indicated by the fact that most of the oldest surviving manuscripts believed to have been produced there are written on paper. They include a Qur’an copied by Ali b. Shâdân of Rayy dated to 937, and another of 972 from Isfahan.7 This is also true of the earliest surviving manuscript in the Persian language, a copy of Abu-Mansur of Herat’s Ketâb al-Abniya ‘an hadâ’eq al-adviya, a treatise on 4 F. Richard, Splendeurs persanes (Paris, 1997), pp. 30–31. 5 A. Gouchani, Inscriptions on Nishabur Pottery (Tehran, 1986). 6 G. V. Shishkina and L. V. Pavchinskaja, Terres secrètes de Samarcande (Paris, 1992), pp. 17, 25. 7 D. James, Qur’ans and Bindings from the Chester Beatty Library (London, 1980), p. 27; F. Déroche, The Abbasid Tradition (London, 1992), pp. 154–55.

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pharmacology, dated to 1055.8 This manuscript is also of interest because its scribe, Ali Asadi of Tus, is the author of two works of signal importance for the history of Persian literature, the anthology and dictonary Loghat-e fors, and an epic, the Garshâsp-nâme completed in 1066.9 Despite the fact that Asadi must have some connection with the eastern Persian city of Tus, the predecessor of Mashhad, his epic was dedicated to a ruler resident in Nakhchivan, so that the Ketâb al-Abniya may also have been copied there. It lacks any painted or gilded decoration, but is notable for its refined calligraphy. The title page and the opening invocation of its text are written in an attenuated and highly stylized script comparable to that inscribed on the ceramics of Khorasan and Transoxiana. The body of the text is written in a more cursive version of the script used in the Qur’an of 937.10 When a manuscript opens with “carpet-pages” executed in gold and various colors or has gilded and painted frames around its text and in panels separating its chapters, it is very likely to be the work of a professionally trained illuminator (mozahheb). By the 10th century, a number of elaborately decorated Qur’ans contain inscriptions crediting their decoration to an illuminator. Both a scribe and an illuminator worked on a Qur’an copied in Isfahan during 993. A certain Othmân b. Hoseyn Varrâq of Ghazne both copied and illuminated a Qur’an now in Mashhad, dated to 1069–74.11 Binding was often entrusted to a specialist; in his Fehrest Ebn-Nadim (d. ca. 995) provides the names of well-known binders from Abbasid Iraq, and the profession was probably established in Persia during the same period.12 It has been suggested that the binding with an intricate stamped leather design on a section from the Qur’an of 971, now in the Chester Beatty Library, may be original, for its pattern   8 D. Duda, Islamische Handschriften I: Persische Handschriften (Vienna, 1983), pp. 51–52, pls. 1–2.   9 F. de Blois, Persian Literature V (London, 1992–97), pp. 83–90. 10 D. Duda, ibid., pls. 1–3; A. Gouchani, Inscriptions, nos. 35, 59–60; F. Déroche, The Abbasid Tradition, pp. 154–55. 11 F. Richard, Splendeurs persanes, pp. 30–31. 12 Ebn-Nadim, The Fihrist.Tr. B. Dodge (New York, 1979), I, p. 18.

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parallels that of the book’s opening illumination.13 The frequency with which manuscripts were rebound, however, makes it almost impossible to reconstruct the history of bindings on Persian manuscripts from the pre-Mongol period. The elaborate gilded and colored decoration of 10th and 11th century Qur’ans produced in Persia or Afghanistan contrasts sharply with the unornamented literary texts of this same period and region, a dichotomy that may reflect deliberate decisions made by the manuscripts’ producers or purchasers. This physical difference between contemporary Qur’anic and literary manuscripts suggests that embellishing the Qur’an could be viewed as a measure of respect for its text, but that it was felt to be inappropriate for a literary work to contain similar ornamentation. Indeed, comments in sources suggest that decorating non-Qur’anic texts could seem suspect, perhaps because of a general, popular association of decorated and illustrated books with Manichaeans or those whose commitment to Islam was in doubt. There is a report that when fourteen sacks of Manichaean books were burned at Baghdad in 923, gold and silver was recovered from their ashes.14 Ownership of a book “ornamented with gold, jewels, and satin brocade” that “contains blasphemies against God” was one of the charges of apostasy brought against the Abbasid general Afshin at his trial before the caliph al-Mo’tasem in 841. Defending his actions, Afshin described this book as an heirloom containing the wisdom of the Persians that had come to him already decorated. He questioned why the mere ownership of such an object should be considered as hostile to Islam, and compared it to books in the judge’s own library, including a copy of Kalile o Demne, perhaps implying that the latter, too, was embellished.15 Disciples of the Sufi Hallâj, executed for heresy in 922, are said to have owned books written in gold on fine Chinese paper that were bound with leather and Chinese silks.16 13 D. James, Qur’ans and Bindings, pp. 27–28. 14 J. Pedersen, The Arabic Book, p. 94. 15 Tabari, The History, vol. XXXIII, tr. C. E. Bosworth (Albany, 1991), pp. 187–88. 16 J. Pedersen, The Arabic Book, p. 103.

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Perhaps because of such associations, the practice of combining illumination with literary texts appears to have come about only gradually in the 11th to 13th centuries. Subsequently, the physical contrast between Qur’anic and literary manuscripts became relative rather than absolute. From the late 13th century onward, the latter increasingly acquired decorated opening pages, colophons, and section headings, although these were usually simpler than the ones in lavishly decorated Qur’ans of a given period. Books with a strong religious content such as those describing the Prophet’s physical attributes and virtues may have been among the earliest non-Qur’anic texts to acquire illuminated frontispieces, often in the form of inscribed medallions, as well as gilded frames around the text’s opening pages and chapter headings enclosed in decorative panels. An Arabic manuscript, now in Leiden, describing the Prophet and extolling his virtues, copied at Ghazne around 1050 by Abu-Bakr Mohammad Varrâq for a Ghaznavid amir, exemplifies this process. A well-written manuscript with extensive illumination on its opening pages and at intervals throughout the text, it is a luxury book prepared by a professional scribe and illuminator.17 The career of Mohammad b. Ali Râvandi (b. ca 1165), best known as the author of the Râhat al-sodur, a history of the Saljuq dynasty, exemplifies the transfer of artistic modes from religious to literary texts. As a youth he was trained to copy, illuminate, and bind Qur’an manuscripts, skills which he later put to use at the court of Toghrel b. Arslân for whom he decorated both a Qur’an and a poetic anthology.18 In later centuries, the modes of ornamentation used in Qur’ans continued to provide models for those in secular texts. The practice of enhancing a literary manuscript with illustrations appears to have gained popularity even more gradually in Islamic Persia. Its early stages are difficult to reconstruct, especially since paintings are the most idiosyncratic feature of an elaborate 17 S. M. Stern, “A Manuscript from the Library of the Ghaznawid Amir ’Abd al-Rashid,” in R. Pinder-Wilson, ed., Paintings from Islamic Lands (Columbia S. C., 1969), pp. 7–31. 18 A. H. Morton, “The Mu’nis al-ahrar and Its Twenty-ninth Chapter,” in M. L. Swietochowski and S. Carboni, eds., Illustrated Poetry and Epic Images (New York, 1994), pp. 49–66.

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literary manuscript. Not only do the illustrations of a single literary text produced at different times or in various locations vary markedly, but even those in manuscripts produced at the same time and place are rarely consistent in their number and distribution within that text. This eccentric variability of illustrations is, however, obviously constrained or shaped by historical, cultural, and financial factors, including the understanding of a given text at a particular time and place, the pictorial skill of its illustrator(s), and the funds expended for labor and materials. Art historians have sought to explain the appearance of Persian illustrated manuscripts in Islamic Persia by hypothesizing a connection to now lost Sasanid or Manichaean illustrated texts. Buddhism has also been proposed as a stimulus to pictorial development in Persia. A new line of inquiry was opened by the archaeological recovery of wall-paintings dating to the 5th through 8th century at Sogdian sites in Transoxiana. Although most of the wall-paintings excavated at Afrasiyab, Panjikent or Varakhsha are probably connected with local cult practices or traditions, their style blends Sasanid and Indian elements with even more distant echoes of GrecoRoman or Chinese art. Some Sogdian wall-paintings depict events drawn from epics similar to those which circulated orally in Sasanid Persia while others narrate stories of Indian and Mediterranean origin. This has led scholars to hypothesize the existence of lost Sogdian illustrated manuscripts which could have been known in the Islamic period. Others have suggested that the paintings in Persian manuscripts from the late 12th or 13th centuries are somehow connected to those of Sogdia, without specifying how a pictorial tradition could have seemingly disappeared in the 7th or 8th century only to reappear hundreds of years later.19 Although these hypotheses have merit, other factors may have contributed to the relatively late development of illustrated Persian literary manuscripts. The first is that despite occasional descriptions of pre-Islamic illustrated books contained in Islamic sources, 19

G. Azarpay, Soghdian Painting (Berkeley, 1981), pp. 170–84; J. Raby, “The Earliest Illustrations of Kalilah wa Dimnah,” pp. 18–22.

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such manuscripts appear to have been rare in Sasanid Persia. Furthermore, the existence of wall-paintings in Sogdia depicting scenes from fables or epics does not, by itself, prove that illustrated manuscripts of such works were common there in the pre-Islamic period. Those depictions could also reflect the popularity of portable paintings on cloth used by story-tellers as an adjunct to their oral recitations, a practice well-documented in India, China, and Central Asia during the pre-Islamic period. 20 References to the existence of wall-paintings in Persian literature of the early Islamic period appear to far outnumber those mentioning the existence of illustrated manuscripts during the same time. Aside from descriptions of wall-paintings in Ferdowsi’s Shahname itself, one of the most telling accounts concerns a local ruler in Tabaristan who liked to listen to recitals of this epic, accompanied by music, in a special room decorated with scenes from those same stories. 21 Although all traces of this palace have vanished, two early 13th century drinking vessels covered with small paintings depicting the story of Faridun and his sons, and another showing the love story of Bizhan and Manizhe in rows of superimposed images, could also have served as an adjunct to the recital of such tales. 22 Tiles illustrating themes from the Shahname have also been recovered through the excavation of a 13th century Ilkhanid palace at Takht-e Soleymân. 23 The general popularity of themes from the epic tradition may thus have been a stimulus to the development of illustrated Shahname manuscripts. Another important motive for illustrating a text was to enhance its didactic value by holding the viewer’s attention and drawing attention to important passages. Both Kalile o Demne 20 V.H. Mair, Painting and Performance (Honolulu, 1988), pp. 39–52. 21 A. Eqbâl Âshtiyâni, “Naqsh va negâr-e dâstânhâ-ye Irân (The illustration of stories in Persia),” in Majmu’e-ye maqâlât (Tehran, 1971), pp. 551–59. 22 M. S. Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang (Washington D. C., 1997); B. Schmitz, “A Fragmentary Mīnā’ī Bowl with Scenes from the Shāh­ nāma,” in R. Hillenbrand, ed., The Art of the Saljūqs (Costa Mesa, 1994), pp. 155–64. 23 A. S. Melikian-Chirvani, “Le Livre des Rois, Miroir du Destin,” Studia Iranica 17 (1988), pp. 7–46.

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and the Shahname, for example, offered instruction about the accomplishments and misdeeds of past rulers and could, therefore, be used to educate future leaders. The possible edificatory role of paintings was especially important since illustrated manuscripts were often produced with court patronage. The 13th century marks an important turning point in the history of Persian manuscript production, for it coincides with the earliest surviving illustrated Persian literary manuscripts as well as the Mongol conquest of Persia. Among these is the unique copy of Ayyuqi’s romantic epic Varqe o Golshâh, which was transcribed and illustrated by the same person, Abd-al-Mo’men of Khoy, probably in Konya. His numerous paintings, although schematic in their treatment of architecture and landscape, often attain a lyrical power and emotional intensity that accords well with this story of doomed lovers. 24 The emergence of Anatolia in the 13th century as an important center for the production of luxurious copies of Persian literary texts is indicative of the region’s rich literary culture under the Saljuqs of Rum.25 The historical importance of books produced there has also been enhanced by the destructive impact of the Mongol invasions on libraries and collections in regions further to the east. Shortly after his death, the almost religious veneration accorded to the poetry of Jalâl-al-Din Rumi (1207–73) had stimulated the production of richly illuminated copies of his Mathnavi-ye ma’navi such as the one dated to 1278, which has remained at his tomb in Konya, and the one now in Vienna. The decoration of these manuscripts is clearly modeled on that of contemporary Anatolian Qur’ans. 26 The Mongol invasions were also significant in other ways for the history of Persian luxury manuscripts. Despite the initial destruction caused by those conquests, the consolidation of Mongol control in Persia during the second half of the 13th century by the 24 Idem, “Le Roman de Varqe et Golšāh,” Arts Asiatiques 22 (1970), pp. 1–262. A. Daneshvari, Animal Symbolism in Warqa wa Gulshāh (Oxford, 1986). 25 F. Richard, Splendeurs persanes, pp. 38–39. 26 Z. Tanındı, “Tarihli en Eski Mesnevi’nin Tezhipleri,” Kültür ve Sanat 2/8, pp. 17–22; D. Duda, Islamische Handschriften I, pp. 219–21 and II, pls. 297–303; D. James, Qur’ans and Bindings, p. 89.

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Ilkhanid branch of the Chingizids permitted a gradual revival of cultural life, especially in the cities of Tabriz, Maraghe, Isfahan, and Shiraz. Certain destructive aspects of these conquests such as elimination of the Abbasid caliphate ultimately served to raise the prestige of both Persian luxury books and of Persian centers of manuscript production. Although luxury manuscripts, particularly those containing illustrations, had long been linked to princely courts, in the post-Abbasid period the association between rulers and luxury books became even more intimate and multifaceted. Spurred perhaps by the removal of the system of dynastic legitimization formerly provided by the Abbasid caliphs, rulers sought new symbolic methods of expressing their status. In the course of the 14th century, the production of luxury books appears to have emerged as an important and often competitive index of royal ­prestige. The new importance to court life of illuminated and illustrated manuscripts appears clearly with the Ilkhans Ghâzân and Öljeytu, and their sponsorship of the composition of a wide-ranging history, the Jâme’ al-tavârikh, which linked the Chingizids and the Ilkhans with the histories of the world’s other major dynasties. Although the composition of the Jâme’ al-tavârikh, and ultimately its preparation in luxurious illustrated volumes, was entrusted to their vizier, Rashid-al-Din, the book’s link with dynastic legitimization is nevertheless strikingly evident. No complete 14th century copy of this text has survived, but indirect evidence shows that the book was intended to contain depictions of notable Mongol conquests along with ceremonial portraits of the Chingizid and Ilkhanid rulers. The broad cultural horizons of the Ilkhanids, in particular their connections with East Asia as a result of their kinship with the Yüan dynasty of China, are also reflected in the paintings that were added to various copies of their court manuscripts. This is particularly clear in those portions of Jâme’ al-tavârikh which deal with the history of China and India, but it also had a major impact on the more general conceptions of landscape painting elsewhere in this work. 27 The Ilkhanids’ broad interests are also evident in the 27 Sh. S. Blair, A Compendium of Chronicles (London, 1995), pp. 76–88.

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influence Chinese printed book illustrations had on some of the paintings found in a copy of Manâfe’ al-hayavân, probably produced for Ghâzân Khân. 28 The close association of manuscript production with court-life, evident in the production of the Jâme’ al-tavârikh and in the addition of elements derived from China to the repertoire of Persian manuscript illustrators, outlasted the Ilkhanid dynasty proper. Artistic connections between Persia and China may have been interrupted from time to time by the vacillating attitudes of China’s rulers towards contact with the outside world, but the impact of Chinese visual culture persisted in the 15th and 16th centuries, particularly in the development of ancillary modes of ornamentation for books such as gold-decorated paper and lacquer-painted bindings. Both of these media retained the imprint of Chinese taste well into the 17th century. 29 Despite an enduring fascination with the pictorial vocabulary of China evidenced by this development of a Persian tradition of “Chinoiserie,” the major importance of Ilkhanid manuscript patronage lay in the explicit connections established between dynastic aspirations and manuscript production which helped to shape the interest of many of the Mongols’ successors in this mode of expression. The production and illustration of their own dynastic histories by the Timurids, the Mughals, and the Sheybanid Uzbek rulers of Central Asia reflects and emulates the Ilkhanid practice. Illustrated dynastic histories in Persian were even prepared for some of the Ottoman Sultans. The creation of a dynastic history was not the only method by which a patron could use an illustrated manuscript to bolster his status; a text to which he had no intrinsic connection could also become a vehicle for messages about his status or aspirations. The 28 P. P. Soucek, “The Role of Landscape in Iranian Painting to the 15th Century,” in W. Watson, ed., Landscape Style in Asia (London, 1980); B. Schmitz, et. al., Islamic and Indian Manuscripts in The Pierpont Morgan Library (New York, 1997), pp. 9–24. 29 E. Grube, “Herat, Tabriz, Istanbul—The Development of a Pictorial Style,” in R. Pinder-Wilson, ed., Paintings from Islamic Lands (Columbia S.C., 1969).

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most obvious example is the Shahname of Ferdowsi which had an enduring fascination for Iran’s rulers, but copies of other literary texts, including mathnavis such as those by Nezâmi of Ganje, ­Khwâju of Kermân or Jâmi, and anthologies or majmu’es, could be adapted to serve a similar purpose. Sometimes a patron’s connection with a particular manuscript was as simple as sponsoring a copy which would open with the invocation of his personal titles or conclude with colophons extolling his virtues and wishing him a long life and good health. Other links could be forged when themes related to his personal circumstances were chosen to illustrate a particular copy, or through the introduction of his portrait in the guise of one of the heroic or legendary figures from Iran’s past. These modifications or adaptations could serve to endow texts written centuries earlier with a fresh and even personal significance, thereby transforming a particular manuscript of a widely copied text into a kind of personal, visual panegyric. The popularity of using manuscripts as vehicles for personal or dynastic self-expression among the ruling elite of Persia was probably increased by the practice, initiated during the fourteenth century, of producing illuminated and illustrated manuscripts in court-financed workshops. The more intimate connection thereby established between a court sponsor and resident calligraphers, binders, illuminators, and painters is evident in the overtly royal settings and themes selected by painters to illustrate the most popular texts of the period such as the romantic epics of Nezâmi, Khwâju of Kermân, and Amir Khosrow of Delhi. It is also manifested in the fact that some patrons participated in the creation of manuscripts. This practice, initiated perhaps by the Jalayerids, was followed by members of both the Timurid and Safavid dynasties. Among the Timurids, historical accounts and surviving documents indicate that both Bâysonghor b. Shâhrokh and Soltân Hoseyn (r. 1469–1506) were actively involved in the production of manuscripts at their courts.30 The practice may have reached its climax, 30 Th. Lentz and G. Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision (Los Angeles, 1989), pp. 159–67; A. Soudavar, Art of the Persian Courts (New York, 1992), pp. 85–86.

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however, with the Safavids Shâh Tahmâsp (r. 1524–76), his brother Bahrâm, and the latter’s son Ebrâhim Mirzâ, who are each said to have been accomplished in several of the skills needed for the production of a luxury manuscript.31 Integration of the production of Persian literary manuscripts with court life was practiced not only by other rulers of Persia, but even by dynasties for whom Persian was the language of culture and not of everyday speech: the Ottomans, the Sheybanids, the Mughals, and even the Âdel-Shâhis of Bijapur and the QotbShâhis of Golconde and Hyderabad. Many of these rulers maintained ties with Persian culture through the recruitment of skilled Persian practitioners of the book arts for their respective court workshops as well as through the purchase or commissioning of books in ­Persia. The direct or indirect involvement of patrons in the production of manuscripts and their appreciation of the crafts involved may also have encouraged the increasing physical elaboration evident among luxury manuscripts in the post-Mongol period. The text can be interspersed with ornamented panels, written on or framed by colored and decorated paper, enclosed in a gilded or lacquerpainted cover, and interspersed with well-executed paintings. The growing self-consciousness of book production is also evident in the development during the 16th and 17th centuries of a genre of literature devoted to explaining the skills needed for such composite creations and recording the accomplishments of various practitioners of the book arts.32 The close links which arose between court life and the production of elaborately decorated and illustrated manuscripts led to the creation of paintings which not only convey some facet of the text’s narrative but also carry supplementary messages related to the intellectual and literary concerns of a given court. Such paintings engage in a kind of pictorial dialogue with the text in which it is 31 I. Stchoukine, Les peintures des manuscrits safavis (Paris, 1959), pp. 12–25; M. S. Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, pp. 236–37. 32 Y. Porter, Peinture et arts du livre: essai sur la littérature technique indopersane (Paris, 1992).

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situated.33 This exploration of the power of images to communicate concepts or moods arose with particular force in Herat at the court of the last important Timurid ruler, Soltân Hoseyn Mirzâ, where the connoisseurship of the book arts reached new heights. The refined skills of Herati painters such as Behzâd are particularly identified with these developments.34 The collapse of Timurid power after the death of Soltân Hoseyn, and the subsequent conquest of Herat by first the Safavids and then the Uzbeks appear to have ended this phase of the city’s intellectual and artistic life, but texts by a cluster of authors from Timurid Herat including Abd-al-Rahmân Jâmi, Badr-al-Din Helâli, AbdAllâh Hâtefi, Hoseyn Kâshefi, and Hoseyn Gâzorgâhi were frequently copied and illustrated during the 16th century in various centers of Persian culture. The Timurid artistic legacy was catalytic in the development of manuscript workshops among the Safavids, the Uzbek rulers in Central Asia, and the Mughals in India. Among these three, the book arts at the court of the Sheybanid Uzbeks are most clearly derivative of the Herat tradition both in the texts selected for illustration and in the manner in which such books were decorated and illustrated.35 Skilled practitioners from Herat also helped to lay the foundations for the Safavid manuscript workshop initially centered in Tabriz but later moved to Qazvin and finally to Isfahan. Manuscripts produced for members of the Safavid family and their close associates are unparalleled in the richness of their ornamentation and the refinement of their illustrations, textual illuminations, calligraphy and gilded or lacquer-painted bindings. Even a book’s paper became a delight to the senses as the written surface was 33 R. Milstein, “Sufi Elements,” in M. Rosen-Ayalon, ed., Studies in Memory of Gaston Wiet (Jerusalem, 1977), pp. 356–70; A. S. Melikian-Chirvani, “Khwâje Mirak Naqqâsh,” JA 1988, pp. 97–145. 34 E. Bahari, Bihzad: Master of Persian Painting (London, 1996). 35 M. M. Ashrafi-Aini, “The School of Bukhara to c. 1550,” in B. Gray, ed., The Arts of the Book in Central Asia (Paris, 1979), pp. 260–70; K. Rührdanz, “Arts of the Book in Central Asia,” in J. Kalter and M. Pavaloi, eds., Uzbekistan (London, 1997), pp. 104–8; Y. Porter, “Remarques sur la peinture à Boukhara au XVIe siècle,” in Cahiers d’Asie Centrale 5–6, pp. 147–67.

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often framed by gold-sprinkled or gold-painted borders. Producing such a richly ornamented book was so arduous that the court workshops seem to have taken several years to complete some of their masterpieces. The Shahname of Shâh Tahmâsp, now dispersed in various collections, once had 261 paintings on its 759 folios, and their range of styles and quality suggests that many painters were involved in this project.36 The best of Safavid ­manuscript illustrations in this Shahname and in a handful of other court manuscripts combine detailed renditions of architecture, idealized landscapes and a wealth of colorful figures skillfully placed within the composition to produce subtle messages about the text they accompany. Safavid painters created images which can be viewed as allegorical or even satirical, as for example the scene of a tavern patronized by both human and celestial celebrants in a copy of Hâfez’s Divân painted around 1525 for a member of that dynasty.37 The brilliance of Safavid court manuscripts set a standard which was emulated but rarely equaled by other painters in Persia and elsewhere. Involvement of members of the Safavid dynasty in the production of manuscripts had an impact far beyond their courts, and served to raise the overall importance of paintings among the arts of the book. Another manifestation of that higher status was creation of album-like compilations known as moraqqa’s which contained paintings and specimens of calligraphy sometimes arranged in pairs on alternating folios or organized in a rough chronological sequence, thereby creating an abbreviated history of the book arts. The flexibility of the moraqqa’ format made it possible to create personal anthologies of beautifully calligraphed texts and selected paintings mounted on or framed by richly decorated paper. Albums first became popular in the fifteenth century but were even more characteristic of the Safavid era when their use spread both westward to the Ottoman world and eastward to Central Asia and the Indian Subcontinent. Some of the most splendid of these “por36 M. B. Dickson and S. C. Welch, The Houghton Shahnama, 2 vols. (Cambridge Mass., 1981). 37 S. C. Welch, Persian Painting (New York, 1976), pp. 68–69.

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table museums” were prepared for the Mughal rulers of India during the late 16th and early 17th centuries.38 The growing popularity of albums containing short poetic texts during the 16th century parallels and perhaps reflects the importance of the “Indian style” among poets who sometimes included descriptions of decorated headings or individual paintings in their poetry, which suggest an animation of an album’s contents. The face of the beloved may be compared to the gold and lapis lazuli surface of an illuminated page, or verses may comment on the kind of anonymous and stereotypical images of young women often included in albums. One poet claims that the floral design of the pillow on which a beauty leans is perfumed by her presence and that the patterns in the rug beneath her feet are animated by her touch.39 Court-produced and court-sponsored manuscripts were the locus of the most creative practitioners of the book arts, and royal manuscripts, understandably, have been of particular interest to both modern scholars and collectors. Nevertheless, during the 14th to 17th centuries, well-written, decorated, and even illustrated copies of Persian literary texts also became available on a more popular or commercial level through the production and distribution of multiple copies. It is not yet possible to follow the stages of this process in detail nor to define it with numbers, but a trend from the 14th to the 16th centuries toward an ever increasing volume of manuscript production and its ever wider distribution is shown by the numerous Persian literary texts in libraries and collections around the world. Many bear evidence of having been produced for, or owned, by persons living far beyond Iran’s modern boundaries. It was during the 14th to 17th centuries that Shiraz served as the predominant center of Persian manuscript production. Although Shirazi scribes, illuminators, bookbinders and painters may have at first produced books commissioned by local patrons, over time 38 M. C. Beach, The Grand Mogul: Imperial Painting in India: 1600–1660 (Williamstown, 1978), pp. 43–59, 71–77; S. C. Welch, et al., The Emperors’ Album: Images of Mughal India (New York, 1988). 39 M.-R. Shafi’i-Kadkani, “Persian Literature (Belles-Lettres),” in G. Morrison, ed., History of Persian Literature (Leiden, 1981), pp. 154–57.

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the volume of their production increased to meet the demands of an expanding clientele in Anatolia, Central Asia, the Indian Subcontinent, and even the Arabic speaking regions of the Near East. Shiraz thus became a cultural hub connecting the widely scattered practitioners of Persian literature with their equally dispersed audience. Shiraz manuscripts of the 14th and 15th centuries are characterized by their well-executed calligraphy and distinctive illumination in which gold floral ornament appears alternately against deep blue and white backgrounds, a decorative repertoire that is a simpler version of that used in Shiraz Qur’an manuscripts of the same period.40 By the late 15th century gold often replaced white as the contrasting color to blue in this illumination.41 During the 15th and early 16th centuries the impact of Shiraz on the development of luxury books was further broadened by the migration of locally trained scribes, illuminators and painters to other regions, particularly to Anatolia and the Indian Subcontinent, with the result that the illumination and illustrations of manuscripts produced in those regions often reflect those current in Shiraz. The impact of Shirazi illumination was particularly evident in the Ottoman Empire. Persian literary manuscripts produced for the sultans at their court in Istanbul continued to use decorative schemes established by Shiraz scribes into the 1560’s.42 At a more popular level, the techniques of Shirazi illumination persisted even longer as can be seen from a manuscript of Rumi’s Mathnavi copied in 1635, probably in Bosnia.43 The complex role played by the manuscript workshops of Shiraz in the dissemination and popularization of Persian literature is particularly evident in its historical links with the Indian Subcontinent. Although the development of Persian literary culture in India followed the military and political expansion initiated by 40 M. Lings, The Quranic Art of Calligraphy and Illumination (Westerham, 1976), pls. 80–83; F. Richard, Splendeurs persanes, pp. 59–67, 75. 41 D. James, Qur’ans and Bindings, pp. 77–78; F. Richard, ibid., pp. 114, 136. 42 E. Atıl, The Brush of the Masters: Drawings from Iran and India (Washington D. C., 1978), pp. 67, 71–72. 43 J. M. Rogers, The Empire of the Sultans (Geneva, 1988), pp. 100–101.

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the Ghaznavid and Ghurid dynasties during the 11th to 13th centuries, the earliest surviving Persian literary manuscripts produced in the region appear to be from the 15th century. Prior to that time, authors who lived and wrote in India are known through manuscripts produced elsewhere.44 The crucial role played by Shirazi practitioners of the book arts is strikingly evident in that city’s links to Amir Khosrow of Delhi (1253–1324) and his works. The oldest known manuscript of his Khamse, dated to 1355, was copied in Shiraz. Furthermore, this Khamse’s earliest known illustrated version, probably dated to the late 14th century, also has paintings executed in a Shiraz idiom.45 Poetic anthologies produced in Shiraz during the late 14th and early 15th centuries often include selections from Amir Khosrow’s verses as well as those by his lesser known contemporary, Amir Hasan of Delhi, a practice which must have helped to popularize their work in Persia. The modes of calligraphy, illumination, and illustration developed in 14th to 16th century Shiraz were also catalytic in the development of book-making in various regions of the Subcontinent including western India, the Deccan, and Bengal. In some cases the Shirazi features evident in manuscripts of documented Indian manufacture must be due to the presence of Persian-trained craftsmen, but in other cases the connections appear to be more indirect and may have arisen from a use of Shiraz models by local scribes and illuminators in developing their own styles and techniques. Notable examples of the “international Shiraz” style are a Persian dictionary and a cook-book produced in Mandu during the early 16th century, and the copy of Nezâmi’s Sharaf-nâme made in Bengal for Nosrat Khân in 1583.46 44 J. P. Losty, The Art of the Book in India (London, 1982), pp. 40–43; S. Digby, “The Literary Evidence for Painting in the Delhi Sultanate,” Bulletin of the American Academy of Benares 1 (1967), pp. 47–58. 45 H. Suleiman and F. Suleimanova, Miniatures and Illuminations of Amir Hosrov Dehlevi’s Works (Tashkent, 1983), pp. 27–28, pls. 1–13, 87–88. 46 J. P. Losty, The Art of the Book in India, pp. 66–67, nos. 40–41; R. Skelton “The Iskandar Nama of Nusrat Shah,” in Indian Painting (London, 1978), pp. 133–52.

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The emergence of a distinctive and hybrid artistic tradition at the court of the Mughal rulers Akbar, Jehângir, and Shâh Jehân from the mid-16th to mid-17th century inaugurates the third phase in the development of Persian literary manuscripts, a period characterized by the broadening horizons of Persian literary culture. The frequent movement of poets, painters, calligraphers, and other practitioners of the book arts from one patron or region to another also helped to synchronize artistic developments in the various places where Persian literature was created or appreciated. In the Indian Subcontinent the most important source of patronage of Persian literary manuscripts was, of course, the Mughal court where Persian continued to be the language of court culture until the dynasty’s end in the 19th century. Mughal artists were affected by Timurid modes in their construction of visual narratives as well as by the meticulously structured and harmonious compositions characteristic of Safavid artists. Texts illustrated ranged from Mughal dynastic histories such as the Akbar-nâme, to the classics of Persian literature including texts by Sa’di, Nezâmi, Jâmi, and Khosrow of Delhi to Indian works translated into Persian. Mughal painting is also infused with a dynamic energy reflecting local Indian traditions and with a concern for verisimilitude using techniques adopted from the work of European artists, features which set it apart from manuscripts produced in Safavid Persia.47 The importance of Mughal India as a center for the production of Persian literary texts has been well-known for some time, but the extent to which Persian texts were copied, illuminated, and illustrated in other centers of the Subcontinent is only gradually emerging. Texts and manuscripts from Persia also had a particular vogue among the Qotb-Shâhi dynasty of Golconde and ­Hyderabad which traced its ancestry to the Qara-Qoyunlu rulers of western Persia. Even texts composed in Deccani Urdu such as the Kolliyât of Mohammad-Qoli Qotb-Shâh were copied, illuminated, and 47 M. C. Beach, The Grand Mogul; idem, “Mughal and Rajput Painting,” in The New Cambridge Histit of India I/3 (Cambridge, 1992); and idem, “Persian Culture and Mughal Painting,” in A. Soudavar, ed., Art of the Persian Courts (New York, 1992), pp. 303–63.

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even illustrated in a manner that has clear links to the book-­making traditions of Persia. Some of these connections must have been due to the presence of Persian émigré craftsmen in the Deccan, but other details suggest that the dynasty possessed some “heirloom” manuscripts of Turkmen manufacture similar to the resplendent Khamse of Nezâmi produced for Turkmen patrons now in the Topkapi Sarayi Library, Istanbul, or a later Shiraz manuscript which replicated features of those 15th century paintings.48 Appreciation of Persian literature and a desire to own illustrated and illuminated copies of such texts prompted the development of manuscript workshops in several other cities in the Subcontinent including Lucknow, Multan, and Lahore. The most productive of these centers was Kashmir where profusely illustrated volumes were produced during the 18th and 19th centuries. Kashmiri manuscripts are notable for the fact that their illustrations often demonstrate a quite literal adherence to the wording of the text in question.49 Workshops producing copies of the Persian classics appear to have operated there on a commercial basis, and Kashmiri manuscripts are now widely scattered among the world’s collections, a testament to their popularity. With the shift of the Safavid capital to Isfahan in 1589, Shah Abbâs sought to make that city an international center of culture and commerce. Paintings produced there reflect the wider horizons of this period. Single-page paintings destined for inclusion in albums were particularly popular in 17th century Isfahan, although occasional illustrated manuscripts were still produced. Many follow Persian pictorial conventions, but by mid-century some artists had begun to specialize in images reflecting Indian or European tastes. Engravings were the primary source of inspiration for artists who sought inspiration in European art whether the goal was to produce single independent paintings or to illustrate a text.50 Links between 48 M. Zebrowski, Deccani Painting (Berkeley, 1983), pp. 159–68. 49 A. Adamova and T. Greck, Miniatures from Kashmirian Manuscripts (Lenin­grad, 1976), pp. 12–16. 50 Sh. Canby, “Farangi Saz: The Impact of Europe on Safavid Painting,” in Silk and Stone: the Art of Asia (London, 1996), pp. 46–59.

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Persia and Europe often seem to have been mediated through India, with the result that the two sources of inspiration are often mingled in paintings from 17th or 18th century Persia. Painters in both Persia and Central Asia included appropriately clad “Indian” figures, often executed in a style reflective of those developed at the Mughal or Deccani courts, into their otherwise “Persian” paintings.51 Some Isfahan painters, notably Sheykh Abbâsi and his sons, appear to have made a specialty of producing single page paintings, probably created for inclusion in moraqqa’s, of figures in Indian dress painted in a “Mughal” style.52 Texts composed in India such as Mohammad Now’i’s tale of doomed lovers Suz o Godâz were copied and illustrated in an “Indian” style at the Safavid capital Isfahan.53 A special cluster of manuscripts which are, for the mostpart, illustrated in a rather generic mid-17th century Isfahan style, contain texts in Judeo-Persian, including the much appreciated writings of the 14th-century poet, Shâhin of Shiraz.54 Although by the advent of the Qajar dynasty manuscripts were no longer the primary locus of court prestige and self-definition, notable specimens were still produced with royal patronage, particularly in the early decades of the 19th century. A key example of such projects is the Shâhanshâh-nâme by Fath-Ali Shâh’s court poet, Fath-Ali Khân Sabâ, which catalogues the dynasty’s military accomplishments in verse derived from the tradition of Ferdowsi; its illustrations highlight the victories of the shah and his son. Characteristically, this text was produced in multiple illustrated and illuminated copies for distribution to foreign heads of 51 E. Atıl, The Brush of the Masters, p. 75; E. A. Poliakova and Z. I. Rakhimova, L’Art de la miniature de la littérature de l’Orient (Tashkent, 1987), pls. 92–96, 108–22; K. Rührdanz, “Arts of the Book in Central Asia,” pp. 108–12. 52 R. Skelton, in EIr, s.v. ‘Abbāsī, Šeyḵ; A. Soudavar, Art of the Persian Courts, pp. 365–68. 53 N. M. Titley, Persian Miniature Painting (Austin, 1983), pp. 121–23; F. Richard, Splendeurs persanes, p. 220. 54 V. B. Moreen, Miniature Paintings in Judaeo-Persian Manuscripts (Cincinnati, 1885); A. Taylor, “Imagining a Persian Community: Judeo-Persian Illustrated Manuscripts,” in Book Arts of Isfahan (Malibu, 1995), pp. 31–46.

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state.55 The 18th and 19th centuries also saw the continued production of moraqqa’s which combine paintings and texts of particular interest to a specific patron.56 Over the centuries the production of Persian luxury books evolved in consonance with interest in the literature itself spreading with its increasing geographical reach and mirroring trends in literary taste. A manuscript’s primary function was to record a text, but it could also serve other, non-literary needs, embodying an owner’s cultural attainments or reflecting the refinement of his taste. Manuscripts made for the rulers of Persia or of other regions where Persian literature was appreciated could carry messages of a personal or even dynastic character. As religious scruples about propriety of ornamenting literary texts faded, manuscripts acquired an increasing range of ornamentation until by the 15th and 16th centuries all aspects of a book—from the binding and calligraphy to the illuminations, illustrations, and even the paper—could combine to delight the viewer’s eye. The illustrations in Persian literary manuscripts were the freest of the arts of the book from the weight of tradition. If the texts illustrated are, for the most part, the classics of Persian literature, the addition of paintings could provide even a modestly produced manuscript with a degree of individuality. Paintings served a range of purposes from simple place markers to elaborations and even interpretations of the text in question. The beauty and sensual refinement of Persian literary manuscripts thus reflected and embodied the ideals of the cultural heritage they preserved and disseminated.

55 B. W. Robinson, Persian Paintings in the India Office Library (London, 1976), pp. 244–49; L. S. Diba and M. Ekhtiyar, Royal Persian Paintings (Brooklyn, 1998), no. 33, 171–73. 56 L. S. Diba and M. Ekhtiyar, ibid., pp. 163–67, 176–78.

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Chapter 15 Manuscripts in the Domains  of the Persian Language I. Afshar

1. The Oldest Manuscript The script currently used in Persia grew out of the Arabic alphabet in the first centuries of Islam when the Persians adopted it to write and copy letters, documents, contracts and books.1 The Zoroastrians however continued to use the Pahlavi script until about the 10th–11th centuries and the Persian Jews employed an adapted form of the Hebrew alphabet for Persian translations of the Bible, other works of Judaeo-Persian literature, correspondence and bookkeeping. Pahlavi script has also been found in an inscription on the tower of Râdakân in Gorgan (built between in 1016 and 1020) and on the graves of Muslim rulers in Lâjim (dated 1022–23/413 Q.) and Raskat in Mazandaran. 2 The oldest dated Persian manuscript preserved in its entirety is Ketâb al-abniya an haqâ’eq al-adviya (The True Foundations of Medicines), a pharmacological textbook written by Abu-Mansur Movaffaq b. Ali of Herat. The poet Asadi of Tus (the author of the Garshâsp-nâme) copied this manuscript in 1056 on thick whitish-

1 The survey in chapters 15, 16, and 17 includes the wider area where Persian language and culture have been current, but works in Arabic, even when they were written or copied by Persians, are not discussed here. For full bibliographical details of references, please consult the bibliography, except when full details are provided in the footnotes. 2 A. Tafazzoli, Târikh-e adabiyyât-e pish az eslâm (Tehran, 1997), pp. 105–6.

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yellow paper, usually called Samarqandi.3 The city of Samarkand was the first place to export good quality paper. Both on account of its paper and its writing, this manuscript should be taken as a basis for the codicological study of Persian manuscripts. The manuscript shows several conventions followed by the Persian scribes at least from the 11th century onwards. Since Asadi was a native of Tus, in the province of Khorasan, the paper used for this manuscript must accordingly be one of the types of papers manufactured there, to which Ebn-Nadim refers in the Ketâb al-fehrest (987 ce). It has been accepted by many scholars that, after the battle of Talâs (or Tarâz) in the summer of 751,4 the paper industry was introduced to Persia by Chinese prisoners of war, who taught the art of papermaking to the inhabitants of Samarqand.5 Both Ebn-Nadim’s phrasing and his terminology point to the circulation of different kinds of paper in Khorasan, called collectively “Khorasanian sheets” (al-varaq al-khorâsâni); most of the varieties he specifies were named after persons of political importance in Khorasan and Transoxiana: Soleymâni (after Soleymân b. Râshid, the treasurer of Khorasan under Hârun-alRashid), Talhi (after Talhe b. Tâher, the second ruler of the Tâherid dynasty), Nuhi (after the Sâmânid Nuh I, r. 942–54), Ja’fari (after Ja’far b. Yahyâ b. Khâled Barmaki, vizier of Hârun-al-Rashid).6 The script used in this manuscript is a clear and accurate naskh. Orthographic features observed almost throughout the text are the placing of three dots under the letters sin (to distinguish it from the 3 The manuscript is kept in the National Library of Austria, Vienna (No. AF 340). The text was first published by F. R. Seligmann (Vienna, 1859), and then by A. Bahmanyâr and H. Mahbubi Ardakâni (Tehran, 1967). Facsimiles were published partially by the Bonyâd-e Farhang-e Irân (Tehran, 1965), and in its entirety in the Codices Selecti Series, No. 35 (Graz, 1972), with an introd. by Ch. H. Talbot. 4 C. E. Bosworth, EI2, s.v. Ṭarāz. 5 Cl. Huart/A. Grohmann, EI2, s.v. Kâghad. Chinese paper was known in Persia already in Sasanid times (cf. CHI 3(1), pp. 552, 622). 6 Ebn-Nadim, Fehrest, p. 23. See further: K. Avvâd, “al-Varaqa va’l-kâghadh;” H. Zayât, “Sohof al-ketâba va senâ’at al-varaq fi’l-eslâm;” M. T. al-Hâjeri, “al-Varaq va’l-verâqa,” pp. 135–38; I. Afshar, “Kâghadh dar motun-e pishineye fârsi.”

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letter shin) and kâf (to indicate the pronunciation g), and three dots above fâ’ (to represent a speech sound between f and v). The scribe used calligraphic Kufic script for the name of the book on the title page and the word bâb ‘chapter’ in the headings inside the text.7 The size of the paper used in this manuscript is 14 × 18.5 cm. This must have been the original size of the paper as it was made and folded. Since in those days paper was scarce and expensive, apparently not much was cut off the paper’s edge, and it was not a common practice to produce artificial sizes according to one’s individual choice.8 In this manuscript, the scribe has avoided writing one or two words of a sentence on a separate line and leaving the rest of the line blank; he preferred to add these few words in the margin of the page. In this way, he could not only save paper, but also allow for the aesthetic composition of the page (see for instance pages 134 and 152 of the manuscript). Apparently the same technical names were used for the sizes of the manuscripts and the types of paper. The names for paper-sizes were different through the ages. The largest paper-size current among the Persians was called “royal” (soltâni) and the smallest “armlet-like” (bâzu-bandi).9 Pages without headings have thirteen lines in the Abniya manuscript. The subtitles are written in vermilion (shangarf) or in a greenish color without any distinction or space between the subjects. Pharmacological terms are marked by a black or a vermilion line above the terms, so that the reader’s eye can catch these terms more easily. The sentences are separated from each other by three dots in the shape of a triangle, or four dots in the shape of a lozenge, 7 See J. Matini, “Rasm-al-khatt-e fârsi dar qarn-e panjom-e hejri.” 8 H. Zayât, “Sohof al-ketâba,” discusses the scarcity and the prices of paper. 9 For a first assessment of the sizes of Persian manuscripts in comparison to European sizes, in centimeters, see M. T. Dâneshpazhuh, in Fehrest-e ketâbkhâne-ye markazi-ye Dâneshgâh-e Tehrân III, pp. x–xiii, where the names of nine different sizes are mentioned. M. Bayâni, Ketâbshenâsi, pp. 13–14, mentions the same terms. In my article “Manuscript and Paper Sizes Cited in Persian and Arabic Texts,” in Essays in Honour of Ṣalâḥ alDîn al-Munajjid (London, 2002), thirty-three terms for the sizes of papers and books, which I found in old texts or stumbled upon in manuscripts, are mentioned together with references. See also idem, in Nâme-ye Bahârestân, 5/2 (2004) pp. 27–36.

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always in red. One of the special features of this scribe’s work is the indication of the number of the terms mentioned in each chapter in Arabic numbers at the left side of the titles. The pages, folios, and quires (kerâsa) have no numbers. There are no custodes paginarum (rekâba), which in many manuscripts serve to maintain the correct order of the sheets. Adding a custos meant that the first word on the next (left) page was written at the bottom of the preceding (right) page; it helped to restore the original arrangement, should the sheets be thrown into disorder. It also assured the reader that the text on two successive pages was connected and that there were no sheets missing.

2. The Copying of Manuscripts There are many differences and variations of copying in later manuscripts, depending on the period, even in the 19th century, with respect to the script, decoration, illumination, binding, etc. Scribes, binders, illustrators and illuminators worked according to their own regional style and the writing materials available to them. Persian manuscripts originate mainly from five regions: Persia, Transoxiana, India, Ottoman Anatolia, and the Islamic areas of China. Through the ages, different styles have been developed in each of these regions. The obvious evidence showing the place where a manuscript has been copied is naturally its colophon, if any place-name is mentioned. References to the birthplace of the scribe can also be helpful to pinpoint the place where a manuscript has been copied. In a manuscript without a colophon, the place of origin can be identified by examining the type of script, the style of the decoration, and sometimes the kind of paper. Most of the extant old Persian manuscripts are from cities in the province of Khorasan. Among the scripts used in old manuscripts (until the 15th century), especially those written in Transoxiana and within the borders of present-day Persia, there are several differences as far as the orthography and phonetics of words are ­concerned. However, there are no clear discrepancies in the manner 411

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and the composition of the script. With the appearance of nasta’liq, in each of these areas a specific style in writing this script became customary. In contrast, no considerable difference can be seen in the various forms of naskh. It is because of the stylistic differences in the writing of nasta’liq that we can easily distinguish manuscripts written in Persia from those copied in India, ­Transoxiana, and Anatolia. Apart from a geographical classification, the development of the styles normally used in Persian manuscripts (disregarding the style of headings and other idiosyncrasies of a particular scribe) can be described historically as follows: first, the manuscripts written in a style, derived from Kufic, which can be defined as “early naskh.” The earliest example is the previously discussed Abniya manuscript. Perhaps the style identified by Ebn-Nadim as firâmuz (possibly the Arabicized of pirâmuz) and attributed in particular to Persian usage, was still quite close to Kufic, and gradually changed into naskh. It should be noted that Ebn-Nadim considers firâmuz to be a style for copying the Qur’an, which he mentions together with the Isfahani style of writing.10 Evidently, the latter was a style used in the area of Isfahan for copying manuscripts, or was introduced in Baghdad by people who came from Isfahan. In any event, we cannot say with certainty which of the manuscripts and inscriptions were written in this specific style. Second, were manuscripts copied in ta’liq and “broken” ta’liq (ta’liq‑e shekaste). These styles became current from the end of the 12th century onward. It should be added also that styles such as tholth, mohaqqaq, and reyhân were used in Persian manuscripts for headings and titles of chapters to capture the reader’s attention. The third stage is the use of naskh, which was more common than any other style in Persian manuscripts for the entire area inhabited by Persian speaking people, especially before the appearance of nasta’liq. Although the fourth stage was dominated by the nasta’liq style, copying Persian manuscripts in naskh did not disappear entirely. It may be said, however, that almost all literary texts and manu10 Ebn-Nadim, Fehrest, p. 9; some manuscripts read qirâmuz.

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scripts that one wanted to have a better appearance were written in nasta’liq. Ya’qub Sarrâj of Shiraz states in his Tohfat al-mohebbin, completed in 1454, that nasta’liq was at the time used in two different styles, Shirâzi and Tabrizi. The Tabrizi style was founded in Tabriz by Mir Ali of Tabriz and was developed and refined there by Ja’far Bâysonghori of Tabriz. In the same period, the writing of nasta’liq also became popular in Shiraz. At that time, the term nasta’liq was not yet commonly used. Sarrâj repeatedly refers to it as naskh-ta’liq.11 After nasta’liq, the manner of writing called “broken” nasta’liq (shekaste-nasta’liq) appeared, but this style could not replace nasta’liq in the copying of manuscripts. The shekaste style was mainly used for epistolary writings, although there are splendid examples of shekaste-nasta’liq in tahriri manuscripts (i.e., manuscripts made by an author or a scribe for his own private use, in contrast to ketâbati manuscripts that were commissioned or prepared to be offered to a person of high status).12 In the orthography of Persian manuscripts, variations can be noticed which are partly due to the gradual development of the script, and partly to the regional customs and phonetic particularities of the scribe’s local dialect.13 A conspicuous aspect of Persian manuscripts is the use of the Arabic letters bâ, jim, ze, and kâf in Persian words for the phonemes p, ch, zh and g, respectively, which Arabic does not possess. Scribes used different ways to write these letters and sometimes we find in old manuscripts that these four letters are written in the same way as in modern Persian. 11 Sarrâj of Shiraz, Tohfat al-mohebbin, pp. 142, 253. 12 For concise surveys of Persian and Arabic books on the history of calligraphy see Gh.-H. Yusofi in EIr, s.v. Calligraphy; A. Schimmel, Islamic Calligraphy (Leiden, 1970); Habib-Allâh Fazâyeli, Atlas-e khatt (Isfahan, 1971). 13 On the orthographic variants in Persian manuscripts see: J. Matini, “Rasmal-khatt-e fârsi;” idem, “Tahavvol-e rasm-al-khatt;” idem, “Rasm-al-khatte bakhshi az Sharh-e Ta’arrof;” N. Mâyel-Heravi, Naqd va tashih-e motun; idem, Târikh-e noskhe-pardâzi; M. Rowshan, “Tamhidât dar barrasi-ye shive-ye emlâ;” B. Tharvatiyân, “Naqsh-e alefbâ;” I. Afshar, “Matnhâ-ye fârsi va naql-e noskhehâ-ye khatti be châp-e enteqâdi.”

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Noteworthy are the spellings of words that reveal the pronunciation at the time when a manuscript was copied, such as ki, ânk, chonânk, instead of ke, ânke, and chonânke, currently used. Other important features in the manuscripts are spellings pointing to the local pronunciation of where a manuscript is copied—for instance sovâr ‘rider’, jovân ‘young’, and posar ‘boy’, instead of the later and current savâr, javân, and pesar—and differences in the connection and separation of words and their parts, for which there were, generally speaking, no fixed rules so that a scribe could follow his own way and was often not even consistent on the same page. Calligraphers and illuminators of the first rank and skillful binders prepared the exquisite “royal” and other splendid manuscripts. If a manuscript contained illustrations, painters also played a significant part. An excellent example of such a manuscript is the copy of Ferdowsi’s Shahname made for Shâh Tahmâsp I in about 1527, which has become known in the West as the “Houghton” Shahname. Several monographs were composed on the rules and conventions of calligraphy, particularly in the 15th and 16th centuries.14 They deal with the various styles and discuss their specific problems. Classical texts such as Râvandi’s Râhat al-sodur,15 KeyKavus’ Qâbus-nâme,16 Meyhani’s Dastur-e Dabiri,17 and Âmoli’s Nafâ’es-al-fonun fi ’arâyes al-’oyun18 also pay attention to this ­subject. Apart from the scribe, other people sometimes took part in the preparation of a manuscript, such as the border-drawers (jadvalkash), illuminators, painters, writers of headings, and finally the binder. The term varrâq, which in early texts, especially the Arabic ones, was added to personal names, was a title for people who were engaged in the copying and selling of manuscripts and paper. Al14 Several of these treatises were published by N. Mâyel-Heravi in the volume Ketâb-ârâ’i dar tamaddon-e eslâmi, and H. R. Qelichkhâni, Resâlâti dar khosh-nevisi; see also I. Afshar, “Resâle-ye khatt-e Khalil-e Tabrizi.” 15 Ed. M. Iqbal, pp. 437–47. 16 Ed. Gh.-H. Yusofi, pp. 207–15 (bâb 39). 17 Ed. A. S. Erzi. 18 See the chapter on the literary sciences and the art of writing in Shams-alDin Mohammad Âmoli, Nafâ’es al-fonun I, pp. 22–32.

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though the varrâqs were often copiers themselves, they also placed an order with other scribes to prepare a manuscript. Particularly famous was Abu-Amr Othmân b. Hoseyn of Ghazne, a scribe and illuminator who in 1073 copied the thirty parts (jozv) of the Qur’an. The calligraphy and illumination of these thirty parts is a perfect example of craftsmanship.19 Sometimes the expenses for making a manuscript were paid from the revenues of endowed property (mowqufât) which the founder had allocated especially for the copying of manuscripts, as was the case with the revenues from a bath at the Naqsh-e Jahân Square in Isfahan. 20

3. Paper The word kâghadh or kâghad (both spellings can be found in Arabic and Persian sources) for “paper” is generally considered to be Persian, but some scholars believe, on the basis of B. Laufer’s research, that the word is of Chinese origin. 21 The attribute k ­ âghadhi was attached to the names of people who manufactured and sold paper or whose ancestors had been in that trade. It is used also as a qualification for some nuts (walnuts and almonds) and certain fruits such as citron and apple, and a kind of cotton. In Persian literature words such as varaq (‘page’), qertâs (‘paper’), and bayâz (‘white sheet of paper’) are often used as synonyms of paper. As a metonym, kâghadh may refer to a letter or missive. 22 After Samarqand, the art of papermaking developed in other major cities of Persia, especially in Khorasan. According to Yâqut’s 19 A. Golchin-Ma’âni, Râhnamâ-ye Ganjina-ye Qur’an, p. 49. 20 See R. Ja’fariyân, Safaviye dar arse-ye din II, p. 753, on the MS. No. 4835 of the Mar’ashi Library in Qom, which was copied in 1684 funded from the incomes of this bath. 21 Cl. Huart/A. Grohmann in EI2, s.v. Kâghad; J. von Karabacek, Arab Paper, p. 29. 22 I. Afshar, “Kâghadh dar motun-e pishine-ye fârsi;” idem, Kâghadh dar zende­gi va farhang-e Irâni.

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geographical dictionary, written in 1224, the name of the village Khonâ (or Khonaj, near Miyâne) had changed into KâghadhKonân (‘paper-makers’) because it had become famous for the art of papermaking. 23 In the time of the Mongol Il-khanids, the vizier Rashid-ad-Din Fazl-Allâh founded a paper-mill (kâghadh-khâne) in the Rashidi Quarter of Tabriz. Here paper of an exquisite quality was produced, based on the standard of the paper made in Baghdad. 24 Our information about papermaking in Kerman, Isfahan, and other cities is related to later times up to the end of the Qajar period. Apart from the paper produced in Persia, Persian sources refer to the use of paper also from China, Damascus, Baghdad, Istanbul, and India. Among the Indian kinds of paper, those named Dowlatâbâdi, Kashmiri, and Âdelshâhi were particularly famous and much in demand. 25 Dyeing paper was one of the crafts sometimes used to increase the quality of paper for albums and expensive anthologies. In particular, scribes favored paper dyed in henna. 26 Before copying started the paper was dressed so that the pen would move smoothly across the paper and the scribe could write quickly. In completing a manuscript, sometimes a kind of thick and shining paper (kâghadh-e abri, literally ‘clouded paper’) was used for the lining of the cover, for making margins in scrapbooks (moraqqa’sâzi), and for the writing of occasional poems (qat’e-nevisi). 27

23 Yâqut, Mo’jam al-boldân II, p. 500. Currently, it is the name of a rural district in Khalkhâl, north of Miyâne. 24 Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh, Vaqf-nâme-ye Rab’-e Rashidi, pp. 204, 207, 238, and 240. 25 Sa’di, for instance, mentions “a sheet of paper from Baghdad” (Divân-e kâmel, Tehran, 1961, p. 739) and Amir Khosrow “paper from Damascus” (Qerân-al-sa’deyn, ed. Sayyed Hasan Barni, n.d., p. 228). 26 See I. Afshar, “Kâghadh dar motun-e pishine-ye fârsi.” 27 Y. Dhokâ’, “Kâghadh-e abri;” M. H. Semsâr in Dâyerât-al-ma’âref-e ­bozorg‑e eslâmi II (1989), pp. 570–74.

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4. Other Writing Materials Pens used in writing manuscripts were most often made from reed; their characteristics are described in treatises on calligraphy. The pens from Vaset (a town in Iraq near Basra) were famous. 28 The poet Khâqâni (1126–98) refers three times in his poetry to Egyptian pens. 29 According to Abu’l-Hasan Ali Beyhaqi (12th century), people in Khorasan and Mazandaran used pens from the village of Mehr-Beyhaq; he considers the pens from Gorgan and Herat inferior to them.30 In Persian texts, mention is made also of steel pens (qalam-e fulâdi), and European pens (qalam-e farangi).31 Ink was made according to various recipes, which are described in treatises preserved in manuscript.32 The most remarkable color used in manuscripts is vermilion (shangarf), which was used for writing the headings of chapters and sections, quotations from the Qur’an, and the marking of significant words. Bright colors such as those made from lapis lazuli (lâjvard), white lead (sepidâb), greenish beige (silu), silver, and melted gold (talâ-yi hall) were used to draw the inner and outer borderlines of the rectangular frame enclosing the area of the text, called respectively jadval ‘column’, ‘frame’ and kamand, literally ‘lasso’.33 Mastar, which functioned as a ruler, was a necessary tool for writing a manuscript. It enabled the writer to keep his lines straight. It consisted of a sheet of cardboard on which parallel straight threads were glued. When a sheet of paper was pressed on the cardboard, the impression of the threads would become visible on both sides of the paper and would help to keep the lines straight. 28 Sabzavâri, Osul va qavâ’ed-e khotut-e sette, p. 108. 29 Divân-e Khâqâni, ed. Jalâl-al-Din Kazzâzi (Tehran, 1996), pp. 45, 71, 164. 30 Târikh-e Beyhaq, ed. A. Bahmanyâr (Tehran, 1934), p. 279. 31 Mentioned by the 18th century poets, cf. Âzâd Belgrâmi, Sarv-e-âzâd (Lahore, 1913), p. 208, and Mozaffar-Hoseyn Sabâ, Ruz-e rowshan (Bhopal, 1880), p. 282. 32 H. R. Qelichkhâni, Resâlâti dar khosh-nevisi va honarhâ-ye vâbaste, pp. 415–17, and especially the kinds of ink described in Madâd-al-khotut (Ibid., pp. 9–13); see also M. Zerdoun, Les encres noires au Moyen âge (Paris, 1983). 33 Gh.-H. Yusofi in EIr, s.v. Calligraphy, iii. Ornamentation.

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The terms for the tools of writing and manuscript making, such as paper (kâghadh), sheet (varaq, bayâz), pen (qalam, kelk, khâme), paper knife (kâghadh-bor), etc. have been used in Persian poetry for description or as a basis for metaphors.34 These images were favored especially by the poets Abd-al-Rahmân Jâmi (1414–92), and Ashraf of Mazandaran (d. 1704).35 The scribes used certain marks in the lines to indicate the end of a sentence. Although they all followed the same tradition, certain differences appeared in the course of time. For instance, a variety of signs were used to indicate full stops. Some scribes wrote their texts continuously without any sign for a full stop, while others marked the end of a sentence by an inverted heart, a small circle with a dot inside, or a triangle made of three dots. As we have seen, the copyist of the Abniya used three dots in the shape of a triangle or four dots in the shape of a lozenge. Scribes with good taste made these signs in vermilion to capture the attention of the reader. Some scribes were economical in their use of diacritical dots and left many of them out. This made manuscripts not only difficult to read, but also caused scribes occasionally to merely imitate the form of words that they could not decipher. Flaws of the latter kind are especially evident in unknown geographical and historical names, and words denoting unfamiliar pharmacological or other specialized terms.

5. Decoration Decoration adds much to the beauty and value of manuscripts. Toranj (lit. ‘citron’, an oval, medallion-like design) or shamse (a round medallion with ray-like lines shooting off from it, giving the

34 Dehkhodâ, Loghat-nâma, s.v. mastar; P. Orsatti, “Le manuscrit islamique,” in particular pp. 310–11 and 316–17. 35 See A. Sarmadi, “Jâmi, khatt va khattât;” I. Afshar, “Kâghadh va ketâb va noskhe dar she’r-e Ashraf.”

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impression of a sun design), rectangular and oblong frames were among the forms painted on the title-page around the book’s title or the name of the person to whom the book was presented. Headings (sar-lowh) and rectangles (chahâr-lowh) 36 introducing chapters were decorated with gold and ornamentation imitating inlaid work in jewelry (tarsi’); the margins of such pages were sometimes also adorned. In a similar manner, the opening pages in works with many parts were decorated, such as Sa’di’s collected works (kolliyyât), Rumi’s Mathnavi-ye ma’navi, Nezâmi’s Khamse, and Jâmi’s Haft Owrang. At the beginning of the text, usually a rectangular inscription (katibe) with the basmale (i.e., the formula “In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate”) or the title of the book was put at the top of the page in a title-page decoration. Tash’ir was among the favored designs to embellish the margins of illuminated pages in fine manuscripts. These designs, which combined images of branches and leaves, flowers, birds, animals such as gazelles, lions and foxes, were often painted in gold. Tahrir was a kind of pen-decoration in colors other than that of the text; in order to make words or titles stand out if the text had been written in black ink, the tahrir would be in vermilion (cinnabar or shangarf ) or in white lead (sefidâb). In sumptuous manuscripts they would use liquid gold for the tahrir, and in such manuscripts they would frame all the words on the first page or on the dedication page in gold to make the page glitter. To create a greater glittering effect, sometimes the entire text on a page was enclosed in a black outline and the spaces between the frame and the text were filled with gold. In the tahrir technique, often the colors black, white and lapis lazuli, besides gold, were used. Multi-colored straight lines (jadval) were drawn around the text or the page was framed by lines on three sides, called kamand.

36 This term is used by Sharaf-al-Din Ali Yazdi in his Monsha’ât (Letters), f. 190 b, in connection with embellished manuscripts. A reference to “illuminating a rectangular tablet and the story’s heading” (tadhhib-e chahârlowh va sar-e dâstân) is also made under the colophon in a manuscript of the Shahname (Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı, No. 1510).

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Whereas, kamand consisted, as a rule, of a single line, the jadval could consist of several lines closely drawn and in multiple colors. Straight lines were used both to enclose the pages in a poet’s divân and also to divide the page into two columns so that, not only the lines, but also the half-lines (hemistichs, mesrâ’s) would form an ordinary row from top to bottom within each column. The device called dandân mushi, literally ‘like mouse’s teeth’, was done by staining or printing the spaces between lines usually with gold surrounded by wavy, crenulated lines; this was usually done and was normally applied on pages containing an illuminated heading. Sometimes all the pages of a sumptuous manuscript of the Qur’an were decorated with this technique.

6. Bindings Manuscripts were usually bound in leather. The quires (korrâse),37 varying from four to eight or even ten folded sheets, were sewed together, sewn and then bound. The sewn manuscript was secured by threads, connecting them to the two covers of the book, and the two covers were lined on the inside of the covers called table or daffe; therefore, the contents of a manuscript were also called “[that which is] between the two covers” (bayn-al-daffateyn). In the passage of time, manuscripts became worn out, disordered, and torn. Restoration was carried out by means of patches. The edges of severely damaged pages were repaired by vassali, that is, renewal of the margins surrounding the text. In the deed of a pious endowment (vaqf-nâme) on a stone in the Zir Deh mosque of Ardakân (in Yazd), dated 1803–4/1218 Q., we read that Hoseyn b. Safi of Ardakân endowed a garden, with the stipulation that its annual rent should be spent on the reparation of damaged Qur’ans in that town.38

37 See I. Afshar, “Korrâse.” 38 I. Afshar, Yâdgârhâ-ye Yazd I, p. 59.

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The covers of the binding were usually made of pasteboard, which was produced by gluing together sheets taken from discarded books. They were then covered with leather. Sometimes extremely valuable pages from old texts come to the surface from decomposed old covers. The Pakistani scholar Mohammad Shafi’ found several pages of Onsori’s famous lost romance Vâmeq o Azrâ in a worn-out cover. According to Shafi’ the date of that manuscript was before 1132 ce.39 As far as leathered bindings are concerned, they may be plain and undecorated or preciously embellished. The latter are known by the names of sukhte ‘burnt’ and mo’arraq ‘sweated’; in each of these types images, hunting scenes, geometrical patterns, and inscriptions with poetry were impressed with considerable craftsmanship. From the end of the Timurid era onward, lacquered bindings which were also loosely called lâki ‘laquered’ or qalamdâni ‘penbox-like bindings’ became popular in Persian domains; they even spread to India, especially Kashmir. In this field, the Persians achieved a high degree of craftsmanship. Perhaps lacquered bindings gave the artists more opportunities than leather bindings to show their art in decorating both the inside and outside of the covers with attractive images, patterns, and sometimes inscribed lines. In such bindings, even portraits of the Prophet and the Imams, individual flowers such as an iris, a tulip, or a red rose was painted. Simple lacquered bindings were also popular. On the outside, the covers were processed by a substance called marghash.40 On some leathered and lacquered bindings, inscriptions with various texts were placed, such as the title of the book, the author’s name, a verse from the Qur’an, a hadith, or a short poem.41

39 Onsori, Vâmeq va ‘Adhrâ, ed. Mohammad Shafi’ (Lahore, 1967). 40 F. Nasiri-Amini, “Rukash-e jeld va anvâ’-e ân,” p. 5. On Persian binding techniques see further the studies by F. Sarre; M. Aga-Oglu; E. Gratzl; G. Bosch; M. Weisweiler; D. Haldane; and G. Bosch et al.; see the Bibliography for details. 41 I. Afshar, “Inscription as Decoration on an Iranian Manuscript’s Cover.”

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7. The Ownership of Manuscripts Old manuscripts were always and everywhere estimated as valuable objects, to such an extent that, like jewels, they were accepted as a warranty.42 They were normally acquired through trading, were received as a present or inherited, or else one could personally commission a manuscript to be copied. More peculiar ways of assuming ownership of a manuscript included stealing, borrowing and not giving back, plunder, and confiscation. Manuscripts were donated as a pious trust to safeguard them from dispersal. They were given to institutions such as madrases, mosques, shrines, and Sufi centers (khâneqâhs, zâviyes) in order to keep them available for the spiritual or scholarly benefit of the public, or specified groups, or persons such as religious students and members of a family.43 Information about the ownership of manuscripts is limited to what has been inscribed on their back pages.44 Sometimes brief and unexpected information concerning their purchase can be found in manuscripts. One of the specific ways to learn about the owners of manuscripts belonging to royal or vaqf libraries is the presence of notes (arz) referring to an inspection at the beginning or at the end of manuscripts. These notes usually refer to the inspection of the volumes in a library.45 Copyists, booksellers, professional middlemen, or dealers in second-hand goods often acted as go-betweens in the buying and selling of manuscripts.46 42 A case is recounted by Jahângir Mirzâ, Târikh-e now, ed. A. Eqbâl-­Âshtiyâni (Tehran, 1948), p. 289. 43 For a discussion on this subject see Chapter 14 (B). 44 E.g., the MS of Honeyn b. Eshâq’s translation of Tibb Jâlinus, which in 1016 came into the possession of Avicenna, who wrote his name as the owner in the manuscript (Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, MS Arabe No. 2859). Another example is a MS of Keyhân-shenâkht of the Mar’ashi Library, Qom, which according to a note was copied in 1072 for the library of Esfahsâlâr Sayyed Hosâm-al-Din Abu’l-Hasan Ali b. ‘Omar” (facsimile ed., Qom, 2000). 45 I. Afshar, “ ‘Arz dans la tradition bibliothèconomique irano-indienne.” 46 I. Afshar, “Mâlekiyyat va kharid-o forukht-e noskhehâ-ye khatti dar go­ zashte.”

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Prices of manuscripts could be indicated in two ways. First, the price of a ready manuscript, the trading price, and the name of the owner, were written on any pages or the outer pages (âstarbadraqe). Secondly, assessment of the value, based on the materials used in it, was mentioned in the manuscript itself.47 A point that should be mentioned is the falsification of manuscripts. The falsifiers either changed the date of a manuscript to make it out as older, or they tried to increase its value and price by replacing the name of the real scribe with that of a famous copyist.48 Entirely faked manuscripts also occur. Even in the twentieth century, a manuscript of the Qâbus-nâme, with the dating 1090–91/483 Q., was copied and strikingly illustrated in an old and most interesting style. The discovery of this forgery was based on the insertion of erroneous Middle Persian words in the text, which were identified by W. B. Henning.49 A quite similar case is what Dânyâli did during the time of caliph Moqtader (908–32) in Baghdad. The stories about his clever forgeries are told in Meskavayh’s Tajâreb al-omam.50 47 In a MS of the Shahname (Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı, No. 1510), with the two dates 1398/801 Q. and 1497/903 Q. [?], an assessment is made to the amount of 42,450 dinârs; the expenses for the paper, the copying, the decoration of the headings and the borderlines, and the painting of the miniatures are specified; see P. P. Soucek and F. Çağman, “A Royal Manuscript and its Transformation,” p. 187. 48 Striking examples are the numerous copies of the Qur’an carrying the names of famous calligraphers such as Yâqut Mosta’semi (d. 1299), who wrote in the style of Baghdad, and Ahmad Neyrizi (d. ca. 1739), who wrote in the Persian style. Even a copy of Sa’di’s Golestân is attributed to Yâqut, an Arab for whose knowledge of Persian there is no evidence; this MS of the Ketâbkhâne-ye Saltanati (the Royal Library), Tehran, has been published in facsimile by Badri Atâbây (Tehran, 1967). 49 R. N. Frye, “The Andarz Nâme of Kâyûs b. Iskandar b. Kâpûs b. Vušmgir,” in Serta Cantabrigiensia (Wiesbaden, 1954), pp. 7–21; Persian summary by I. Afshâr in FIZ 2 (1954), pp. 272–80. On this forgery see: M. Minovi, “Kâpus-nâme-ye Frye,” in Yaghmâ 9 (1956), p. 449–56, 481–85; Minovi also unmasked as a falsification a copy of Qatrân’s Divân, supposed to have been made in 1135/529 by the poet Anvari, which was brought to light by M. Bayâni, in Yaghmâ 3 (1950), pp. 465–74. 50 Tajâreb al-omam, ed. Abu’l-Qâsem Emâmi (Tehran, 1998), V, pp. 294–97; see also Dehkhodâ, Loghat-nâme, s.v. Dânyâli.

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One of the required techniques in faking an old manuscript is to take the paper of an old manuscript and erase its text. In some sources instructions for this are provided.51

8. The Distribution of Manuscripts According to the World Survey of Islamic Manuscripts published by Al-Forqan Islamic Heritage Foundation, the number of manuscripts written in the languages of the Islamic peoples amounts to about four million.52 In Persia alone, according to A. R. RahimiRise 225,000 manuscripts have been identified, and he has surmised that this number would rise to 300,000 if unidentified manuscripts existing in lesser-known locations in the country were brought to light.53 Many Persian manuscripts in the great libraries of England, France, Germany, Austria, Italy, and other European countries are textually and artistically of special importance because they were generally collected by specialists on the basis of a careful scholarly choice. Most of these manuscripts were brought to the West from the 16th century onward by travelers, traders, and collectors. Through the ages, an exchange of manuscripts also was going on between Persians, Indians, Ottoman Turks and the people of Transoxiana, where the Persian language was known and valued. The following couplet from folk poetry expresses this fact: “This book will certainly go / to Baghdad, Cairo and Calcutta” (miravad in ketâb albatte / tâ be Baghdâd-o Mesr-o Kalkatte.)

51 See, e.g., Habish of Teflis, Bayân al-senâ`ât, p. 355. 52 G. J. Roper, ed., World Survey of Islamic Manuscripts. 53 H. Sharifi, Ganjinehâ-ye dast-nevishâ-ye eslâmi dar Irân, p. 144.

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9. The Most Important Terms for Manuscripts Bayâz is a manuscript that is bound along the width of the paper. One of the oldest known specimens written by a single scribe and bound in this fashion dates from 1352.54 In this kind of manuscript, prayers, treatises, and various notes and poems were recorded. In a bayâz of 1380, notes and various specimens of calligraphy from eighty scholars and notables were recorded at the request of the owner, the vizier Tâj-al-Din Ahmad.55 If these books did not contain too many pages, the cover would be made of leather without pasteboard so that it remained flexible and soft, and one could hold it in the palm of one’s hand and write in it comfortably. Jong is a Chinese word meaning a kind of sailboat, which is also used in European languages. A jong contains miscellaneous works, including poetry, prose, small treatises and various notes. Sometimes the term also denotes a collection of selected poems by different poets. Safine, an Arabic word meaning a “ship,” is an exact equivalent of jong. Hâfez refers in his Divân to a book of poetry as a safine-ye ghazal ‘book of lyrics’.56 Daftar means both a book and a booklet or a pamphlet.57 Several classical poets have used it in the former meaning, but from the Safavid period onwards, it commonly refers to writings related to fiscal administration, bookkeeping, and accountancy. Resâle refers to a small book or treatise. A volume of resâles, letters and the like, assembled in one manuscript, was called a majmu’e ‘collection’. Moraqqa’, literally ‘patched’, denotes an album containing specimens of calligraphy, paintings, and pages taken from dispersed manuscripts, which are glued onto pasteboard of the same size and 54 It belonged to Asghar Mahdavi and was published under the title Jong-e Mahdavi (Tehran, 2001). 55 Bayâz-e Tâj-al-Din Ahmad Vazir, ed. in facsimile by I. Afshar and M. Teymuri (Isfahan, 1974). 56 Divân-e Hâfez, ed. M. Qazvini and Q. Ghani (Tehran, 1941), p. 32. 57 Dehkhodâ, Loghat-nâme, s.v. Daftar; see also J. Ehlers, Mit goldenem Spiegel. Über Briefe, Schreiber und Boten im Šâhnâme (Wiesbaden, 2000).

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bound in the form of a butt-hinge. When the book is opened, all fragments will be on the same level like a folding screen. Ketâbche denotes in modern Persian a blank notebook, but in Qajar times it referred to a notebook for reports, accounts, and statistics of inhabitants and soldiers. Moshaf may have the meaning of a book, a quire or a pamphlet. In classical Persian it refers specifically to the Qur’an; a related word is sohof ‘sheets of paper’.58 Nâme (from the Middle Persian nâmag) means “book,” particularly in book titles such as Shahname and Qâbus-nâme. A quire of a book is called a korrâse. The number of folded pages in a quire varies between four and eight and sometimes even more.59 A mosavvade is a manuscript written by the author himself and it applies usually to the first draft of a work. Terms like divân (collected lyric poetry of a single poet), kolliyyât ‘collected works’, taqrirât ‘explanations’, ejâzât ‘licences’, hâshiye ‘marginal notes’, ta’liqât ‘annotations’, and tafsir ‘commentary’ all refer to the contents of a work and have no relationship with the arrangement of manuscripts as such.60 The important Persian literary and historical works written prior to the Safavid period (i.e., before 1500) are only preserved in copies. To this day, no autograph of any of the great poets and writers has been found. Usually there is a long span between the time when one of the early books was composed and the date of the oldest copy available to us.

10. Catalogues and Microfilms The cataloguing of Persian manuscripts began in Europe. In the 19th and early 20th centuries a long series of outstanding catalogues were prepared by Charles Rieu, Hermann Éthé, Gustav Flügel, Wilhelm Pertsch, Aloys Sprenger, Victor Rosen, Vladimir Ivanow, 58 See Dehkhodâ, Loghat-nâme, s.v. Moshaf. 59 See note 37. 60 For several of these terms see H. Hashemi-Minabad, Vocabulary of Codicology and Book Crafts.

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Edgard Blochet and many others. To my knowledge, the oldest European catalogue is the description of the Vatican manuscripts by I. S. Assemaneus, published in 1719. In Persia, fundamental work in this field was done by scholars of the past generation, such as Abd-al-Ali Mirzâ Uktâ’i, Abu’lQâsem E’tesâm-al-Molk, Abd-al-Aziz Javâher-Kalâm, Ziyâ’-alDin Ebn-e Yusof Hadâ’eq, and Mohammad-Taqi Dâneshpazhuh.61 Before the introduction of modern methods of cataloguing in Persia, inventories were prepared for large libraries, which resemble the registers of bookkeepers. The catalogue prepared by Sadr-al-Din Qunavi (d. 1274) for his own books is of this type and it is likely that he followed an established tradition.62 Among the examples of catalogues from later centuries, mention should be made of a list of books belonging to Sheykh Safi’s mausoleum in Ardabil, written in 1758.63 Catalogues of the manuscripts of the shrine of Mashhad (Âstân-e Qods-e Razavi) were published since 1893.64 Several initiatives have been taken to collect photos and microfilms of Persian manuscripts, kept in various libraries worldwide. Mojtabâ Minovi assembled 1200 films from the libraries in Turkey, Dhabih-Allâh Safâ from British libraries, and M.-T. Dâneshpazhuh from libraries inside and outside Persia for the Central Library of the University of Tehran.65 From 1960 onwards, the Central Library and the Center for Documentation of the University of Tehran (under the supervision of M.-T. Dâneshpazhuh and I. Afshar) began to publish a special journal for information on manuscripts, of which 12 volumes have appeared. In 1996, a Center for the Revival of the Islamic ­Heritage 61 See I. Afshar, Ketâb-shenâsi-ye fehresthâ-ye noskhehâ-ye khatti-ye Fârsi; G. Roper, ed., World Survey; A. Rahimi Rise in H. Sharifi, Ganjinehâ-ye dast-nevishâ-ye eslâmi. 62 I. Afshar, “Fehrest-e ketâb-khâne-ye Sadr al-Din Qunavi.” 63 Published by Mir Dâvud Seyyed Yunesi, Ganjine-ye Sheykh Safi (Tabriz, 1969). 64 Mahmud Mar’ashi Najafi, ed., Ketâbche-ye Kalâm-Allâh va kotob-e Ketâbkhâne-ye Âstân-e Qods-e Razavi neveshte shode be sâl-e 1272 [1855–56], in Mirâth-e eslâmi-ye Irân 8 (1998), pp. 653–775. 65 The catalogue of this collection of microfilms is published by M.-T. Dâneshpazhuh in three vols. (Tehran, 1969–84).

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(Ehyâ’-e mirâth-e eslâmi) was founded in Qom. The aim of this Center is to make manuscripts available on microfilm, and to prepare and publish catalogues of manuscripts in other libraries. Microfilms have also been prepared for the libraries of the Persian Parliament (Majles), the shrine in Mashhad, and the Mar’ashi Library in Qom.66 At present (2005), four journals devoted to texts and manuscripts are being published in Persia: Âyine-ye Mirâth by the organization Mirâth-e Maktub (Written Heritage), Nâme-ye Bahârestân by the Library of the Persian Parliament, Mirâth-e Shabâb (Heritage for the Youth) by the Library of Ayatollâh Mar’ashi in Qom, and Noskhe-pajuhi, founded by Abu’l-Fazl Hâfeziân in Qom and continued by the Library of the Persian Parliament (2 vols. thus far).67

11. Editing and Printing of Texts Collating an important old manuscript with later copies is an ancient scholarly method. In the margins of many manuscripts there are traces of comparisons, corrections, and personal opinions. In this regard, one can refer to the claim of Hamd-Allâh Mostowfi (d. after 1339), who in the introduction to his Zafar-nâme in verse states that in order to arrive at a reliable text of the Shahname, he had to read about fifty manuscripts.68 After the introduction of printing, the collation and editing of manuscripts was practiced to some extent. Examples are the annotations by Amir Nezâm 66 Fehrest-e noskhehâ-ye aksi-ye Ketâb-khâne-ye omumi-ye … Mar’ashi-ye Najafi, 2 vols. (Qom, 1990–91). 67 One of the measures taken in Persia since 2001 to emphasize the significance of manuscripts is offering annual prizes by the Library of Persian Parliament to people who have been engaged in preserving, studying, cataloguing and writing on old manuscripts and bindings in the course of appropriate ceremonies. Thus far Abd-al-Hoseyn Hâ’eri, M.-T. Daneshpazhuh, Ahmad Monzavi, Asghar Mahdavi, and Ahmad al-Hoseyni Eshkavari have received the prize. 68 Zafar-nâme be enzemâm-e Shâh-nâme, ed. in facsimile and introduced by Nosrat-Allâh Rastegâr (Tehran, 1998), p. 7.

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Garrusi (1820–1900) on the lithographed text of Kalile o Demne (Tabriz, 1887–88), and the corrections by Ahmad Adib Pishâvari (1844–1930) in the lithograph edition of Târikh-e Beyhaqi (Tehran, 1889–90). The publication of the series Bibliotheca Indica in Calcutta and the publication of important Arabic books in Europe by Orientalists made the Persians aware of the necessity of editing texts critically. This method attracted even more attention when the critical editions prepared by Edward G. Browne and Mohammad Qazvini reached Persia. The edition of such books as Nezâmi-Aruzi’s Chahâr Maqâle (12th cent.), Varâvini’s Marzbân-nâme (LondonLeiden, 1908), Joveyni’s Târikh-e Jahângoshâ (3 vols., LondonLeiden, 1912/1916/1937), and Shams-e Qeys’ Al-Mo’jam, mostly published in the Gibb Memorial Series, made a profound impact on Persian scholars. Qazvini’s method was followed by Mohammad-Taqi Bahâr, Ahmad Bahmanyâr, Nasrollâh Taqavi, Badi’-alZamân Foruzânfar, Mojtabâ Minovi, and other scholars of the following generations. To correct a text, the ancient scribes used symbols to mark variant readings and the transposition of words or phrases, for instance: z (for zâheran ‘apparently’), s-h (for sahih ast ‘the correct is …’) kh‑l (noskhe[-ye] badal ‘variant reading’), three faint-colored dots in the shape of a triangle in the margin, to indicate a mistake in the opposite line.69 These dots were written very small so that after the correction they could be removed from the border of the page. The printing of ancient manuscripts in facsimile started in Europe, but several facsimile editions have been published also in Persia. Among the most important are: al-Abniya an haqâyeq-aladviya (Vienna, 1972), Hodud al-âlam (Leningrad, 1930), Zafarnâme by Hamd-Allâh Mostowfi (Tehran, 1998), and the Shahname of Sa’dlu (Tehran, 2000).70

69 In the MS of Jâvâher-nâme-ye Nezâmi (Istanbul, Bâyezid Library, No. 19,044) this sign is used repeatedly. 70 I. Afshar, “Châp-e noskhe-bargardân-e makhtutât.”

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Chapter 16 Printing and Publishing I. Afshar The Persians learned first about printing through experiment with printed paper money, called châv, which in imitation of Chinese paper currency was introduced on 13 September 1294 in Tabriz under the Mongol ruler Geykhâtu (r. 1291–95).1 In the section on Chinese history of his Jâme’ al-tavârikh (1304), Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh describes how the Chinese printed their books, and provides other information about printing. 2 About a century ago, the word châp ‘printing’ became current in Persian. The derivation of the word is not entirely certain; Eqbâl-Ashtiyâni thought it was most probably derived from châv (Chinese ch’ao), the paper money that was devised and briefly circulated under the Ilkhânid Geykhâtu. 3 The prevailing view is that Persian châp is an altered form of the Urdu-Hindi word chhâpa, which can be found on many books printed in the Indian Subcontinent. The Arabic tab’ and the Turkish bâsma were used in the same meaning by Indian printers as well as in Ottoman Turkey and Persia. The Persian historian of the early Qajar period, Abd-al-Razzâq

1

A. Eqbâl-Âshtiyâni, “Châv, châp‑e eskenâs;” K. Jahn, “Paper Currency in Iran.” 2 Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh, Die Chinageschichte des Rašīd ad-Dīn, pp. 24–25 (A Fol. 393r). Rashid-al-Din’s description was taken over by the historian Banâkati, Târikh‑e Banâkati, ed. J. She’âr (Tehran, 1969), p. 448. 3 On châv, see B. Spuler, Die Mongolen in Iran (1968), p. 301 with bibliography; cf. H. Taqizadeh, “Châp-Khâne …,” p. 11, who regards the origin of the word as uncertain.

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Donboli, refers to printing in his Ma’âther‑e soltâniyye (published in 1826) by the term bâsme-kâri ‘stamping-work’.4 The history of the term bâsme ‘stamping’ goes back to the Safavid period, when it was applied apparently to the printing of images on paper or cloth by means of wooden blocks, like what is today called qalam-kâr.5 The occupation of a “block-printer” (bâsme-chi) is put on the same level as those of a librarian, a paper-manufacturer, and an illuminator.6 The term bâsme was therefore associated with books. The French missionary Ange de Saint Joseph speaks about bâsme and bâsme-khâne referring to the printing press of the Carmelite Fathers at Jolfa in Isfahan. It is evident that these terms were used in this sense during the Safavid period.7 The word bâsme remained in use until the end of the 19th century.8

The Printing of Persian Books in Europe and India It seems that Dutch printers were the first to typeset Persian texts, using types that originally had been cut for printing books in Arabic. In 1639 Louis de Dieu published in Leiden two Persian treatises, Historia Christi or Dâstân‑e Masih (The Life of 4 E. G. Browne, The Press and Poetry of Modern Persia, pp. 7–9 (quoting M. A. Tarbiyat on printing in Persia); idem, LHP III, pp. 37–39; M. Dabirsiyâqi, Farhanghâ-ye fârsi (Tehran, 1989), p. 288; W. Floor in EIr, s.v. Čāp. 5 In the 17th century Mohammad-Tâher Nasrâbâdi, Tadhkere-ye Nasrâbâdi, ed. Mohsen Nâji-Nasrâbâdi (Tehran, 1999), p. 207, mentions a “bâsme robe.” The name “Pir‑e kharâbât Hâji Bâqer Basmechi” occurs in the Divân of Kâshef of Isfahan, a poet of the same century (cf. the MS No. 2934 of the Ketâbkhâne-ye markazi of the University of Tehran, and the Catalogue of this library by M. T. Dâneshpazhuh, X, p. 1805). 6 Tadhkerat al-moluk, Persian text p. 106; English tr., p. 100. 7 Ange de Saint Joseph (Joseph Labrosse), Gazophylacium linguae Persarum (Amsterdam, 1684; repr. and ed. by Michel Bastiaensen, Brussels, 1985); H. Taqizadeh, “Châp-khâne.” 8 “Bâsme-khâne” is mentioned several times at the end of a book published about 1888: Majd-ad-Din Mohammad Hoseyni, Zinat al-majâles (Tehran, 1887), p. 448; quoted in full in Râhnemâ-ye ketâb 1 (1958), pp. 119–20.

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Christ), and Historia Sancti Petri or Dâstân‑e san pedro (The Life of Saint Peter), which had been written by the Jesuit missionary Jerome Xavier (1549–1617) for the Mughal Emperor Akbar. De Dieu added to this his own Rudimenta Linguae Persicae (Fundamentals of the Persian Language), the first Persian grammar to be printed in Europe, a splendid example of the printing of Persian texts in Europe at this early date.9 It was followed in the 17th century by several other grammatical textbooks. Not much later, in 1651, the Rosarium Politicum was published in Amsterdam, the oldest printed edition of Sa’di’s Golestân, together with a Latin translation by the German scholar Georgius Gentius. For the first time the original text of a work of Persian literature was made available to Western readers.10 Outside the Netherlands, the most important cities in Europe where Persian books were printed were Vienna (in particular the Armenian Mekhitarist press), Paris (the Imprimerie royale), London, and Rome. Apart from a Judeo-Persian Pentateuch, which was printed as part of a polyglot Bible at Constantinople in 1546,11 the oldest Persian book published in typography in the Ottoman Empire was Sho’uri’s dictionary Lesân al-’ajam (also known as Farhang‑e Sho’uri) in Constantinople in 1742.12 On the Indian Subcontinent, Persian books were published in many cities, particularly in Calcutta, Lucknow, and Bombay. The Indian printers used both typography and lithography, but the latter technique was used most often.13 Numerous important books on history, literature, religion, and mysticism appeared in the series Bibliotheca Indica, founded by Sir William Jones (1746–94), and

  9 See C. A. Storey, Persian literature I, pp. 163–66; J. T. P. de Bruijn, EIr, s.v. Dieu. 10 See John D. Yohannan, The Poet Sa’di: A Persian Humanist (Lanham Md., 1987), p. 2. 11 Jes P. Asmussen in EIr, s.v. Bible vi. Judeo-Persian translations. 12 M. Dabirsiyâqi, Farhanghâ-ye fârsi, pp. 284–90; C. A. Storey, Persian literature, III/1, pp. 73–74. 13 I. Afshar, “Ketâbhâ-ye châp‑e qadim dar Irân va châp‑e ketâbhâ-ye jadid dar jahân.”

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at the printing-house of Munshi Newal Kishore (1836–95), which was established in 1858 in Lucknow.14 The number of Persian books published on the Indian Subcontinent exceeds that of all other countries, except Persia. A retrospective survey made recently by Âref Nowshâhi amounts to 10,500 titles, in first edition, and 21,000 reprinted Persian titles, brought out by Indian printers (as reported by A. Rahimi-Rise who has published the list). The oldest Indian print of a Persian book in typography is Ershâd al-tâlebin, a popular textbook on Persian letter-writing (enshâ) by Harkarn of Multan, edited with an English translation by Francis Balfour under the title The Forms of Harkarn (Calcutta, 1781).15

Printing Offices in Persia The earliest printing in Persia was by a press used by the Christians of Jolfa in Isfahan to print religious books in the Armenian language and script. Their first book appeared in 1638.16 Apparently, they did not publish any text in Persian. In Persia the printing of Persian books began in 1818 during the reign of Fath-Ali Shâh of the Qajar dynasty. The industry was first established in Tabriz and later came to Tehran. The technique initially used in Tabriz was typography. The enterprise was led by Mirzâ Zeyn-al-Âbedin of Tabriz, and Mohammad-Ali of Âshtiyân, with the protection and encouragement of the Qajar viceroy 14

M. Tavakoli-Targhi, “Rediscovering Munshi Newal Kishore;” ‘Eyn-alHasan, “Khadamât‑e barjeste-ye Monshi Newal Kishore be adab‑e Fârsi.” See further: Sh. Qâsemi, “Fehrest‑e châpkhânehâ-ye shebh‑e qâre-ye Hend;” M. Amin, “Châpkhânehâ-ye qadim‑e fârsi dar Bangâle.” 15 I. Afshar, “Châphâ-ye horufi-ye qadim‑e Calcutta,” in Bokhârâ 17 (2001), p. 80; A. S. Bazmee Ansari, in EI2, s.v. Harkarn. 16 E. Râ’in, Târikhche-ye châp-khâne-ye Vânak va fehrest‑e ketâbhâ-yi châp shode; see also L. Minâsiyân, “Avvalin châp-khâne dar Irân;” W. Floor, “The First Printing-Press in Iran;” F. Richard, “Un témoignage sur les débuts de l’imprimerie à Nor Julfa.”

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­Abbâs Mirzâ. At this printing-house a book entitled Jehâdiyye was published twice, in 1818 and 1819, the second time in a more embellished form.17 In a letter to Hasan Taqizadeh, A. Houtum-Schindler asserts that the first book published in this printing-house was the Fath-nâme by Mirzâ Isâ Qâ’em-maqâm (without publication date), but this has not yet been confirmed.18 Evidently Schindler must have made a slip of the pen and what he means in his letter is the same Jehâdiyye. No victory (fath) was gained in that period about which Mirzâ Isâ could have written a Fath-nâme (Book of Victory). What is more, Schindler refers to the year 1818, and this date corresponds to the year when the Jehâdiyye was published and we do have the printed specimen of it in hand. At any rate, no copy of the Fath-nâme has yet been discovered. Mirzâ Zeyn-al-Âbedin did not stay for long in charge in Tabriz because he was ordered by the Shah to come to Tehran and set up a press in the capital city. After his departure, Mollâ Mohammad took charge of the press in Tabriz, which remained active for almost fifteen years. Its activities stopped apparently at the time of Abbâs Mirzâ’s death in 1833. The most important book published by Mollâ Mohammad in 1825 at this press was Abd-al-Razzâq Beg Donboli’s Ma’âther‑e soltâniyye. Here it is stated that Mirzâ Zeyn-alÂbedin had printed books with the assistance of Manuchehr Khân (Mo’tamad-al-Dowle). Other books published in Tabriz include a treatise on smallpox vaccination (Resâle-ye ta’lim‑e âbele-kubi), written by the Englishman Dr. John Cormick and printed in 1829. Another press founded in Tabriz under the aegis of Abbâs Mirzâ published lithographs. It was established by Mirzâ Ja’far of Tabriz and Mirzâ Asad-Allâh of Shiraz, who had learned this printing technique in St. Petersburg. The books published here include Sa’di’s Golestân (1824–25), Majlesi’s Zâd al-ma’âd (1835), the 17 In both prints, the word dâr-al-entebâ’ (“Printing House”) is mentioned, and the printer qualifies himself as al-ma’mur be-amal al-tab’ men dowlat al-aliyyat al-Qâjâriyya (“appointed as printer by the Exalted Court of the Qâjârs”); see the facsimile of the final page in Sh. Bâbâzâda, Târikh‑e châp‑e Irân, p. 210, and the facsimile edition of the second print, with an introd. by Jahângir Qâ’emmaqâmi (Tehran, 1973). 18 H. Taqizadeh, “Châpkhâne,” p. 12.

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Qur’an (1842), and Nezâmi’s Leyli o Majnun (1870). The last book is the first illustrated book printed in Persia. From 1843 onward, it became a tradition to print narrative texts with illustrations. It should be added that in 1819 Mirzâ Sâleh of Shiraz, who had been educated in England, brought a printing-device to Tabriz, but no books printed by this press have yet been found.19

Presses in Tehran The first press in Tehran was supervised by the Georgian Manuchehr Khân Mo’tamad-al-Dowle (d. 1849) when he held the office of ishik âqâsi bâshi ‘master of ceremonies’ of the Shah. The management was entrusted to Mirzâ Zeyn-al-Âbedin, who had been summoned from Tabriz. This press must have been established no later than 1823, because about that year Manuchehr Khân was appointed as governor of Gilan. Its first publication, entitled Mohreq al-qolub, is dated 1823. As in the first press at Tabriz, the technique used was typography. The books from this press, mostly religious works, are known among bibliophiles as “Mo’tamadi prints.” In 1836 Mirzâ Sâleh of Shiraz founded in Tehran another noteworthy press for the publication of the first Persian newspaper, called Kâghadh‑e Akhbâr, literally ‘newspaper’. The first issue of this paper came out on 1 May 1837. A person by the name of Abdal-Ali is mentioned as the founder of a lithographic press in Tehran in 1836. 20 Initially, the Persians preferred lithography to typography. The similar look of lithographs and manuscripts may have been the ­reason for this preference, because at that time the writing of the 19

S. Nafisi, “San’at‑e châp‑e mosavvar dar Irân;” idem, “Namâyeshgâh‑e gerâvur dar Irân;” idem, “Nakhostin châphâ-ye mosavvar dar Irân;” I. Afshar, Seyr‑e ketâb dar Irân; O. P. Shcheglova, Iranskaya lithografirovannaya kniga; U. Marzolph, Narrative Illustration in Persian Lithographed Books; A. Tarbiyat, Târikh‑e matba’e va matbu’ât‑e Irân, p. 274. 20 Houtum Schindler in his letter to H. Taqizadeh, “Chapkhâna,” p. 12; M. Minovi, “Kârvân‑e ma`refat.”

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manuscripts was still going on and the public was accustomed to them. Another possible reason was that illustrations could be included in lithographed books. Lithography held the ground in Persia until the technique of making stereotype plates was applied on a wide scale. From that time onwards, books in nasta’liq or naskh styles were printed in stereotype. 21 The scribes of lithographs were calligraphers, who wrote the texts on paper so that it could be applied to special stones for printing. Occasionally, first-rate calligraphers were among them such as Mirzâ Rezâ Kalhor, who copied some of Nâser-al-Din Shâh’s travel accounts. The number of copies that could be made of lithographed books were between three and seven hundred. It was not possible to print more in one turn because the writing on the stone would become gradually faded. 22 In her memoirs, Lady Mary Sheil states that in 1850 there were four or five presses in Tehran, but according to Charles and Edward Burgess, there were no less than fifteen in Tabriz in 1845. 23 The editor of Zinat al-majâles (1887) mentions in a printer’s note seven presses in Tehran and five in Tabriz. 24 The second press using typography in Tehran was purchased by the state. Under the name of Dâr-al-tebâ’e-ye dowlati (Government Printing House) it was a part of the Ministry of Publications under the direction of Mohammad-Hasan Khân Sani’-al-Dowle, later called E’temâd-al-Saltane (1843–96). Among the first books printed in typography under E’temâd-al-Saltane was the first volume of a French-Persian dictionary (1861), which was ascribed to Nâser-al-Din Shâh personally. During the reign of Mozaffar-al-Din Shâh (r. 1896–1907), what was left of this press became, after many changes and the installation of new facilities, the institution known as Matba’e-ye khâsse21 H. Mirzâ’i Golpâyegâni, “Târikh‑e geravur-sâzi dar Irân.” 22 See further M-’A. Rowzâti, “Ketâbhâ-ye châpi va khoshnevisân.” 23 Charles and Edward Burgess, Letters from Persia (1828–1855), Ed. B. Schwartz (New York, 1942). 24 W. Floor in EIr, s.v. Čāp. See also Hoseyni, Zinat al-majâles, p. 448; the full text of the colophon in Râhnemâ-ye ketâb 1 (1958), pp. 319–20, and I. Afshar, Seyr‑e ketâb dar Irân, pp. 27–29.

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ye shâhanshâhi (King’s Own Printing House). Its manager was Abd-Allâh Qâjâr (1850–1908), who had been trained as a lithographer and a photographer in Vienna. 25 With the gradual spread of typographic printing and the increasing demand for such books, the number of presses using this technique also grew. There were even two major printing houses founded by the state: one was the press of the Parliament (first established in 1909 and reopened in 1925), the other the press of the National Bank (1937). Later, in 1946, the Tehran University Press was created from the remnants of the press of the Ministry of Agriculture. 26 Henceforward the number of printing houses attached to government agencies increased. Major cities, apart from Tehran and Tabriz, where presses were founded, include Isfahan (1828), Urmiye (founded in 1840 by American missionaries to print Christian books), Kashan (1862), Bushehr (1901), Hamadan (about 1905), and Kermanshah (1909). In the early 20th century, at the time of Constitutional Movement, several other cities opened a press. Although Qom was a great center of religious learning, it did not open a press before 1923, much later than other cities.

Publishing in Persia during the Reign  of Nâser-al-Din Shâh (1848–96) Prior to the establishment of private presses in Persia, books were published at presses founded by the state. They were usually financed and offered for sale by the printing house. This was the way in which both the famous Mo’tamadi prints and the textbooks of the Polytechnic School (Dâr-al-Fonun) of Tehran were printed. When private presses were established and good conditions for the book trade were created, books were published in three ways: 25 Y. Dhokâ’, Târikh‑e akkâsi va akkâsân‑e pishgâm dar Irân, pp. 98–108. 26 On the number of presses and their development, see H. Mirzâ’i Golpâyegâni, Târikh‑e châp va châp-khâne dar Irân.

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at the expense of a publisher, of the author himself, or of a bâni ‘initiator’ (i.e., a sponsor, someone who funded the printing, usually for free of charge distribution). For example, Hâj Mohammad-Hasan of Isfahan, also known as “Company” or Amin‑e Dâr-al-Zarb (“Trustee of the Mint”), financed, as a pious deed, the printing of Behâr al-anvâr, a huge collection of Shi’ite hadith and the histories of the Imams in many volumes by Mohammad-Bâqer Majlesi (published in 1887–97) to be presented gratis to religious scholars and students. The publication of books in Persia can be classified in five historical periods. The first period starts with the founding of a press in 1818, and ends in 1858 when the Ministry of Sciences came into being with Ali-Qoli Khân E’tezâd-al-Saltane (1822–80) as the Minister. During this period probably no more than between 200 and 300 books were published. 27 The second period extends from 1858 to the death of Nâser-alDin Shâh in 1896. Books continued to be published by booksellers and “initiators.” Moreover, with the consolidation of the Dâr al-Fonun, headed by E’tezâd-al-Saltane and his deputy Ali-Qoli Mokhber-al-Dowle, and the establishment of an Editorial Bureau (Dâr-al-Ta’lif) in the Ministry of Sciences, activities related to writing and publishing increased. Textbooks by the teachers at Dâr al-Fonun were printed, and the publication of the Nâme-ye Dâneshvarân‑e Nâseri, a biographical dictionary of scholars, prepared by the Editorial Bureau, was begun. 28 A scholar himself, E’tezâd-al-Saltane was the first person in a governmental position (Ministry of Sciences) to take the publication of books seriously. He should be regarded as the pioneer of methodical publishing in Persia, continued later by official organizations of the state. He was also the founder of the newspapers Mellat‑e Saniyye-ye Irân (The Noble Persian Nation), Ruznâme-ye Mellati (The National Daily), and Ruznâme-ye elmiyye-ye dowlat‑e aliyye-ye Iran (The Learned Journal of the Exalted Govern27 According to U. Marzolph (Narrative Illustration, pp. 270–71), no more than 121 books. 28 C. A. Storey, Persian literature I, p. 1174.

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ment of Iran). 29 During his term of office, the astronomical work Falak al-sa’âdat was published as a lithograph (1861). After E’tezâd-al-Saltane’s death in 1880, Mohammad-Hasan Khân Sani’-al-Dowle, later E’temâd-al-Saltane (1843–96), who had studied in France, was appointed as director of the Editorial Bureau (dâr al-ta’lif), responsible for the editing of the Nâme-ye Dâneshvarân and other tasks related to the Bureau. Since 1867, he had been involved in the publication of the official newspapers. In 1871 he became the director of the governmental Dâr-al-Tarjome (Translation Bureau), and the manager of the government newspapers and of Dâr-al-Tebâ’e, the government printing house. In 1873 he published the first annual (sâlnâme) of the Imperial Persian Government and also became the founder and manager of two other newspapers, Elmi and Ettelâ’. Later, in 1883, when he was officially appointed minister of publications, he not only set up the State’s Translation Office but also established the French newspaper Echo de la Presse. He became a member of learned societies in Russia, France, and Great Britain. E’temâd-al-Saltane’s contribution to writing and publishing in Persia is remarkable. He created and directed three important organizations in this field. A few hundred books dealing with geography, travel, history, and various other disciplines, as well as novels, were translated into manuscripts, sometimes illuminated, by the Translation Bureau and presented to the Shah.30 Several of these books were subsequently printed. The translated books were preserved in the Shah’s private library and later transferred to the newly founded Royal Library (in the Golestân Palace, called at the time Qasr‑e saltanati), where some of them are still kept. In 1937 a great number of these books were transferred to the National Library. Nâser-al-Din Shâh took a great interest in the growth of translations into Persian. E’temâd-al-Saltane not only read in ­translation 29 E. Yaghmâ’i, Vazirân‑e olum va ma’âref va farhang‑e Irân, pp. 5–28. 30 Details on these books are given in ’Abd-Allâh Anvâr, Fehrest‑e noskhehâye khatti-ye ketâbkhâne-ye melli (10 vols., Tehran, 1964–79), and Badri Âtâbây, Fehrest‑e noskhehâ-ye khatti-ye ketâbkhâne-ye saltanati (5 vols., Tehran, 1972–78).

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to him books on European history, such as the biographies of Frederick the Great of Prussia, the Czarina Catherine II (called Khorshid-kolâh, “Sun-crowned” in Persian) and Napoleon, 31 but also demanded to be shown in due course the translated books in print. In his memoirs E’temâd-al-Saltane regularly mentions in his Diary the presentation of books to the “Imperial Presence” and the Shah’s kindness to the translators, who had an audience with him at least once a year.32 It should be added that, under E’temâd-alSaltane’s supervision of the Ministry of Publications, a systematic censorship was also called into being. All books needed permission and a stamp of approval before they could be published and distributed.33 There are two opinions about E’temâd-al-Saltane’s published writings. Edward Browne stated: “… it is commonly asserted that he coerced various poor scholars to write them, and ascribed the authorship to himself.”34 Both Mohammad Qazvini35 and Mohammad-Ali Forughi36 share this opinion. However, there are other views as well concerning E’temâd-al-Saltane’s writings.37 All in all, the activities of E’temâd-al-Saltane give him an honorable place in the history of publication in Persia. The publication of a series of writings which he had started was officially continued by his brother’s son Mohammad-Bâqer Khân, who received the title of E’temâd-al-Saltane after his uncle’s death. These publications stopped with Bâqer Khân’s own death. 31 These books are listed in the index of E’temâd-al-Saltane’s Ruznâme-ye khâterât (Memoirs). 32 E’temâd-al-Saltane, Mabâheth‑e farhangi-ye ‘asr‑e Nâseri, pp. 87, 89; F. Qâsemi, Mashâhir‑e matbu’ât‑e Irân I, pp. 212–47 (s.v. Mohammad-Hasan E’temâd-al-Saltane). 33 F. Qâsemi, ibid. I, pp. 165–76. 34 E. G. Browne, LHP IV, pp. 453–55. 35 M. Qazvini, Yâd-dâshthâ VIII, ed. I. Afshar (Tehran, 1966), pp. 151–52; Qazvini held for some time a position at the Translation Bureau. 36 Cf. the note by Forughi on a MS of Shajare-ye atrâk, reproduced in ­R âhnemâ-ye ketâb 11 (1967), pp. 190–91, and the text in I. Afshar, Savâd o bayâz II, pp. 341–42. 37 Various opinions are collected in F. Qâsemi, Mashâhir‑e matbu’ât I, pp. 249 ff.

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The Period of Constitutional Revolution and  the First Part of the Pahlavi Era (1896–1941) During the reign of Mozaffar-al-Din Shâh (1896–1907), publishing was very much concerned with journalism, especially non-governmental newspapers. With the modernization of education, the publication of schoolbooks increased, usually by booksellers in Tehran.38 Several managers of bookshops, such as Sayyed Hasan Taqizadeh, Mohammad-Ali Tarbiyat, Habib-Allâh Amuzgâr and Abd-al-Rahim Khalkhâli, acquired a reputation as literati and scholars. It was during this period that the first private association for publication on a national scale came into existence. The founders were five notable and wealthy individuals, among them Mahmud Ehteshâm-al-Saltane, Mohammad-Bâqer Khân E’temâd-al-Saltane, and Hoseyn Âqâ Amin-al-Zarb, who were assisted by the scholars Mohammad-Ali Forughi and Mohammad Qazvini. This publishing company was active from 1898 to 1904. The number of its publications amounted to about twenty volumes.39 A splendid publication of the Mohammad-Ali Shâh period (r. 1907–9) by the order of Hoseyn Pâshâ Amir Bahâdor, is a large size illustrated Shahname, which became known under the name of Amir Bahâdori. It was edited by Abd-al-Ali Mowbed Bidgoli and Mohammad Sâdeq Farâhâni Adib-al-Mamâlek (Tehran, 1908). In their introduction and notes, the editors tried to write in “pure Persian” (pârsi-ye sare), avoiding the use of Arabic words.40 The beginning of the Pahlavi period is marked by the foundation of important cultural institutions, such as the University of Tehran and the Persian Academy (Farhangestân). A memorable event also was the celebration of the millennium of Ferdowsi’s birth held in 1934. During the years 1934 to 1941 cultural activities increased, a fact that was also favorable to the publication of books. In the Ministry 38 Yahyâ Dowlatâbâdi, Hayât‑e Yahyâ, 2nd print (Tehran, 1982), I, pp. 178–204 and 268–91. 39 F. Qâsemi, “Nakhostin sherkat‑e châp o nashr‑e ketâb dar Irân;” I. Afshar, “Nakhostin sherkat‑e melli-ye tab’‑e ketâb.” 40 I. Afshar, Ketâb-shenâsi-ye Ferdowsi, pp. 275–76.

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of Education (Vezârat‑e Ma’âref), the new name of the Ministry of Sciences since 1937, a Bureau of Publications was established. This replaced the organizations established during Nâser-al-Din Shâh’s reign. Gholâm-Ali Ra’di Âdharakhshi, who as a poet used the pen name of Ra’di, was in charge of this bureau to which Habib Yaghmâ’i also belonged.41 Well-known literary scholars such as Mohammad-Ali Forughi, Jalâl Homâ’i, Badi’-al-zamân Foruzânfar, Ahmad Bahmanyâr, Malek-al-sho’arâ Bahâr, Abbâs Eqbâl-Âshtiyâni, Sa’id Nafisi, Khânbâbâ Bayâni, Qâsem Ghani, and Mohammad Qazvini, were contracted to publish classical Persian texts. The private publishers who became active during this period included Kolâle-ye Khâvar, owned by Mohammad Ramezâni, Tehran Library (and bookstore), owned by Hoseyn Parviz (Hasan Taqizadeh was among its founders), Berukhim, owned by Berukhim brothers (which published the best Shahname edition of this period, based on Jules Mohl edition, and the English and French dictionaries, including the well-known Haïm dictionaries), and Afshâri (which specialized in publishing inexpensive popular novels) and others.42 In these years Malek-al-Sho’arâ Bahâr opened a bookshop as well.

The Second Period of the Pahlavi Era (1941–78) This period covers the reign of Mohammad-Reza Shâh Pahlavi. From 1941 to 1953: the political upheaval following the abdication of Rezâ Shah and the surging of a number of political parties benefiting from the new gained freedom, particularly the communistic Tudeh Party, led to the rise of left-wing publications and newspapers. During the next decade the works of several modern Persian writers and poets were published, and the number of foreign novels in translation increased. However, there was less activity in the publication of Persian classical literature. The first important institution founded in this period was Ente­ shârât‑e Dâneshgâh‑e Tehrân (Tehran University ­Publications, 41 Ra’di Âdharakhshi, “Ketâb-khânehâ, tab’‑e ketâb, matbu’ât‑e mahalli.” 42 A. Anjavi Shirâzi, “Hadith‑e ketâb va ketâb-forushi.”

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1947 under the direction of Parviz Nâtel-Khanlari), which published both textbooks and scholarly works.43 At the beginning of 2001, the number of its publications had reached 2480 different titles in 4321 volumes. Among its effective initiatives was the establishment of the Society for Scientific Terminology. In 1953, the Bongâh‑e Tarjome va Nashr‑e Ketâb (Institute of Translations and the Publication of Books, under the direction of Ehsan Yarshater) was established. This Institute, which was founded originally for the systematic translation of foreign classics, gradually expanded its coverage and published books in eight different series, employing modern methods of careful editing and publishing. Its publications covered critical edition of Persian texts, Persian studies monographs, literature for the young graded into three separate series according to the age of their targeted readers, translation of works by foreign Iranologists, and works of popularization, among others, beside translation of foreign classics. Its published books numbered 475 titles. In 1981, more than a year after the revolution, the Institute was taken over by the government and merged with a few other publishing organizations into the Sherkat‑e Elmi va Farhangi (Scientific and Cultural Company).44 The first stylized form of Persian script, designed by the artist Mahmud Javâdipur, was used by the Institute (1955) for the title of its books. Many different stylizations were followed by other publishers. Another organization set up in 1953 was a branch of the American Franklin Publications to promote translations of American works, managed during its most effective years by Homâyun San’ati-­zâdeh.45 One of its initiatives was the translation of the Columbia Encyclopaedia under the title Dâyerât-al-ma’âref‑e Fârsi, edited carefully by the mathematician Gholâm-Hoseyn Mosâheb, which was augmented by a number of entries about Persia, and the establishment of a company for the publications of pocketbooks. 43 Ali-Akbar Siyâsi, Gozâresh‑e yek zendegi (London, 1987), pp. 163–64. 44 See E. Joseph, in EIr, s.v. Bongâh‑e Tarjome wa Nashr‑e Ketâb (B.T.N.K.) for details. 45 See Gh.-H. Mosâheb, in Dâyerât-al-ma’âref‑e fârsi, s.v. Franklin, mu’asseseye enteshârât; D. Smith, in EIr, s.v. Franklin Publications.

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This organization assisted also in the writing and publishing of schoolbooks, and set up a company to publish them, and cooperated in setting up a well-equipped offset printing house and a paperfactory at Haft-Tappe in Khuzestan. One of the useful services of this organization was to train a number of translators and editors, some of whom later undertook independent publishing activities. Among them one can mention Karim Emâmi, Najaf Daryâbandari, and Ahmad Sami’i. The Anjoman‑e Âthâr‑e Melli (Society for National ­Monuments) was founded in 1922 but its activities came to a halt after the celebration of Ferdowsi’s millennium in 1934. Revived in 1944, the Anjoman started a series of publications in 1954 on the occasion of the celebration of the millennium of Avicenna (Ebn-Sinâ). The first publications were the Persian works written by Ebn-Sinâ. Subsequently, several classical Persian text and contemporary studies on Persian provinces and cities appeared. After the Revolution of 1979, the name was changed to Anjoman‑e Âthâr o Mafâkher‑e Farhangi (Society of Monuments and Cultural Heritage). Between 1952 and 1978, this organization published 153 books. During this period, the Bureau of Writing (Edâre-ye negâresh, the former Entebâ’ât) in the Ministry of Education, which was the most important governmental publishing agency, also continued to publish books. In 1964, the Cultural Foundation of Iran (Bonyâd‑e Farhang‑e Iran) was established under the directorship of the well-known man of letters, Parviz Nâtel-Khanlari; it continued its activities under this name until 1980. For the training of researchers a research center was created in the Foundation. Several series of books were published, covering facsimiles of manuscripts, works on Persian science, sources for the history and geography of Persia, Persian philosophy and mysticism, Middle Persian glossaries and scientific and technical dictionaries, Arabic-Persian and Persian dictionaries, Iranian linguistics, and Persian language and literature. In total 300 volumes were published.46 After the Islamic Revolution, it joined 46 See Fehrest‑e Enteshârât‑e Bonyâd‑e Farhang‑e Irân (Tehran, 1980); A. Tafazzoli in EIr, s.v. Bonyâd‑e Farhang‑e Irân.

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other centers in the Pazhuheshkade-ye Olum‑e Ensâni (Research Center for the Humanities). The universities of Tabriz, Mashhad, Shiraz, Isfahan, Kerman, and the Melli University of Tehran each started their own series of publications. The Asian Institute of the Pahlavi University of Shiraz reissued a series of out of print Avestan and Pahlavi texts under the direction of Yahyâ Mâhyâr Navâbi, which came out in 1976. About the same year, the Sâzmân‑e Khadamât‑e Ejtemâ’i (Organization for Social Services), published 50 reprints in 82 volumes on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the Pahlavi dynasty, of out of print European works about Persia. As far as the private sector is concerned, Amir Kabir Publications created the most extensive organization for publishing books in Persia. Through the efforts of Abd-al-Rahim Ja’fari 1724 works were published by Amir Kabir between 1949 and 1979. It was effectively shut down by the agents of the 1979 revolution along with the Institute for Translation and Publication, Franklin Publications, the Iranian Cultural Foundation, and the Book Society (Anjoman‑e Ketâb) of Persia, which had initiated roaming lending libraries, publication of annual catalogues of printed books, organizing book exhibitions, initiating a book club, and setting up a committee of scholars to select and announce the best books of the year in a number of fields.47

Publishing in Present-Day Persia After the end of the war between Persia and Iraq, the number of private publishers gradually increased in 1989. In addition to the institutions mentioned above, new organizations were founded concerning themselves with publications on language, literature, 47 Anjoman‑e ketâb was founded in 1957 by Ehsan Yarshater in collaboration with Iraj Afshar, Abdollâh Sayyâr, A.-H. Zarrinkoub, Mehri Ahi, and Hafez Farmanfarmayan. For details see, EIr, s.v. Anjoman‑e ketāb, vol. II, pp. 85–86.

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history, etc. Among them were the Markaz‑e Nashr‑e Dâneshgâhi (Center for Academic Publications), founded in 1980 and directed until 2004 by Nasr-Allâh Pourjavâdy; Mirâth‑e Maktub (Written Heritage) founded in 1991 and specializing in the publication of classic Persian and Arabic works, and the Sâzmân‑e Asnâd‑e Melli (Organization for National Documents). Several official institutions have been active in publishing literary and historical works. They include the Bureau for Political and International Studies in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Organization for Printing and Publishing in the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, the Foundation of Dr. Mahmud Ashar’s Endowments (Bonyâd‑e mowqufât‑e Dr. Mahmud Afshar), the Foundation for Persian History and Monuments, and the Bureau for Cultural Studies. Many encyclopaedic works are appearing in Persia, such as Dâyerât-al-Ma’âref‑e Tashayyo’ (Encyclopaedia of Shiism), Dâneshnâme-ye Jahân‑e Eslâm (Encyclopaedia of the Islamic World), Dâneshnâme-ye Adab‑e Fârsi (Encyclopaedia of Persian Literature), and Dâneshnâme-ye Zabân o Adabiyyât‑e Fârsi (Encyclopaedia of Persian Language and Literature), published by the Persian Academy of Language and Literature (Farhangestân). The most important, however, is the detailed and well-organized Dâyerât-al-Ma’âref‑e Bozorg‑e Eslami (the Great Islamic Encyclopaedia), edited by Kâzem Musavi-Bojnurdi. A plethora of “encyclopaedias” of all stripes and subjects flood the market. Among the notable dictionaries one may mention Loghat-nâmeye Fârsi (Dictionary of the Persian Language, in progress), edited by Mohammad Dabirsiyâqi and published by Loghat-nâme of Deh­ khodâ organization, and Farhang‑e Bozorg‑e Sokhan (The Great Sokhan Dictionary), published in eight volumes in 2002 under the supervision of Hasan Anvari by Enteshârât‑e Sokhan. Between 1952 and 2001 the number of titles published in Persia increased from 487 to 30,875 (see Appendix 1). In addition, since 1979 Persian books are published increasingly outside the country because of the emigration of many Persians to the West. Persian publishers are active in particular in Sweden, Germany, France, Britain, and the U.S.A (see Appendix 2). 446

Chapter 17 Libraries and Librarianship I. Afshar

1. Libraries In the present chapter libraries are described in the regions where Persian is or was spoken, and countries or societies where Persian culture played a major role in certain historical periods.1 Beside Persia and Afghanistan, these include, Muslim Central Asia, the Indian Subcontinent, Ottoman Turkey, and some of the lands of the former Ottoman Empire. Rulers, notables, learned men and women, poets, and mystics in these regions cultivated in certain periods the Persian language irrespective of their ethnic origin, and collected Persian books whenever the right cultural and political conditions prevailed. On the Subcontinent, this was the case under the Khalji sultans of Delhi (1290–1320), when Sufi sheikhs such as Nezâm-al-Din Owliyâ (d. 1325), and poets such as Amir Khosrow of Delhi (d. 1325), and Hasan Dehlavi (d. 1328) promoted the use of Persian. Under these sultans the collecting of Persian books by Indian princes and notables began and the trend continued through the Mughal period. Several Mughal emperors owned well-stocked libraries. At the end of the 18th century the library of Âsaf-al-Dowle ­Bahâdor Yahyâ, a Mughal dignitary in Shâhjahânâbâd was estimated to contain no less than 300,000 volumes, most of which had

1 The most important monograph on libraries in Arab countries is Y. Eche, Les bibliothèques arabes (Damascus, 1967); see also the bibliography in W. Heffening and J. D. Pearson, EI2, s.v. Maktaba.

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been ­assembled from the remains of collections made during the reign of the Mughal emperors. 2 In Anatolia, Persian books were composed for local sultans since the reign of the Saljuqs of Rum (1077–1307). At the same time, it became the custom to have a personal library. Especially the Saltoqid emirs of Armenia and Eastern Anatolia kept Persian books among their treasures; a specimen that can be retraced to the latter is the manuscript, dated 1197/593, of Khâqâni’s Khatm al-gharâ’eb (better known as Tohfat al-Erâqeyn), which was copied for the treasure house of Abu’l-Fath Malekshâh b. Saldoq (1184–94).3 After the capture of Constantinople (1453) numerous libraries were founded by the Ottoman sultans, their ministers, and the notables and scholars of the Ottoman-Turkish empire.4 The appellations used for a library in Persian texts are ketâbkhâne, kotobkhâne, dâr-al-ketâb, beyt-al-kotob, all meaning “house of books,” and khezânat-al-kotob, a “treasury of books.” The term “treasury,” often occurring in the dedications of books, was an appropriate one, because decorated and illustrated manuscripts were greatly valued, and were preserved at courts in royal treasure houses. Under the lemma Marv of his geographical dictionary Mo’jam al-boldân, Yâqut (d. 1229) refers several times to the libraries of Marv as khezâne. In his Vaqf-nâme-ye Rab’‑e Rashidi, the Mongol vizier Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh (d. 1318) mentions all the five synonyms for library. The libraries that belonged to kings, princes and important officials often received honorific qualifying titles such as “blessed” (mobârake), “august” (homâyun), and “prosperous” (âmere).

2 Abd-al-Latif Shushtari, Tohfat al-âlam (Tehran, 1984), p. 425. On Mughal collections in general, see Sh. Abdul Aziz, The Imperial Library of the Mughuls (Lahore, 1967). 3 Vienna, Austrian National Library, Cod. Mixt, no. 845; cf. I. Afshar, “Khatm al-gharâ’eb;” A. L. F. A. Beelaert, A Cure for the Grieving: Studies on the Poetry of 12th century Persian Court Poet Khāqānī Širwānī (Leiden, 2000), pp. 200–203. 4 On Ottoman libraries see O. Bilgin, “Turkey,” in G. J. Roper, ed., World Survey of Islamic Manuscripts (London, 1992–94), III, pp. 294–400.

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Religious Centres As libraries were essential tools for teaching and the spread of knowledge, they initially appeared in religious centers. In the earliest periods, these were first of all the mosques, which existed in every city. Mosques were reliable and respected places for those who wished to donate copies of the Qur’an as a pious trust, but other books were kept there as well.5 Among the major mosque libraries mention should be made of the Mani’i Friday mosque and the Aqil Mosque in Nishapur, both of which were destroyed during historical upheavals. The Aqil library, which would have contained 5,000 volumes, was burned down when the Ghuzz warriors raided the city in 1159.6 About the splendor of another important library, in the ancient mosque of Hamadan, it is written: “It was like a hoopoe with a gown and a crown … In this library you could get as much paper, pencils and pens as you wished.”7 The Buyid vizier Abu’lAbbâs Dabbi (d. 1008–9) established a library in Isfahan opposite the Friday mosque, presumably with the intention that it should be used by the visitors of the mosque, as classes were commonly held in mosques. As a rule, libraries which had a public function were situated where people could easily have access to them, such as the centre of a city and in the vicinity of the main marketplace. In every madrase or traditional seminary, at least some books must have been present, but in the major cities they had extensive collections of books. Madrase libraries appeared later than mosque libraries because until the beginning of the 10th century there is no trace of the presence of madrases in Persia.8 Probably the first of these schools 5

On mosque libraries see further: M. Makki al-Sabâ’i, Târikh‑e ketâbkhânehâ-ye masâjed (Mashhad, 1993); idem, Naqsh‑e ketâbkhânehâ-ye masâjed dar farhang va tamaddon‑e eslâmi (Tehran, 1994); N. Karimiyân Sardashti, Târikh‑e ketâbkhânehâ-ye masâjed‑e Iran (Tehran, 1999). 6 Beyhaqi, Târikh‑e Beyhaq (Tehran, 1938), p. 21; Hâfez‑e Abru, Ḫorāsān zur Timuridenzeit (Wiesbaden, 1982–84), I (ed.), pp. 51–52; II (tr.), pp. 42–44. 7 Abu’l-Rajâ’ Qomi, Târikh al-vozarâ’ (Tehran, 1984), pp. 222–23. 8 On the history of the madrasa see: J. Pedersen, G. Makdisi et al., in EI2, s.v. Madrasa; H. Soltânzâde, Târikh‑e madâres (Tehran, 1985); Nur-Allâh Kesâ’i, Madâres‑e Nezâmiyye (Tehran, 1984); idem, “Az Nezâmiyye tâ Mostanseriyye.”

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was built in Amol by Nâser Kabir Hasan b. Ali (d. 916), the ruler of Tabarestan.9 Numerous madrases are mentioned in the sources, but references to their libraries are rather scarce. Heinz Halm mentions in total seventy-two madrases in the cities of Persia until the 14th century, forty-eight of which were attached respectively to the Shâfe’i, Hanbali, Hanafi and Maleki schools of Islamic law, and to the Karrâmiyya.10 To which community the others belonged is not specified. In Nishapur alone, there were thirty-three madrases.11 Persons with a special cultural interest established scholarly centers with libraries in several cities, such as the Dâr-al-Sonna in Nishapur, the oldest center for the study of the Prophetic Traditions (hadith); the observatory in Maragha founded by the polymath Khwâja Nasir-al-Din Tusi (d. 1274), the library of which is said to have contained 400,000 books;12 and the quarter Rab’‑e Rashidi in Tabriz with a collection of 60,000 volumes.13 In the same city the Il-Khân Ghâzân (1295–1304) opened hostels of charity which also included a library.14 The Sufis had libraries of their own at their centers (khânegâhs) which they used to visit, and where their circles gathered. In most cases they were maintained by pious foundations.15 A famous example is the library of Sheykh Safi-al-Din (1252–1334) in Ardabil. The Safavid kings, who were the Sheykh’s descendants, donated old and precious books to the shrine. In 1637 Adam Olearius, one of the first German translators of Sa’di’s Golestân, visited this ­library.16   9 Ebn-Esfandiyâr, Târikh‑e Tabarestân (Tehran, 1941), p. 97; A. Keymanesh, “Ketâbkhânehâ-ye Irân,” p. 773. 10 Heinz Halm, Die Ausbreitung der Šāfiitischen Rechtsschule von den Anfängen bis zum 8./14. Jahrhundert (Wiesbaden, 1974). 11 Ahmad b. Hoseyn Kâteb, Târikh‑e jadid‑e Yazd (Tehran, 1975), p. 135. 12 M.-T. Modarres‑e Razavi, Âthâr va ahvâl‑e … Tusi (Tehran, 1955), p. 25, quoting Ebn-Shâker’s Favât al-vafayât. 13 Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh, Vaqf-nâme-yi Rab’‑e Rashidi (Tehran, 1977), see index; idem, Savâneḥ al-afkâr (Tehran, 1979), pp. 213–14. 14 Idem, History of Ghāzān Khān (London, 1940), p. 210. 15 Y. Eche, Les bibliothèques arabes, p. 204–8, mentions ten libraries of Sufi centers in Baghdad. 16 A. Olearius, The voyages and travels of the Ambassadors sent by the Duke of Holstein …, English tr. (London, 1662).

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In the course of the war with Persia in 1825–27, the Russians took away most of the manuscripts which are now in St. Peters­burg. During the first part of the Pahlavi era (1925–41), the manuscripts of this shrine that remained in Persia were transferred to the Museum of Persian Antiquities in Tehran.17 A catalogue of the library at Ardabil, written on a scroll and dated 1758, was recovered and has been published. When a Sufi master died and was buried in a corner of his khânegâh, his shrine became, as a rule, a place of worship with a library, which often has remained in existence to the present day. The library at the tomb of Sheykh Ahmad of Jâm, known as Zhende-Pil (d. 1141) in the Sufi khânegâh of Jâm, in Khorasan, existed already during the Sheykh’s lifetime.18 Similar libraries are to be found at the tombs of Rumi at Konya, and Shâh Ne’mat-Allâh Vali at Mâhân in Kerman. Keeping books at the shrines of the descendants of the Imams was a common practice among the Shi’ites. One of the oldest accounts about libraries in such places is given by Youssef Eche, who reports that in 1204 a Shi’ite vizier donated his books to the shrine of the seventh Imam Musâ al-Kâzem in Baghdad.19 Other libraries at the Shi’ite shrines are concentrated in cities such as Najaf, Karbala, Samarra, and Mashhad. The library at the shrine of the eighth Imam, Ali b. Musa al-Rezâ (known as the Âstân‑e Qods‑e Razavi), in Mashhad is the most important one. It possesses a collection of Qur’ans donated since the 10th century (one of them in 974). 20 The library was probably already open to the public in the 15th century, but during the 16th and 17th centuries the raids of the Uzbeks on Mashhad interrupted its activities. We know that in 1737 the library had a reading room and was frequented by students again. 21 17 See on these manuscripts M.-T. Dâneshpazhuh, in Noskhehâ-ye khatti 2 (1962), pp. 199–218. 18 Darvish-Ali Buzjâni, Rowzat-al-rayâhin (Tehran, 1976), p. 57. 19 Y. Eche, Les bibliothèques arabes, p. 211. 20 A.-A. Fayyâz, “Khabari az Mashhad‑e hazâr sâl pish;” A. Golchin-Ma’âni, Râhnamây‑e Ganjine-ye Qur’an (Mashhad, 1968); R.-A. Shâkeri, Ganj‑e hazâr-sâle (Mashhad, 1988). 21 M. Velâyati, “Târikh‑e Ketâbkhâne-ye Âstân‑e Qods‑e Razavi.”

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To the same category belong the libraries at the shrines of Ma’sume (Setti Fâteme, the sister of the eighth Imam) in Qom, of Ahmad b. Musâ (known as Shâh-Cherâgh) in Shiraz, and of Shâh Abd-al-Azim in Ray. Sometimes important books were kept at the smaller shrines of the descendants of the Imams, the emâmzâdes, e.g., the famous copy of the Qur’an, known as the Bâysonqori – because it was copied by the hand of Bâysonqor (d. 1433), the son of the Timurid ruler Shâhrokh. Nâder Shâh took it away from Samarqand and entrusted it to the shrine of Sultân Ebrâhim near Quchân. 22 Today the precious sheets of this Qur’an are dispersed.

Royal Libraries A considerable number of the kings who have ruled in the countries where Persian prevailed took an interest in collecting books and creating libraries. At the time of the Buyids, Emâd-al-Dowle (934–49), Azod-al-Dowle (978–83), and Bahâ’-al-Dowle Firuz (998–1012), had their libraries in Shiraz, and Habashi, a son of Mo’ezz-al-Dowle (945–67), in Basra. The library of Azod-al-Dowle was described by Moqaddasi as a well-organized institution. It was established in a separate building and contained a considerable number of books.23 The renown of the library of the Samanid ruler Nuh b. Mansur (977–97) of Bukhara was due to Ebn-Sinâ (Avicenna), who gives a description of it in his autobiography. 24 When the library burned down some people held Ebn-Sinâ responsible. In his 22 M. Bayâni, Ahvâl va âthâr‑e khoshnevisân (Tehran, 1966–79), IV, p. 41; for another story about this MS, see R. Homâyunfarrokh, Ketâb va ketâbkhânehâ (Tehran, 1968), p. 110. 23 Moqaddasi, Ahsan al-taqâšim (Leiden, 1877), p. 449; Meskavayh, Tajâreb al-omam (Tehran, 1998), VI, p. 224; Yâqut, Mo’jam al-odabâ’ (Leiden and London, 1907–27), VI, p. 447. See further: C. E. Bosworth, in EI2, s.v. Ṣadaḳa; H. Busse, Chalif und Grosskönig (Beirut, 1969), pp. 523–29; H. Kabir, Cultural Developments (Calcutta, 1964), pp. 168–85. 24 The Arabic text with a Persian translation in S. Nafisi, ed., Sargozasht‑e Ebn-Sinâ. The autobiography was copied in several other sources.

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Tatemme-ye Sevân-al-hekma, Ali b. Zeyd Beyhaqi describes the library of Ma’mun b. Mohammad Khwârazmshâh (d. 996), and names a book on dream interpretation which was written especially for this library. 25 The Ghaznavid rulers Mahmud (r. 998–1030) and Mas’ud III (r. 1099–1115) had libraries in Ghazne and Lahore, respectively. However, Mahmud also destroyed several libraries in mosques and madrasas in the area of Deylam, Ray, and other cities with a Shi’ite population. After he had built his own library in Ghazne, he used to gather learned men around him in the evening and they would read to him. His poet-laureate Onsori wrote three mathnavi poems for this library, known as the “Treasury of Yamin-al-Dowle.”26 About the same period, Rostam b. Ali b. Shahriyâr of the Bâvandid dynasty in Tabarestân built a library in Amol. 27 Among the Seljuks, Sultan Sanjar (1118–57) was renowned for his library and the confidence he had in learned men. Several scholars dedicated their works to this ruler. One of them, Omar b. Sahlân of Sâva, wrote in the introduction to one of his treatises: A book is the best present for the learned. The library of the ruler of the world is made prosperous by books that were written by others, and he [i.e., the author] wanted to write a comprehensive work especially for this treasure house of books. 28

From the time of Saljuq rule in Kerman two libraries are on record: one was attached to the Qotbiyye Madrase, and was probably founded by Qotb-al-Din Mohammad, the Atâbeg of Arslân Shâh (r. 1101–42); the other, containing 5,000 volumes, was built by Mohammad b. Arslân Shâh (r. 1142–56) near the gate of the Turânshâhi mosque in Bardasir. 29 25 Nâser-al-Din of Kerman, Dorrat al-akhbâr (Tehran, 1939), p. 56. 26 Owfi, Lobâb al-albâb, ed. S. Nafisi (Tehran, 1954), p. 269. 27 Ebn-Esfandiyâr, Târikh‑e Tabarestân, p. 4. 28 Al-resâla al-Sanjariyya fi’l-kâ’enât al-onsoriyya, in M.-T. Dâneshpazhuh, Do resâle dar bâre-ye âthâr‑e olvi (Tehran, 1958), p. 3. 29 Nâser-al-Din of Kermân, Semt al-’alâ le’l-hadhrat al-’olyâ (Tehran, 1949), p. 43; Afzal-al-Din of Kerman, Badâye` al-azmân fi vaqâye’ Kermân (Tehran, 1947), p. 27; Mohammad b. Ebrâhim, Saljuqiyân va Ghuzz dar Kermân (Tehran, 1964), p. 42.

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During the reign of the Atâbegs of Yazd, several madrases were founded, in which there were of course also collections of books. About 1129, Alâ’-al-Dowle Garshâsp reserved a section of the Friday mosque he built for a library.30 From his private library a copy of Ebn-Sinâ’s philosophical work al-Najât is extant, which bears the mark of his library on the first page.31 Among the libraries of the Il-Khanid period, mention has been made already of the library established by Ghâzân Khân as a charity, which was in charge of the vizier Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh. We have no special information about this library, apart from a short reference in Rashid-al-Din’s Jâme’ al-tavârikh; in the section dealing with Ghâzân’s welfare institutions it is stated that “materials for the conservation and restoration of books and the expenses of the books which are needed” had to be paid. Employees, such as librarians, monâvels (assistants) and servants, are also mentioned.32 To the library of Sultan Ahmad Sheykh Oveys (1382–1410) of the Jalâyerid dynasty and one of the patrons of the poet Hâfez, belonged a manuscript of Qazvini’s Ajâyeb al-makhluqât, copied in 1388/790 (Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Supplément Persan no. 332).33 Some Timurid princes belonged to the greatest bibliophiles of their time; they founded libraries for the preservation of the splendidly illustrated manuscripts produced under their patronage. In fact, books were dedicated to the library of Timur (1370–1405), the founder of the dynasty.34 Special mention should be made of the libraries of Timur’s sons Omar Sheykh (d. 1394), the ruler of Fars, and Shâhrokh (1405–47), in Herat. Omar’s sons Pir Mohammad Jahângir (d. 1406) and Eskandar (d. 1414) followed in their father’s 30 Ja’far b. Mohammad Ja’fari, Târikh‑e Yazd (Tehran, 1959), pp. 21–29; Ahmad b. Hoseyn Kâteb, Târikh‑e jadid‑e Yazd (Tehran, 1975), pp. 60–69. 31 M.-T. Dâneshpazhuh, Fehrest‑e Ketâbkhâne-ye markazi-ye Dâneshgâh‑e Tehrân (Tehran, n.d.), VIII, p. 37 (MS no. 1348). 32 Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh, History of Ghāzān Khān, pp. 210–11. 33 M. Qazvini, Yâddâshthâ, VII, p. 203. 34 E.g., Esmâ’il b. Shehâb-al-Din Demashqi, Derâyat dar tavallod va tanâsol, cf. M.-T. Daneshpazhuh, Fehrest‑e Ketâbkhâne-ye markazi, XVII (Tehran, 1985), p. 244.

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footsteps and founded libraries respectively in Shiraz and Isfahan. To the latter’s library the famous Ma’ruf of Baghdad was attached, who abandoning the court of the Jalâyerids, came to Isfahan, and was employed there to copy five hundred lines each day.35 Shâhrokh built several madrases with libraries. Two of his grandsons, Ologh Beg (d. 1449) in Samarqand and Bâysonqor (d. 1433) in Herat, established libraries of great renown. Ologh Beg’s library was attached to his observatory, which employed many scholars.36 Nasir-al-Din Tusi’s translation of Abd-al-Rahmân Sufi’s astronomical work, Sovar al-kavâkeb, was one of the books produced there by a group of calligraphers, illuminators, painters, and binders, who reported regularly to the prince; the book is believed to have been copied by Bâysonqor himself.37 It is reported that forty calligraphers worked in this library under the supervision of Mowlânâ Ja’far of Tabriz.38 After Bâysonqor’s death, several poets composed elegies which are collected in an illuminated jong or miscellany album. One of the poets in this collection laments: Yesterday when I entered the library, I saw that some were weeping, everyone looked worried. All people of the library wore a black dress, they had thrown away the inkpots and had smashed the pens to the ground.39

Other descendants of Timur who owned important libraries were Pir Mohammad Jahângir (d. 1406) in Shiraz, and Eskandar Sultan (d. 1414) in Isfahan. Manuscripts from their collections were 35

Abd-al-Razzâq of Samarqand, Matla’ al-sa’deyn (ed. Lahore, 1981), I, p. 589; see also Qomi, Golestân‑e honar, ed. A. Soheyli-Khwânsâri. (Tehran, 1974), p. 26; tr. V. Minorsky (Washington, 1959), pp. 64–65. 36 Cf. W. W. Barthold, Ulug Beg und seine Zeit, tr. W. Hinz (Leipzig, 1935); A. Sayli, The observatory in Islam (Ankara, 1960). 37 I. Afshar, “Arze-dâsht‑e molâzemân” Tarjoma-ye Sovar al-kavâkeb, facsimile ed. (Tehran, 1969). 38 Rumlu, Ahsan al-tavârikh (Tehran, 1970), p. 307; Heydar Dughlât, Târikh‑e Rashidi (Cambridge, Mass., 1996), p. 163; Dowlatshâh, Tadhkerat al-sho’arâ (London, 1901), p. 350. 39 H. Nakhjavâni, “Kamâl-al-Din Ja’far, khattât‑e Tabrizi.”

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s­ cattered to many libraries throughout the world. A copy of Hamd­Allâh Mostowfi’s Târikh‑e gozide, from 1419, which once belonged to the library of Ebrâhim Sultân (d. 1459), a son of Ologh Beg, is now preserved in the Bavarian State Library in Munich, ­Germany.40 The library of Sultan Hoseyn Bâyqarâ (r. 1470–1506) in Herat was one of the most important of his time. Here decorated and illuminated manuscripts were written in fine calligraphy and adorned with fine bindings. One of his master calligraphers was Sultân-Ali of Mashhad. The great miniature painter Kamâl-al-Din Behzâd (d. ca. 1536) was in charge of the library for some time. The historian Khwândamir devotes an entire chapter of his Kholâsat alakhbâr to the artists who worked on manuscripts during Sultan Hoseyn’s reign.41 A specimen of their work is a Persian translation of the Sad kaleme (Hundred Words) of Ali b. Abi-Tâleb, written in the style of his library (Tehran, Museum of Persian Antiquities, no. 3708).42 The Safavid Shahs and princes continued the Timurid tradition of keeping libraries and employing skilful painters and calligraphers to make decorated manuscripts. Shâh Esmâ’il (1501–24) invited Behzâd to Tabriz, and in 1522 and appointed him as the head of the royal library.43 To the library of Shâh Tahmâsp (1524–56), initially in Tabriz but later transferred to Qazvin, a workshop was attached where superbly illustrated copies of the Shahname44 and the Khamse of Nezâmi of Ganje were made. According to Ahmad Qomi, who gives valuable information about this library, the famous calligrapher Shâh Mahmud of Nishapur copied here 40 M.-T. Dâneshpazhuh, “Ketâbkhâne-ye shahr‑e Munikh [Munich],” p. 321; cf. J. Aumer, Die persischen Handschriften der K. Hof- und Staatsbibliothek (Munich, 1866), p. 68. 41 Khwândamir, Fasli az Kholâsat al-Akhbâr (Kabul, 1966). 42 M.-T. Dâneshpazhuh, Fehrest‑e noskhehâ-ye khatti-ye Ketâbkhâne-ye Muze-ye Irân‑e bâstân (Tehran, 1962), II, p. 201. 43 M. Qazvini, “Do sanad‑e târikhi.” 44 The miniatures in this manuscript were published before it was dismembered and dispersed by its former owner, Arthur A. Houghton, cf. M. B. Dickson and S. C. Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh, 2 vols. (Cambridge, Mass., 1981).

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Nezâmi’s Khamse in ghobâr script. Qomi further names the painters Mowlânâ Mirzâ Ali, Mowlânâ Nazari of Qom, who eventually became the “key-holder” (kelid-dâr) of the royal library, and Mowlânâ Qadimi, whom Tahmâsp took into his service on account of his special skill in painting portraits.45 Among the other sons of Shâh Esmâ’il, Sâm Mirzâ and Bahrâm Mirzâ were great bibliophiles. In his Tadhkere-ye Sâmi, the former showed his great knowledge about the arts of the book. Qomi mentions the calligrapher Mowlânâ Nezâm of Bukhara, who could write in the six traditional scripts, as one of those who worked in Bahrâm’s library.46 Also Rostam-Ali, a nephew of Behzâd, was initially employed by this patron.47 The historian Eskandar Monshi describes the library of Ebrâhim Mirzâ, a son of Bahrâm Mirzâ, in Mashhad, as an excellent collection where many master calligraphers, painters, and illuminators worked.48 Qomi, who also praises the richness of this library, wrote that half of the works of Mowlânâ Mir Ali of Herat (d. 1544), one of the great masters of nasta’liq script, were kept there.49 The number of Ebrâhim Mirzâ’s books amounted to some 3,000 to 4,000. Among the people who worked in this library were the calligrapher Mâlek Deylâmi, Behzâd’s nephew Rostam-Âli and his son Mohebb-Ali, Eyshi, and finally Mowlânâ Abd-Allâh of Shiraz, who was renowned as a maker of illuminated title pages (sarlowh-sâz) and stayed in the service of the library for twenty years.50 Shâh Abbâs donated many books from his own collection to holy shrines, such as the shrine of the eighth Imam in Mashhad (called at the time “sarkâr‑e feyz-âthâr,” and later “Astân‑e qods”), the shrine of Ma’sume in Qom and the shrine of his ancestor Safial-Din in Ardabil. The libraries of Soleymân I (r. 1666–94) and 45 Qomi, Golestân‑e honar, ed., pp. 87–88, 137, 139–40; tr., pp. 135–38, 185–86. 46 Ibid., ed., p. 33; tr. p. 75. 47 Ibid., ed., p. 100; tr., p. 147. 48 Eskandar Beg Monshi, Târikh‑e âlamârâ-ye Abbâsi (Tehran, 1956), p. 209. 49 Qomi, Golestân‑e honar, pp. 107; p. 155; cf. also p. 111; p. 158. 50 Qomi, Golestân‑e honar, pp. 93, 100, 141–42, 147, 148; p. 152; see also idem, Kholâsat al-tavârikh (Tehran, 1980–84), I, p. 401.

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Sultân-Hoseyn (r. 1694–1722) are also worth mentioning. A copy of Ardabili’s Jâme’ al-rovât in the Sadr library in Baghdad once belonged to the latter’s library.51 The collection of manuscripts of Sultân-Hoseyn is said to have been important.52 In 1708 this Shah donated books to the library of the Mâdar‑e Shâh madrasa in Isfahan; for each of these books, a detailed endowment charter (vaqfnâme), was separately drawn up.53 The French missionary Père Raphael du Mans writes in the middle of the 17th century that the royal library of the Safavids was badly organized: In a place which they call a ‘library’ the king’s books are thrown into boxes, without any order. Unlike what we are used to in our country, the books in Persia are not neatly ordered on the shelves. As a result, people who are interested cannot find easily what they need.54

The Sheybanids (16th century) and the subsequent rulers of Trans­ oxiana invariably also had their book collections. Qomi mentions the library of Abd-al-Aziz Bahâdor Khân (1539–50) in Bukhara, because the calligrapher Mir Ali of Herat worked there for some time.55 A century later, the Jânid ruler Abd-al-Aziz Khân b. Nadr Khân (1645–80) built a library in Bukhara with facilities for copying, illuminating, and illustrating manuscripts. Twelve manuscripts from his collection have been identified.56 When Abd-al-’Aziz was defeated after having invaded Khorasan, his library and other belongings were brought before the Safavid Shah Safi.57 Under Nâder Shâh (r. 1736–47), the library became one of the departments of the grand vizier (sadr‑e a’zam) and functioned as a record-office.58 During the reign of Fath-Ali Shâh (r. 1797–1834), 51 A.-N. Monzavi, Fehrest‑e Ketâbkhâne-ye markazi (Tehran, 1954), II, p. 33. 52 Rostam-al-hokamâ, Rostam al-tavârikh (Tehran, 1969), p. 85. 53 Published by I. Afshar in RK 15 (1972), pp. 859–62. 54 Estat de la Perse en 1660, ed. Ch.Schefer (Paris, 1890); Persian tr. in Kelk, 80–83 (1996), p. 401. 55 Qomi, Golestân‑e honar, ed., p. 82; tr. p. 130; Nathâri, Modhakker‑e ahbâb, pp. 39–40; M. Szuppe, “Lettrés, patrons, libraires,” p. 103. 56 Y. Porter, “Le kitâb-khâna de ’Abd al-’Aziz Khân.” 57 Mohammad Ma’sum of Isfahan, Kholâsat al-siyar (Tehran, 1989), p. 193. 58 Makhzun, Qazvini, Dastur al-khavâqin (Tehran, 1990), p. 366.

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the plan was conceived to set up a library in the Golestân garden of the citadel (arg) at Tehran for the books left from the Nâder Shâh period. The grand vizier Mirzâ Shafi’ (d. 1819) and the poet Mirzâ Abd-al-Vahhâb Nashât (d. 1828) were responsible for the organization of this library. Their notes and stamps on the back of several manuscripts in the Golestân Library reflect the importance they attached to bringing this institution to life.59 Nevertheless, their successor Hâji Mirzâ Âqâsi, the grand vizier of Mohammad Shâh (r. 1834–48), saw no harm in giving away a manuscript of the Shahname, copied by the master calligrapher Mir Emâd, with seventy miniature paintings.60 Nâser-al-Din Shâh (1848–96), who took a personal interest in cultural matters, supervised the library in the private quarters of his palace himself, locking its door with his own seal. Only occasionally did he allow his minister of publications, E’temâd-alSaltane, to enter it and put the books in order.61 Many Qajar princes were bibliophiles who kept their own private libraries. A famous library in this period belonged to Nâseral-Din Shâh’s son-in-law Ali Khân Zahir-al-Dowle, who was a mystically minded liberal. It was plundered after the bombardments of the parliament in 1908 by order of Mohammad-Ali Shah. Other learned Qajar princes with substantial libraries were Mohammad-Tâher Mirzâ, a well-known translator from French, and Mas’ud Zell-al-Soltân, Nâser-al-Din Shâh’s son and governor of Isfahan. Books from the libraries of these princes, usually marked by a stamp or a note, can now be found in various libraries in and outside Persia.

59 B. Âtâbây, Fasli az sargodhasht‑e Ketâbkhâne-ye Saltanati (Tehran, 1976), pp. 5–12. 60 Ibid., p. 7. 61 E’temâd-al-Saltane, Mabâheth‑e farhangi-ye asr‑e Nâseri (Tehran, 2001), see esp. pp. 20, 48, 74, 84, 87, 126, 130, 152.

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Libraries Established by Dignataries, Government Officials, and Private Individuals Among the founders of great libraries were also notables, who, though not members of a ruling dynasty, nevertheless belonged to the political and social elite. Leading statesmen such as Sâheb b. Abbâd, Nezâm-al-Molk, Nasir-al-Din Tusi, and Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh, are known to have donated libraries to institutions which they established for teaching and research purposes. Numerous libraries of governors, viziers, and courtiers from all periods and most provinces of Persia are on record. Keeping a substantial collection of books was a custom of Persian notables which continued until the end of the 19th century. Sometimes they were inherited for several generations in a family of state officials, e.g., the Nowbakhtis of Baghdad (an influential family ca. 800–1000), the Bal’amis of Bukhara (10th century), the Khojandis of Isfahan (12th century), and the Mosha’sha’i family in Khuzestan (1441–1508). Families with a tradition of religious scholarship were also among them, e.g., the Khwânsâris and Rowzâtis of Isfahan,62 and the Shustaris and Jazâyeris in Khuzistan. The private individuals who became known for their libraries included religious authorities such as Razi’-al-Din b. Tâvus (d. 1266),63 Mohsen‑e Feyz of Kashan (d. 1680), Mohammad-Bâqer Majlesi (d. 1699), and Mohammad-Bâqer Shafti (d. 1844); philosophers and men of learning such as Ebn-Sinâ, Abu-Hâtem Mozaffar Esfezâri (d. 1121), and Omar b. Sahlân of Sâva (d. 1169–70); poets and writers, e.g., Rashid-al-Din Vatvât (d. 1177), Fakhr-al-Din Owhad of Sabzevâr (d. 1463–64), Jâmi (d. 1492), and Sheykh Ali Hazin (d. 1766). Hazin inherited 5,000 books from his father and added to their number himself.64 When the Afghans captured Isfahan in 1722, he gave 2,000 volumes away and the rest were plundered. Sadr-alDin Qunavi (d. 1274), one of the many mystics who kept a library, 62 M.-A. Rowzâti, “Ketâbkhâne-ye khânevâdegi.” 63 See on the books of this prominent Shi’ite scholar: Etan Kohlberg, A Medieval Muslim Scholar at Work: Ibn Ṭāwūs and his Library (Leiden, 1992). 64 Hazin, Târikh‑e Hazin (Isfahan, 1953), pp. 6, 42, 55.

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drew up a list of the manuscripts at his disposal, of which the autograph still exists.65 The poet Sanâ’i of Ghazne (d. 1131) praised the library founded by his patron, the chief justice and preacher Mohammad b. Mansur in Sarakhs, together with a madrase, a hospice and a dispensary, in a poem that includes this line: O seeking heart, here are the books; O ailing body, here is the cure!”66

2. Taking Care of Books Locations of Libraries As we have seen in the preceding sections, libraries could be established in many different places. Among them were the tombs of kings and other important personalities. About the tomb of Sultan Mahmud of Ghazne (d. 1030) it is reported that, when it was raided in about 1333, the invaders “demolished the Sultan’s sepulchre and tore down the pages of Qur’ans and books by hand and foot.”67 In the deed of his endowment, Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh wished that he be buried under a cupola in the library of the Rab’‑e Rashidi68 that he had built and funded. One of the most celebrated libraries in Persian history was in the fortress of Alamut where, in particular, the books of the Ismailis were kept. When the Mongol Hülegu conquered the fortress in 1256, the fate of this library was sealed. The historian Atâ-Malek Joveyni, who was an eyewitness to the event, tells that he proposed to Hülegu that he should spare the most precious books, in particular the copies of the Qur’an. With the Khan’s consent, he made 65 I. Afshar, “Fehrest‑e ketâbkhâna-ye Sadr al-Din Qunavi.” 66 Divân‑e Sanâ’i, ed. M.-T. Modarres‑e Razavi, 2nd print, (Tehran, 1962), p. 1074. On the relationship between Sanâ’i and his patron, see J. T. P. de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry (Leiden, 1983), pp. 63–68. 67 Abd-al-Razzâq of Samarqand, Matla’ al-sa’deyn (ed. Lahore, 1981), p. 64. 68 Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh, Vaqf-nâme, pp. 175 and 180.

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a selection but “burned the rest of the books as they belonged to their [the Ismâilis’] erroneous and deviating beliefs, and were based neither on the traditional nor the rational sciences.”69 It has been speculated that Khwâje Nasir-al-Din Tusi transferred some of the books to his observatory in Marâghe.70 At Bighard (near Shirvan in northern Azerbayjan) another library was located in a fortress which on 15 November 1533 was captured by Shâh Tahmâsp. Concerning it Qomi writes: Among these treasures, there were collections of books assembled here over the years from all countries and cities. The books were brought down from the fortress and were piled upon each other in the imperial palace. Most of them were copied by master calligraphers and decorated in gold, and they contained peerless portraits painted by masters …71

As libraries were also places where manuscripts were copied, they had to admit sufficient daylight. In a chapter on libraries Majnun Rafiqi (16th cent.) prescribes: Know that the house where manuscripts are copied should have wide doors at four sides covered by liq [or kâghaz‑e liq, a kind of transparent paper that was used to cover windowpanes instead of glass]. In the morning the scribe should sit in front of the eastern door, at midday in the southern part and at the end of the day at the western side.72

Storage and Preservation Books were stored on shelves (rafs) against the walls, in a niche (tâqche) or a closet (dulâbi). As Moqaddasi describes it, recesses were built into the walls of Azod-al-Dowle’s library.73

69 Joveyni, Târikh‑e jahângoshâ (Leiden, 1906–37), III, pp. 244, 269–70. 70 A. Key-Manesh, “Ketâbkhânehâ-ye Irân,” p. 788. 71 Qomi, Kholâsat-al-tavârikh, I, p. 280. 72 Majnun Rafiqi, Savâd-al-khatt (Mashhad, 1993), p. 91. 73 Moqaddasi, Ahsan al-taqâsim, p. 449.

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They also were stored in boxes (sanduqs) or so-called yakhdâns (literally ‘a vessel for keeping ice’). The term sanduq is used often in descriptions of libraries, e.g., Ebn-Sinâ writes: At this time the ruler of Bukhara was Nuh b. Mansur. Then, one day I asked his permission to go to his library and read and study the medical books that were there. He gave me permission and I entered a complex of buildings (sarâ), which had many houses and rooms, and in each room there were chests (sanduqs) of books that they had placed on top of each other. In one room was located Arabic books, in another poetry; in yet another books on Islamic law, and in this fashion in each room books of [a branch] of learning.74

In the ancient Friday mosque of Qazvin, donated books were kept separately in boxes with the name of each donor upon them.75 In a deed of endowment of 1214, belonging to a part (joz’) of a Qur’an which was found in 1964 in the dome of the shrine of the eighth Imam in Mashhad, it is stated that the manuscript had been donated, together with its box, to the Friday mosque of Nishapur. Joveyni describes how, at the time of Cinghiz Khân’s plundering of Bukhara, the troops emptied the boxes with the Qur’ans in the open area of the mosque and used them as troughs for their horses.76 The poet Hasan of Abivard (15th century) gave the warning: Beware! Do not rely on the boxes of books: books on the back of an ass bring no profit [to it].”77

Another term, used in connection with the transportation of books, was qematr (book-case). Ebn-Nadim says that the books of the historian Vâqedi’s library were put into six hundred of these cases, each being too heavy to be carried by two persons.78 It may be guessed from this information that some two hundred books could be placed in each qematr.

74 S. Nafisi, Pur‑e Sinâ (Tehran, 1954), p. 65. 75 Râfe’i, al-Tadvin fi akhbâr Qazvin (Tehran, 1997), pp. 51–52. 76 Joveyni, Târikh‑e jahângoshâ, I, p. 180. 77 In his poem Anis al-âsheqin, cf. Farhang‑e Irânzamin 15 (1968), p. 143. 78 Ebn-Nadim, Fehrest (Tehran, 1971), p. 111.

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The books were stacked horizontally, as this still can be seen in some old-fashioned bookshops, as well as on a miniature in the Schefer manuscript of Hariri’s Maqâmât of the 13th century (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, Arabe no. 5847). In order to identify books stacked in this manner, the titles usually were written on the edges of the sheets. The ink left such an impression on the paper that the titles are still legible on the edges of some ancient manuscripts, whereas titles written on the leathern backs would wear out in the course of time. The reason for this arrangement might have been to prevent dust and insects to penetrate the sheets. From about the 17th century onwards, tobacco used to be scattered around manuscripts against insects. Credulous people wrote on their books the magic formula “Yâ kabikaj,” convinced that this would protect them from worms.79

Arrangement and Inventories We have no accurate information about the arrangement of books in libraries. There are, however, various texts available that classify the sciences. In the past, writers were well aware of this matter, but we have no basic information about the system they used in their libraries, our information being based upon general reports. No letters or numbers have been found in manuscripts that indicate the numbering of books. Only occasionally we see a reference to the subject on the cover of a manuscript. The poet Mas’ud‑e Sa’d‑e Salmân, the librarian of Sultan Mas­ ’ud III of Ghazne, refers to a similar classification: Now he arranges the library by the help of God, the One, the Almighty, … He gives each science its place because everyone will acquire his own branch of learning. He fills the niches and the shelves with commentaries of the Qur’an, books on hadith and poetry.80 79 A. Gadek, “The use of kabikaj in Arabic manuscripts.” 80 Mas’ud‑e Sa’d‑e Salmân, Divân, ed. R. Yâsimi (Tehran, 1960), p. 224.

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Apparently, in all libraries the copies of the Qur’an were placed on the top shelves. The deed of endowment of the Rab’‑e Rashidi makes it clear how books were arranged on the basis of their importance and the respect due to them: Two doors to the libraries are built on the right and left sides of the dome. As far as possible, the copies of the Qur’an, which are the most important, are placed inside the dome. The books on the traditional sciences and the monographs (mosannafât‑e khâsse) are put in the right library, the books on the speculative sciences in the left one. If this is not feasible, books which are too many on one side may be placed separately on the other side.81

From this description it may be surmised that the books in this library were divided into three categories that were not to be mixed with one another. The Mo’tazilite scholar Najm-al-Din Mokhtâr b. Mohammad Zâhedi states that books on lexicography and grammar can be put upon each other; above them, the books on dream interpretation were placed, then books on theology (kalâm), then books on jurisprudence, then sermons and prayer books. Commentaries of the Qur’an were placed on top of other books, especially those which contained verses from the Holy Book.82 It is imaginable that the thematic arrangements in bibliographical works such as those of Ebn-Nadim, Biruni, and Hâji Khalife show to some extent how books were classified by librarians and booksellers. They needed some kind of thematic system to enable users to trace the books that they wanted. It is certain that major libraries of the past had their catalogues. However, apart from a short list of the books in the library of Sadral-Din Qunavi and an extensive inventory of the shrine of Sheykh Safi in Ardabil, there is little direct evidence available. Ebn-Sinâ tells us that he consulted a catalogue in the library of Nuh b. Mansur which helped him to find “books about which most people have never heard and which I had not seen before, nor have I seen them 81 Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh, Vaqf-nâme, p. 197. 82 Quoted by M.-T. Dâneshpazhuh in Noskhhehâ-ye khatti 9 (1979), p. 146.

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afterwards.”83 In the library of Azod-al-Dowle in Shiraz, there were, according to Moqaddasi, several thematic lists mentioning the titles of the books.84 Concerning the size of catalogues, Yâqut says that the library of Sâheb b. Abbâd in Ray had a catalogue in ten volumes.85 In the Persian translation of Mahâsen Esfahân, a history of Isfahan in Arabic written about 1329, mention is made of a private library near the Friday mosque of that city which had a catalogue in three big volumes.86 In the 16th century, the Owlâd castle in Mazandaran contained many precious volumes, an inventory of which was made, and an estimate of their value amounted to 6,000 tomâns.87

3. Librarians In the early sources, the director of a library is referred to as “treasurer of books” (khâzen-al-kotob), based on the metaphor of the library as a treasure-house. The poet Mas’ud‑e Sa’d‑e Salmân, for instance, described his function in the library of the Sultan of Ghazne as khâzeni ‘being treasurer’.88 Since the Timurid era, the current term was “keeper of books” (ketâbdâr). Other persons were employed in a library as well, depending on the size of its collections and its importance. In the 10th century, Moqaddasi distinguishes the functions of vakil (‘deputy’), khâzen, and moshref (‘supervisor’), adding that they must be respectable persons of the city.89 The Rab’‑e Rashidi library in Tabriz, which must have contained about 60,000 volumes, was run by a librarian and a monâvel, i.e. an assistant who “handed out the books.”90 The 83 S. Nafisi, Pur‑e Sinâ, p. 63. 84 Moqaddasi, Ahsan al-taqâsim, p. 449. 85 Yâqut, Mo’jam al-odabâ’, II, p. 315. 86 Hoseyn b. Mohammad Âvi, Tarjome-ye Mahâsen‑e Esfahân (Tehran, 1949), p. 63. 87 Sharaf-al-Din Ali of Yazd, Monsha’ât, fol. 143. 88 Mas’ud‑e Sa’d‑e Salmân, Divân, ed. R. Yâsimi (Tehran, 1960), p. 85. 89 Moqaddasi, Ahsan al-taqâsim, p. 449. 90 Rashid al-Din Fazl-Allâh, Vaqf-nâme, p. 156.

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book collections in Ghâzân Khân’s hostels were taken care of by the same personnel assisted by servants (farrâshs).91 Royal orders and decrees belonging to the Timurid and Safavid periods refer to the persons working in libraries simply as “actors” (amale), “personnel” (ahâli), “people” (mardom), and “workers” (kârkonân).92 From the 15th century onwards, the librarians were known also by the titles kalântar (a kind of magistrate) and dârughe ‘superintendent’. In a decree issued in 1522 for the painter Kamâl-al-Din Behzâd, it is stipulated that he was the chief accountant (mostowfi) and magistrate and that he was responsible for all the activities of the library. The library staff were not allowed to deviate from his instructions. During the Qajar period, the duties of the mostowfi included the financial administration of the library. As he was the “treasurer” of valuable books, the librarian was selected from among trustworthy people “free from any blemish or blame,” as it is stipulated in the royal order of Khwâja Nasir Khattât (“the calligrapher”) for the library of Faridun Hoseyn Mirzâ (16th century).93 Various measures were taken to ensure the continued care of libraries. In a deed of endowment, written for a canal dug from the Euphrates, Shâh Tahmâsp laid down that “the income of the keeper of books and the Qur’ans” (presumably at the holy shrines in Iraq) was to be paid from the revenues of this canal.94 The libraries usually had a “key holder” (kelid-dâr). In the Rab’‑e Rashidi this functionary was provided with a residence of his own.95 The names of several kelid-dârs are mentioned in the sources. The functionaries working in a library not only had to be trustworthy, they also had to show a personal interest in books, in branches of learning and the arts.96 Librarians could also be women. 91 Idem, History of Ghāzān Khān, p. 210; also see idem, Savâneh-al-afkâr, p. 50. 92 See respectively Jalâl-al-Din of Zowzan, Arz‑e sepâh‑e Uzun Hasan (Tehran, 1956), p. 34; M. Qazvini, “Neshân‑e kalântari-ye Behzâd;” Sharaf-alDin Ali of Yazd, Monsha’ât, fol. 143. 93 Vâsefi of Herat, Badâye’-al-vaqâye’ (Moscow, 1982), pp. 1011–15. 94 I. Afshar, “Vaqf-nâme-ye âb‑e Forât,” p. 317. 95 Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh, Vaqf-nâme, p. 180. 96 M.-T. Dâneshpazhuh, “Ketâbdâri filsuf.”

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When in 1425 Gowharshâd, the wife of the Timurid ruler Shâhrokh, founded a library in the mosque in Herat that was named after her, she took charge of it personally.97 In 1660 a woman by the name of Parivash was the librarian of the Mughal princess Zib-al-Nesâ ­Begom.98 According to the deed of endowment of the Shâhzâde Madrase in Yazd, of 1825, the governor of the foundation was allowed to entrust the care of the books to one of the students.99 The enlargement of the libraries depended on the activities of many others who were involved in the production of manuscripts, either as copyists, calligraphers, painters and illuminators, or as papermakers and binders.100 In the 1470s no less than fifty-eight people were employed in the library of the Aq Qoyunlu rulers.101 In the writings of Rashid-al-Din, the salaries of the librarians and their assistants are mentioned.102 For the Safavid period, we also have data about remunerations. According to the Tadhkerat al-moluk (written about 1725), one person was appointed at the royal library as the supervisor (moshref) with a salary of 133 dinars and two dângs, the same amount as that paid to the “supervisor of the department of refreshing drinks” (moshref‑e âbdârkhâne). Another member on the library’s staff was the “curator or keeper” (sâheb-jam’), who received fifty tomans;103 in the Dastur al-moluk, a treatise of the same nature, a “chief librarian” (ketâbdârbâshi) is mentioned who received a salary at a similar level.104 The monthly salary of the librarian of the Sultâni Madrase was fixed at three tomans and 5,000 dinars.105   97 Rumlu, Ahsan al-tavârikh, p. 240.   98 M.-T. Dâneshpazhuh, “Moraqqa’-sâzi va jong-nevisi,” p. 209.   99 Mohammad Ja’far of Na’in, Jâme’‑e Ja’fari (Tehran, 1974), p. 612; I. Afshar, Yâdgârhâ-ye Yazd (Tehran, 1969–75), II, p. 576. 100 See also Chapter 15 on Papermakers and binders. 101 Jalâl-al-Din of Zowzan, Arz‑e sepâh‑e Uzun Hasan. 102 See, e.g., Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh, Savâneh al-afkâr, p. 50; also in the History of Ghāzān Khān and in the Vaqf-nâme. 103 Tadhkirat al-mulūk (London, 1943), fascimile, pp. 98, 106; tr. V. Minorsky, pp. 94, 100. 104 Dârimi, Dastur al-moluk, ed. M.-T. Daneshpazhuh (Tehran, 1969), p. 107; cf. the emendations by I. Afshar in Daftar‑e târikh 1 (2001), p. 90. 105 A. Sepantâ, Târikhche-ye owqâf‑e Esfahân (Isfahan, 1967), p. 172.

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The Duties of a Librarian The librarian had first of all to heed all the stipulations made in the vaqf-nâmes and the royal decrees, which provided detailed information concerning his duties. In general, he had by tradition to look after the books so that those who needed them could use them. He should not give books to the uneducated, and in lending books should give priority to the poor, who had no access to books, over the rich, and, finally, he should give them in loan against a security, if the donor had made that stipulation.106 The tasks of the librarian further included the protection of the books from any kind of damage and the restoring and rebinding of the manuscripts whenever necessary.107 He had to buy books if this was prescribed by the deeds of endowment (e.g., in a vaqf-nâme dating from 1864, one tenth of the donation was reserved for the acquisition of scholarly works, which were to be put at the disposal of the Shi’ite community “in order to be used until Judgment Day”).108 He should maintain the stipulations of the endowment with regard to loaning. The books should be stamped, if this was stipulated,109 and the entire collection should be checked regularly. He had to coordinate and supervise the work of other employees in the library.110 His presence was required during the times when students could visit the library.111 The care for the collection included keeping the books in their right place, but they had to be given into the hands of craftsmen outside the library if they needed a thorough restoration.112 106 Sobki, Mo’id al-ne’am (Cairo, 1948), p. 111. 107 See Jâme’ al-kheyrât in I. Afshar, Yâdgârhâ-ye Yazd, II, p. 474. 108 Majalle-ye ma’âref‑e eslâmi 8 (1969), pp. 68–75; also see Vaqf‑e Mirâth‑e Jâvedân, 8/1, pp. 100–103. 109 Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh, Vaqf-nâme; Vaqf-nâme-ye madrase-ye Mah­ mudiyye-ye Tehran (1907/1325 Q.); Majalle-ye vaqf‑e mirâth‑e jâvedân, 8/1, pp. 100–103. 110 Sharaf-al-Din Ali of Yazd, Monsha’ât, ff. 78 b –80. 111 “Vaqf-nâme-ye madrase-ye soltâni-ye Esfahân” in A. Sepantâ, Târikhcheye owqâf‑e Esfahân, p. 167. 112 Nezâm-al-Din Abd-al-Vâse’ Nezâmi, Mansha’ al-enshâ’ (Tehran, 1978), pp. 204–5.

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4. Ownership and Donations The ownership of a manuscript could be marked in different ways. A copyist might write phrases such as “according to the rule of the library of …” (be rasm‑e khazâne) on the first page, or “according to the order of …” (hasb‑e dastur or farmâyesh‑e …) in the colophon. Owners often wrote their names on the covers; the presence of a stamp shows that it once belonged either to a public or a private library. The Timurid ruler Shâhrokh used to mark his books by his own stamp. Notes, entered usually on the first or the last page, tell of the purchase of a manuscript, of the fact that it was offered as a present, that it was inherited, or that the manuscript was confiscated. Donations to libraries as a pious deed could be of two types. A gift to the library of a mosque, a madrase or a Sufi institution was called a “public” (âmm) donation; when it was intended for the benefit of the donor’s own children or his family it was a “private” (khâss) donation.113 The deeds of endowment sometimes reveal nice points of social behavior. In a document written for the endowment of a part (joz’) of a Qur’an, made in 1003 by a vizier of the Ghaznavid Sultan Mahmud to the “shrine of Tus,” it is written: “The books should not be sold, nor given away as a present, or left to the heirs of the donor.” (Mashhad, Âstân‑e qods, no. 96). In another manuscript of a part of a Qur’an, donated to the same library in 1030, the condition is made that “the books should not be taken outside the shrine and the mosque;” a poem is added saying: “Whoever steals this sacred volume / God may let him die in grief.” (Âstân‑e qods, no. 1501).114 Numerous notes concerning donation occur on the backs of books which were donated by the Safavid shahs to shrines in Mashhad, Ray, Qom, and Ardabil. In the twenty-ninth year of his reign (ca. 1616), Shâh Abbâs I donated all the Qur’ans and the scholarly 113 The validity of donating a book according to Islamic law was a point of discussion among Islamic scholars (especially Sunnis), see Y. Eche, Les bibliothèques arabes. 114 See A. Golchin-Ma’âni, Râhnamâ-ye Ganjine, pp. 34–36.

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books in Arabic on the religious sciences in the royal library to the shrine of the eighth Imam in Mashhad, and the books in Persian, together with all porcelain objects, to the shrine of Sheykh Safi in Ardabil.115 In 1877 Hoseyn Tahvildâr, writing about Safavid endowments of books, noted that they were first classified into three main groups and then copied calligraphically to be donated respectively to the shrines in Mashhad and Ardabil, and the library of the Mâdar‑e Shâh (or Chahâr-Bâgh) Madrase in Isfahan.116 On books donated by Shâh Sultân-Hoseyn (1694–1722), specific conditions were written, e.g., The books are only for Twelver Shi’ite students residing in the madrase by permission of the instructor. Other persons can use them if they ask permission from the instructor and give a receipt with the instructor’s stamp on it, or “It is not permitted to buy, sell, borrow or pawn the books.”

They further stipulate that books should not be taken outside Isfahan except for a pilgrimage to a holy place, that they can only be borrowed against a security, and that their existence in the library should be verified by the instructor every six months.117 One of the conditions in the deed of endowment of the bathhouse of Naqsh‑e Jahân in Isfahan is that manuscripts, the copying of which had been paid from the revenues of the bath, should be reserved for those who were entitled to use them. Nowadays, the most important collection of donated books belongs to the shrine of the eighth Imam in Mashhad.118 In some deeds of endowment of madrases and libraries, special conditions were laid down concerning the contents of the books. For instance, in a deed of endowment of the Maryam Begom Madrase in Isfahan, dated 1704, a warning is included against reading books on “suspicious sciences,” i.e. the exact sciences and philosophy, such as Ebn-Sinâ’s Shefâ’ and Eshârât.119 In a deed of 115 Eskandar Monshi, Târikh‑e âlamârâ-ye Abbâsi, p. 761. 116 Joghrâfiyâ-ye Esfahân, p. 81. 117 I. Afshar, “Vaqf va amânat dâdan‑e ketâb.” 118 R. Mokhtâri, “Do vaqf-nâme.” 119 A. Sepantâ, Târikhche-ye owqâf‑e Esfahân, p. 299.

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e­ ndowment belonging to the Mâdar‑e Shâh Madrase, of 1711, the admonition is given: “Avoid the discussion of books about gnosis (erfân) and Sufism in this blessed school.”120

5. Loaning of Books An important point explicitly mentioned by donors of books concerns the way books could be loaned. By precise stipulations, attempts were made to prevent the loss of books resulting from loans. Often it was stipulated that books could be borrowed only by paying security money. A further condition was that books should not be taken outside the town where they were kept. In some cases the loan of books, either privately or publicly, was not allowed at all. When in 1439 the Mamluk Sultan Chaqmâq sent a messenger to the Timurid Shâhrokh’s court to borrow five books from his library, Shâhrokh ordered his calligraphers to prepare new copies of these books which he sent to Chakhmâq.121 The conditions for the loan of books, or even the permission to read them inside a library, could be very strict, as it appears from the following complaint made by a student: Whoever seeks learning, needs books, but all books are locked up and sealed in the king’s library. Since the books may become food for mice, it would be better if the king allowed his servants to use them. May the [protective] shadow of his kingship be long!122

In 1869, when Nâser-al-Din Shâh visited the library of the shrine in Mashhad, he ordered that no books should be loaned to anyone, and that all books borrowed should be reclaimed. Those who needed to consult a manuscript should come to the library and read it there, but they were not allowed to take a manuscript outside.123 120 Ibid., p. 169. 121 Rumlu, Ahsan-al-tavârikh, p. 240. 122 Atâbaki, Al-mokhtârât men al-rasâ’el (Tehran, 1999), p. 383. 123 Nâser-al-Din Shah, Safar-nâme-ye Khorâsân, redacted by Hakim-al-Mamâlek (Tehran, 1870), pp. 229–30, cf. Amin-al-Dowle, Majmu’e-ye ­asnâd (Tehran, 1968–75), IV, pp. 116–17.

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One of the conditions made by Mirzâ Mehdi Khân of Astarabad, the secretary and historian of Nâder Shâh, when he donated books to the library in Mashhad, was that the librarians should not give them in loan without getting a receipt from the borrower.124 Firm conditions were laid down also for the copying of manuscripts, as Rashidal-Din did in the deed of endowment for the Rab’‑e Rashidi: The books should not be taken outside the library except on giving a firm security equal to the value of the book, provided the book remains in the Rab’‑e Rashidi. If it is taken outside the Rab’‑e Rashidi, the borrower should give a security twice the value of the book. The books should never be taken outside Tabriz and its surroundings.125

In the same document it is stipulated: Although we have permitted that everyone can make his own copy of an original manuscript which is in the dome, the manuscript should not be taken outside the Rab’‑e Rashidi, and although we have permitted that if someone wants to make a copy of a manuscript which is with the instructor, the instructor should give it to him to copy, the condition is that the manuscript should not be taken outside the Rab’‑e Rashidi. Local scholars who want to copy a manuscript have priority over others.126

Such conditions also appear in the 14th century deed of endowment of the Rokniyye Madrase in Yazd, where it is stipulated that the librarian has to ask for a security before giving a book in loan.127 Four hundred years later, almost the same conditions were written on the back of each book that Shâh Sultân-Hoseyn donated. As Sa’di said: Lending books is a weakness of the mind because man’s nature tends to be unfaithful. Ask for a security, not for a pledge or a promise, as pledges do not secure their return.128 124 I. Afshar, “Vaqf-nâme-ye yeksad ketâb.” 125 Rashid-al-Din Fazl-Allâh, Vaqf-nâme, p. 150. 126 Ibid., pp. 240–41. 127 Vaqf-nâme-ye jâme’ al-kheyrât, in I. Afshar, Yâdgârhâ-ye Yazd, II, p. 407. 128 Sa’di, Kolliyyât (Tehran, 1961), p. 857.

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Often jokes were made about borrowing books. Someone asked his friend for a book, but the owner did not pay attention to his request. When this person insisted, the owner sent the book together with a tray, a cushion, a club, and a letter in which he wrote: I sent the book on condition that when you want to eat, you should use this tray; when you want to sleep you should use the cushion; and when you want to beat up the person you argue with, use the club and do not throw my book at him.129

There is also the following cynical saying: “If a person lends a book one of his hands should be cut off, and if a person returns a borrowed book, both his hands should be cut off.”

129 Oral source.

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Appendix 1 Publishing in Iran  after the Revolution As expected, publishing has gone through a number of significant changes since the 1979 Revolution, both in the number and variety of publications, in their funding, and in their subject matter. Following the upheavals resulting from the revolution, a number of well-known publishers, both private and public, went out of business: The Bongâh‑e Tarjome va Nashr‑e ketâb (The Institute for Translation and Publication), Bonyâd‑e Farhang‑e Irân (Iranian Cultural Foundation), Franklin Publications, and Sâzmân‑e ­Khadamât‑e Ejtemâ’i (The Organization for Social Services, which published school textbooks as well as Persian classical texts and research monographs) disappeared overnight and were either abolished or merged under new names and directions. The private publishers were less affected unless they were conceived as having had ties with the previous regime, such as Amir Kabir, the largest and most active private publishing house. It was taken over by the government and placed under new management with much reduced activity (see A.-R. Ja’fari, Dar jostoju-ye sobh, Tehran, 2004). On the other hand, an increasing number of publishers, both private and public, were newly created (see below). Prior to the revolution, the number of publishers were far fewer and mostly of long standing and with substantial capital; the great majority of them were concentrated in Tehran. Immediately after the revolution, when the constraints of censorship were temporarily removed and the country was in the grip of great political and religious excitement, a number of publishing ventures made their debut, often with little capital, and relying mostly on material supplied by writers who shared their points of view. A vast market opened up for political writings and for works on the various 475

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a­ spects of Islam, focused in Tehran and Qom, the latter emerging as a great center of Islamic research and publication. The number of books published each year kept escalating, even though some of the newly emerging publishers failed to survive the strains of the market. According to the 2004 issue of Books in Print (Râhnemâ-ye bâzâr‑e ketâb), the number of publishers who had paid for the inclusion of all their publications in that year’s Râhnemâ amounted to 203, whereas the Publishers and Booksellers Union’s Guide (Râhnemâ-ye nâsherân va ketâbforushân) for 2005 listed 4,270 registered publishers, and 407 non-registered one. Not all individuals who have received permission to publish are members of the Union, but those who apply for membership and pay their dues are entitled to purchase paper and plates at a reduced price. Recently, they have also been made exempt from paying taxes. Of the 4,559 registered booksellers, many of whom are also publishers, 922 are in Tehran. The following statistical table (Table 1) published by Khâne-ye ketâb in its Publishers and Booksellers Union’s Guide gives an idea of the active publishers: Table 1

Number of titles published more than 400 300–400 200–300 100–150 30–40 10 1

Number of publishers 4 3 12 23 109 73 604 Total: 828

It should be noted that the great majority of the 4,270 publishers listed by the Union’s Guide referred to above, are those who publish less than four books annually, if at all. That explains the difference between the total number of publishers and the more active ones. After the conclusion of the war with Iraq (1980–88), there was a jump in the number of books published. According to the statis476

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tics published by the House of Books (Khâne-ye Ketâb), founded in 1993 by the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance (Ministry of Culture for short) to provide information about publications in Iran, the number of published titles in Iran reached 36,000 in 2004, and over 40,000 in 2005. It should be noted, however, that a good number of these books are reprints, particularly of some bestsellers such as Hâfez’s Divân, the Robâ’iyyât of Khayyâm, Sahife-ye Sajjâdiyye, and Sa’di’s Golestân as well as “How-to” books, and school textbooks. The House of Books has launched eight monthly journals, under the general title of Books of the Month (Ketâb‑e mâh), since 1997, each about a different discipline or combination of disciplines, namely, General References, Literature and Philosophy, History and Geography, Religion, Art, Literature for the Young, Science and Technology, and Social Sciences. In each monthly issue the books published in any of the above categories are listed with subdivisions according to content. Another function of the House of Books is to assign a book’s ISBN number (called shâbak in Persian). Furthermore, since 1998 it has published a yearly Guide to Publishers and Booksellers as well as a CD called Katibe, which contains the books published from 1991 through 2005 based on books that have been published with the official permission of the Ministry of Culture. The same Ministry publishes a weekly periodical, called Books of the Week (Ketâb‑e hafte) that lists all the books published during a given week.

Sales and the Market; Variety of Books The works that have a good share of the market are those on political and social affairs and the so-called “intellectual” discussions, works on the life of the Prophet, the Imams and Shi’ite saints; works on Islamic topics, such as the Qur’an and Islamic law and Traditions; books on the players in the Pahlavi regime and books about the members of the royal family, memoirs and biographies whether authentic or spurious, “How-to” books such as books on hygiene and medicine, photography, gardening, and books for 477

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children and the young. The writing of short stories and novels, particularly by women, has been flourishing, as have reprints of the works of classical poets. Of some 4,000 titles published in 2005, probably no more than some 700 to 800 were books based on original research in various disciplines such as literary criticism, history, religion, pre-Islamic history and culture, linguistics and dialectology, historical geography, art, philosophy, urban studies, anthropology and folklore, and also critical text editions. “Coffee-table books” have come into vogue in the past two decades. They mostly concern art and architecture, historical monuments, or scenes from nature photographed from different parts of the country. The largest category of commercial books, which has also the largest share of the market, is translations from Western languages, primarily novels, but also books on philosophical, socio-political and intellectual topics, and biography. The quality of the translations is unfortunately mostly poor. Many translations are made and published in haste for fear of someone else producing them first. There are also a number of books that are published as original, but which in fact are no more than translations or adaptations of foreign books. Significant or popular novels sometimes receive more than one translation. A quarterly in Mashhad called Motarjem (Translator) is dedicated to the problems and issues of ­translation. Setting aside some exceptionally best-selling books, such as successful novels, e.g., the novel Bâmdâd‑e khomâr (Next Day’s Hangover) by Fattâneh Hâjseydjavâdi or sensational works such as some books about the late Shah, his court and relatives, which may go through repeated printings, the press run for books that address the general public’s interests do not normally exceed 5,000 copies at first printing. Literary texts and research monographs as well as poems of the third generation of modernist poets have, as a rule, a run of about 1,000 to 1,500 copies. The most serious reviews and critiques of books are published in the Monthly Jahân‑e Ketâb (The World of Books), which has been published since 1995. In 2001 it received the Netherlands’ Prince Claus Prize. 478

Publishing in Iran after the Revolution

Iran and International Copyright Iran has not joined the international copyright convention; therefore, any book published abroad can be translated into Persian without permission from the copyright holder. The matter has often been debated in the Persian press, but no resolution appears to be in sight. Even some of the Persian books published abroad are pirated by some publishers in Iran, and if their reprinting should not pay off or should not receive publication permission, photocopies are made and sold either publicly or clandestinely—a situation similar to that which prevailed in China before the country joined the copyright convention.

The Process of Receiving Permission to Publish To publish a book, the publisher has to follow a certain procedure. First, one needs to obtain from the National Library (Ketâbkhâneye melli), a card that bears a number, called fipâ, given to the book. This card is then presented by the applicant, together with a copy of the book, to the General Bureau of Books (Edâre-ye koll‑e ketâb) in the Ministry of Culture for receiving permission to publish. Books that present no problem receive permission to publish fairly quickly, but books that concern politics and social affairs as well as modern poetry and fiction are looked at more carefully; if the Bureau finds something objectionable, the publisher, rather than the author, is asked to delete the objectionable passages or to make the necessary changes. This often leads to negotiations, sometimes protracted, between the Bureau and the publisher until an agreement is reached or the book is denied permission to be published or is shelved. A book which is approved by the Ministry of Culture is then sent to the printers. Before it is bound, a copy is sent to the House of Books in order to receive an ISBN number. After the book is bound, a copy is again sent to the Ministry of Culture to be checked; if it is found to be no different from what the Ministry had approved, permission to distribute is issued. 479

General Introduction to Persian Literature

Categories of Publishers Another feature of publishing in the Islamic Republic of Iran is the considerable increase in the number of government agencies involved in the publication of books and periodicals. The government agencies have greater financial possibilities than private publishers, and also generally pay the authors better and more promptly. Moreover, some material such as government documents and the results of archeological excavations, on which the Persian government has a monopoly, are not available to private publishers. Persian publications, in so far as their funding is concerned, can be divided into three categories: 1 books published by the government agencies or aided by them; 2 books published by charitable foundations; 3 books published by private (commercial) publishers.

1. Government Agencies or those that Aid Publications i

ii

iii

Association for Works and Cultural Glories (Anjoman‑e âthâr va mafâkher‑e farhangi) which replaced the earlier Association for National Monuments (Anjoman‑e âthâr‑e melli), attached to the Ministry of Culture. Written Heritage (Mirâth‑e maktub), which was founded for publishing Persian and Arabic medieval and pre-modern texts, a function that it continues to discharge; to date it has published some 130 literary, philosophical, theological, historical, and scientific texts. Recently it has been renamed Research Center for Written Heritage (Markaz‑e pazhuheshiye mirâth‑e maktub), which reflect its expansion; it now also publishes a quarterly called the Mirror of Heritage (Âyine-ye mirâth) as well as a series of books on selected past editors of Persian texts such as M. Bahâr, M.-T. Modarres-Razavi, M. Minovi, and H. Yaghmâ’i. The Organization for Iranian National Documents (Sâzmân‑e asnâd‑e melli-ye Irân), which has been combined 480

Publishing in Iran after the Revolution

since 2004 with the National Library, and their publications are jointly sponsored. The National Library published annually between 1983 and 1996 the National Bibliography of Iran (Ketâbshenâsi-ye melli-ye Irân), but since 1997 it publishes a quarterly CD instead, which lists all the books published in the year to the end of the quarter. Cultural and Scientific Company (Sherkat‑e elmi o farhangi), iv which has replaced Bongâh‑e tarjome va nashr‑e ketâb and the Franklin Publications, and publishes mostly reprints of earlier publications. The Persian Academy of Language and Literature, which v publishes the quarterly periodical Nâme-ye Farhangestân, the Encyclopaedia of Persian Literature, The Encyclopaedia of Persian Language and Literature in the sub-continent (see below), and a series of monographs on Persian language and Iranian dialects. Center for the Documents of the Islamic Revolution (Markaz‑e vi asnâd‑e enqelâb‑e eslâmi). vii Center for Documents and Diplomatic History (Markaz‑e asnâd va târikh‑e diplomâsi), belonging to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. viii Center for the Research of the Historical Documents (Markaz‑e barrasi-ye asnâd‑e târikhi) attached to the Ministry of Intelligence. Center for University Publications (Markaz‑e nashr‑e dânesh­ ix gâhi), which publishes the periodicals Nashr‑e dânesh, Ma’âref, Loqmân (in French), and Nâme-ye Irân‑e bâstân, edited by Touraj Daryaee, as well as Zabânshenâsi (Journal of Linguistics), edited by A. Ashraf-Sâdeghi, Iranistik (in German), edited by O. Tabibzâdeh, and a number of periodicals on various scientific disciplines. The Institute for Persian Contemporary History (Mo’assesex ye târikh‑e mo’âser‑e Irân) attached to the Mostaz’afân Foundation. The Cultural Heritage (Mirâth‑e farhangi), which is in charge xi of archeological explorations and publishes their results. 481

General Introduction to Persian Literature

xii xiii

xiv

xv xvi xvii xviii xix

The Organization for Printing and Publication of the Ministry of Culture and Guidance (Sâzmân‑e châp va enteshârât‑e vezârat‑e farhang). The Social Science Research Center (Pazhuheshgâh‑e olum‑e ensâni), which includes the former Bonyâd‑e farhang‑e Irân (Iranian Cultural Foundation) and is attached to the Ministry of Higher Education. The Bureau of Cultural Research (Daftar‑e pazhuhesh-hâ-ye farhangi), has recently started the publication of a series of easy to read and understand books entitled “What Do We Know about Iran?” (Az Irân che midânim). Sorush, attached to Persian Radio and Television, which publishes texts and research monographs, and dates back to the Pahlavi period. The Society of Islamic Philosophy and Wisdom (Anjoman‑e falsafe va hekmat‑e eslâmi). The Army’s Geographical Bureau (Sâzmân‑e joghrâfiâ’i-ye artesh), which publishes maps and works on various cities. The Parliament Library (Ketâbkhâne-ye Majles), publishing mostly texts based on the Library’s manuscripts. Various universities, amounting to more than fifteen, that have their own publications, the most important being the University of Tehran, with over 3,000 titles to its credit to date.

Many provinces have instituted foundations for research and publication of works on their respective provinces; they are generally aided by provincial budgets. Among the most active has been the Foundation for Researching the Province of Fârs (Bonyâd‑e Fârsshenâsi), founded by Kurosh Kamâly-Sarvestâni. It has published a good number of texts and research monographs as well as a number of periodicals concerned with Fârs, including Fârs-shenâkht (Studies on Fârs), Sa’di-shenâsi (Sa’di Studies), the Encyclopaedia of the Historical Documents of Fârs (Dâneshnâme-ye âthâr‑e târikhi-ye Fârs), as well as a number of publications on the historical monument of Fârs, Hâfez, and other notable men from Fârs. A similar foundation has been active in Kerman. Altogether in the 482

Publishing in Iran after the Revolution

last decades of the 20th century, parochial interest has resulted in a good number of publications about various provinces, cities, and towns as well as local culture and dialects.

2. Charitable Foundations (owqâf, mowqufât)  supporting Publications i

The oldest and most important is the Endowment of the Shrine of the Eighth Imam in Mashhad, which publishes not only religious works, but also research monographs as well as the catalogue of its own Library. Two publishing organizations come under its umbrella: a) Foundation for Islamic Research (Bonyâd‑e pazhuhesh-hâye eslâmi). One of its publications is a four-volume index of the books translated into Persian from the 19th century to 1993, published in 2001 under the editorship of Mohsen Nâji-Nasrâbâdi. b) Beh Nashr, which publishes mainly religious, historical and literary texts.

ii

Dr. Mahmud Afshâr’s Endowment Foundation (Bonyâd‑e mowqu­fât‑e Dr. Mahmud Afshâr), which publishes works in four categories: a) general and collected articles on Iranian studies; and an annual periodical called Studia Persica; b) Persian language and literature; c) historical geography; d) Persian historical documents. To date (2006) it has published 101 titles.

iii Âyatollâh Mar’ashi’s Library (Ketâbkhâne-ye Âyatollâh Mar’ashi) in Qom, which publishes mainly manuscript catalogues, and Islamic historical, legal, theological, and hadith texts.

483

General Introduction to Persian Literature

3. Books Published by Private Publishers Most of these are commercial publishers and are located chiefly in the capital, but Tabriz, Mashhad, Shiraz, Isfahan and some other cities also have a share of the market. The publishers in this category who confine themselves to the publication of serious works are not many. Among them one may mention: Farhang‑e Mo’âser, owned and directed by Davud Musâ’i, which publishes a variety of dictionaries as well as Hushang Ettehâd’s Pazhuheshgarân‑e mo’âser‑e Iran (Contemporary Iranian Researchers), a biographical work of which eight volumes have been published to date; Nashr‑e Târikh‑e Irân, directed by Mansurre Ettehâdiyyeh, which publishes historical works, mainly pertaining to the Qajar period; Ketâb‑e Mâ, directed by Ahmad Karami, which publishes mostly the Divâns of poets and medieval texts (some 100 volumes thus far). There are quite a number of publishers who are engaged in publishing books on Shi’ite theology, exegesis, law and related topics. Qom has emerged as the main center for the study and publication of such works as well as related concordances. Among the concordances of Islamic and Shi’ite works may be mentioned al-Mo’jam al-mofahras le-alfâz wa’l-ahâdith kotob arba’a (The Concordance of the Four [basic hadith] Books) in 10 vols.; al-Mo’jam al-­mofahras le-alfâz wa’l-ahâdith Behâr al-anvâr in 30 vols.; and al-Mo’jam almofahras le-alfâz wa’l-ahâdith Vasâ’el al-Shi’a in 14 vols. There are three lines of publication in the field of Islamic studies centered in Qom: a) Mirâth‑e hadith‑e shi’e, published by Mo’assesse-ye elmi va farhangi-ye Dâr al-hadith (The Scientific and Cultural Institute of the House of Hadith, 13 booklets so far); b) Mo’jam al-torâth alkalâmi, published by Mo’assesse-ye Imâm Sâdeq (The Imâm Sâdeq Institute, 5 vols. thus far on the bibliography of old theological texts and manuscripts); c) Majma’‑e zakhâ’er‑e Eslâmi (Collection of Islamic Treasures), which publishes a series on the manuscripts of Shi’ite texts including those found in various provinces. A number of computer-based concordances of literary works, such as Rumi’s Mathnavi, Ghazals of Sa’di, and the Divân of Hâfez have also been published in Qom. 484

Publishing in Iran after the Revolution

A number of old publishers such as Amir Kabir (see above), Elmi, Enteshâr, Eqbâl, Forughi, Tus, and Zavvâr continue to publish a variety of books. Others are more recent and numerous. They include (in alphabetical order): Ahl‑e Qalam (simplified literary and historical texts, some 100 to date); Akhtarân (Iranian social history, intellectual and literary topics); Asâtir (Persian texts, Iranian studies, reprint of the out-of-print works of Western Iranologists); Châpakhsh (literary questions and contemporary thought); Chashme (literary topics and contemporary ideas and philosophy); Farzânruz (mainly translation of works on Persian history, art, and Isma’ili questions); Ganjine-ye Beshârat (in Yazd, documents and texts concerning the Yazd province); Gilakân (in Rasht, history and literature of Gilân and Tâlesh provinces); Gitâshenâsi (geographical reference works and maps of Iran); Hermes (mostly philosophy and politics, Persian texts and specialized dictionaries); Hirmand (Persian literature, history and art); Kârnâme (history and literature); Kumesh (popular works on history, mysticism and art); Khwârazmi (translation of Western literature and thought, and occasionally Persian texts); Markaz (history and literature); Morvârid (mostly contemporary Persian literature); Mowlâ (mostly mystical and philosophical texts or translations); Nashr‑e Agâh (mostly books on science, philosophy and occasionally Iranian studies); Navid (in Shiraz, mostly books about the Fârs province); Nay (history and literature); Negâh (mostly Divâns of Persian classics and contemporary literature); Nilufar (mostly contemporary literature); Qatre (Persian texts and various research works on Iran); Qoqnus (Persian history, particularly pre-Islamic as well as Iranian linguistics); Rowzane (literary texts and criticism); Safi’alishah (popular editions of Persian poets and translations); Sahâb (geographical references and maps of Iran); Sokhan (literary questions, Farhang‑e sokhan in 8 vols.); Sotudeh (in Tabriz, literary and historical questions); Tarh‑e Now (history, literature, and philosophy). The following statistics, taken from The Guide to Publishers and Booksellers of Iran, 2005, give an idea of the number and categories of books from 2002 through 2004 (Tables 2 and 3).

485

486

1904 4718 1798 381 1177 5058 1285 2787

5527 26445

4103

22667

10754

7917

9053

15144

3776

15530

5403

16805

115154

Philosophy

Religion

Social Science

Language

Science and ­ athematics M

Applied Sciences

Art

Literature

History and ­Geography

For the Young

Total

714

1069

Translation

4002

Total

General

Subject

88709

11278

4689

12743

2491

10086

7876

7536

8956

17949

2199

2906

Original

63880

7821

3639

10236

2318

9510

3933

3566

6621

12129

1965

2142

1st edition

Table 2: Books published in 2002–4

84913

14102

4240

11901

3331

12029

8055

6300

9177

9109

3389

3280

Tehran

30241

2703

1163

3629

445

3115

998

1617

1577

13558

714

722

Province

522774

117849

16940

48336

13178

51294

34192

40593

44201

128393

14874

12924

Print run

487

6968 3260 2477 2780 3527 921 4513

3688 31868

8707

3924

2582

3158

5255

1372

5528

1910

5691

41394

Religion

Social Science

Language

Science and ­ athematics M

Applied Sciences

Art

Literature

History and Geography

For the Young

Total

931

1728

Philosophy

1650

1153

Original

1539

Total

General

Subject

9526

2003

260

1015

451

1728

378

105

664

1739

797

386

Translation

21846

2443

1233

3545

838

3142

1253

1053

2296

4513

781

749

1st edition

Table 3: Books published in 2004

19548

3248

677

1983

534

2113

1905

1529

1628

4194

947

790

2ndedition

29674

4569

1447

4173

1219

4167

2836

2097

3370

3165

1415

1216

Tehran

11720

1122

463

1355

153

1088

322

485

554

5542

313

323

Province

General Introduction to Persian Literature

Facsimile Printing of Books and Reprints Facsimile publication of the manuscripts of medieval and pre-modern texts has been flourishing. Among the organizations that publish such facsimiles are the University of Tehran, the Center for University Publishing, the World of Islam Encyclopaedia, and lately Ganjine-ye noskhe-bargardân‑e motun‑e fârsi (Facsimile Treasure of Persian Texts), edited by Iraj Afshar and Mahmud Omidsâlâr. Reprinting of periodicals and newspapers of the 19th and early 20th centuries has been undertaken by the National Library, and a number of them including Akhtar, Vaqâye’‑e ettefâqiyye, Habl al-matin, Kâve have already been published. Reprints of Yaghmâ, Sokhan, and Farhang‑e Irân-zamin have been made by other publishers. Asâtir Publishers also have undertaken the reprinting of a number of older periodicals, such as Sharq, Yâdegâr, Mehr, etc. Ettelâ’ât and Keyhân have also reprinted their older issues. Reprinting of books by Western authors on Iran has been undertaken by a number of publishers.

Encyclopaedias Publishing of encyclopaedias has reached epidemic proportions and next to a number of useful and informative encyclopaedias, a plethora of encyclopaedias of dubious value have been issued. Among the worthier encyclopaedias bearing on Iranian studies the following may be mentioned: 1 Dâyerât-al-ma’âref‑e bozorg‑e Eslâmi (The Great Islamic Encyclopaedia) edited by Kâzem Musavi-Bojnurdi (13 vols. thus far); an encyclopaedia which lives up to its name (see E. Yarshater’s review in the Bibliography). An Arabic translation of it is also being published (5 vols. thus far), and an English translation, with the collaboration of the Isma’ili Institute is also planned. 2 Dâneshnâme-ye jahân‑e Eslâm (The Encyclopaedia of the Islamic World). It is edited by Gh. Haddâd-Âdel and is attached 488

Publishing in Iran after the Revolution

3 4 5 6 7

8 9

to the office of the Supreme Leader (valiyye-ye faqih). It began with the letter B (9 vols. thus far). It generally covers the same grounds as the previous encyclopaedia, but occasionally includes also translations or abridged translations from the Encyclopaedia of Islam and some other encyclopaedias. Dâneshnâme-ye adab‑e Fârsi (The Encyclopaedia of Persian Letters), edited by Hasan Anushe (8 vols. thus far). Dâyerât-al-ma’âref‑e tashayyo’ (The Encyclopaedia of Shi’ism), edited by Ahmad Sadr, Kâmrân Fâni, and Bahâ’ al-Din Khorramshâhi (9 vols. thus far). Dâneshnâme-ye zabân o adab‑e Fârsi (The Encyclopaedia of Persian Language and Literature), edited by Esmâ’il Sa’âdat, mentioned before. Dâneshnâme-ye zabân o adabiyyât‑e fârsi dar shebh‑e qârre (The Encyclopaedia of Persian Literature in the Sub-­continent), published by the Academy of Persian Language and ­Literature. Farhang-nâme-ye kudakân o nowjavânân (The Encyclopaedia for Children and Teenagers), edited by Turân Mirhâdi, and published by the Showrâ-ye ketâb‑e kudak (The Council for Children’s Books). Dâyerât-al-ma’âref‑e ketâbdâri va ettelâ’resâni (The Encyclopaedia of Library and Information Science), edited by Abbas Horri. Târikh‑e adabiyyât‑e kudakân‑e Iran (A History of Iranian Children Literature), edited by Mohammad H. Mohammadi and Zohreh Ghaeni (7 vols. thus far), which is practically an encyclopaedia on the subject.

Distribution and Sale of Books Most commercial publishers are also booksellers, but they sell mostly their own books. Among the booksellers who try to have publications on Iranian studies and books that are of interest to foreign libraries interested in Iranian studies are Tahuri, founded by Abd al-Ghaffâr Tahuri, and Tus, owned by Mohsen ­Bâqerezâdeh. 489

General Introduction to Persian Literature

Comprehensive bookshops or proper networks for selling books have not developed adequately, and it is sometimes difficult to find the books one needs, particularly the publications of government agencies. Recently, however, Tehran’s municipality has organized several centers in different parts of the city under the general title of “Book City” (Shahr‑e ketâb), where customers are free to browse the bookshelves.

Selected Bibliography Beside the publications of the Khâne-ye ketâb, and the Publishers and Booksellers Union mentioned, above the following may be consulted about the publication and distribution of books in Iran: Afshar, Iraj. Châp‑e noskhe-bargardân‑e makhtutât (Facsimile Printing of Manuscripts) in Âyine-ye mirâth 29, 2005, pp. 42–63. Idem. Fehrest‑e maqâlât‑e Fârsi, (The Index of Persian Articles), six volumes (through 1997), new edition (Tehran, 2005). Idem. Originator, Ketâb-forushi (Selling of Books): Bâbak Afshâr’s Memorial Volume, edited by A. H. Azarang et al., (Tehran, 2004); contains a number of useful articles on book production and book distribution; see, e.g., H. San’ati’s and A. Mâfi’s articles. Âzarang, Abd al-Hoseyn. Âshnâ’i bâ châp o-nashr (Acquaintance with Printing and Publishing). 3rd edition under the title Mabâni-ye nashr‑e ketâb, Tehran, 2005. Idem. Bâzandishi dar mabâhethi az nashr o virâyesh (Rethinking on Some Publishing and Editing Topics). Tehran, 2005. Idem. Shemme’i az ketâb, ketâb-khâne va nashr‑e ketâb (Some Remarks on Books, Libraries and Book Publishing), Tehran, 2000. Idem. Gâmhâ-ye asli dar nashr‑e ketâb (Basic Steps in Book Publishing). 2nd edition, Tehran, 2006. Ja’fari, Abdol-Rahim. Dar jostoju-ye sobh (In the Search of Morn). 2 vols. Tehran, 2003. Pourjavâdy, Nasrollâh, ed. Darbâre-ye tarjome (On Translation), being a selection of the articles published on the subject in Nashr‑e dânesh, Tehran, 1982. Idem. Darbâre-ye virâyesh (On Editing), being a selection of the articles published on the subject in Nashr‑e dânesh, Tehran, 1986.

490

Publishing in Iran after the Revolution Qâsemi, Farid. Jong‑e ketâb (Notes about Books). Tehran, n.d. Rajabzâdeh, Ahmad. Asnâd‑e momayyezi-ye ketâb dar sâl‑e 1375 (The Documents of Checking the Books Published in 1996). Tehran, 1999. Ranjbari, Mohammad. Barrasi-ye vaz’iyyat‑e ketabhâ-ye montashershode dar in Iran az sâl‑e 1357 tâ âkhar‑e esfand 1378 (The State of the Books Published in Iran). Tehran, 2000. Yarshater, Ehsan. “Nazari be dâneshnâme-hâ-ye Fârsi,” (A Look at Persian Encyclopaedias), Iran Nameh, XIV/2, 1996, pp. 231–40, XV/1, 1997, pp. 95–116. Idem. “Shekanje-ye ketâb” (Torturing Books), in Iranshenâsi, XV/1, 2003, pp. 50–56. Idem. “Dar jostoju-ye sobh,” in Iranshenâsi, XVI/2, 2004, pp. 220–26.

491

Appendix 2 Persian Book-Publishing Abroad Publication of Persian books outside of Iran, particularly in the Subcontinent, has a long history. With the development of Iranian studies in Europe, a number of critical edition of Persian texts were published in western European countries and Turkey, especially the Netherlands, during the 19th and 20th centuries. After the Revolution of 1979, with the increase of the number of emigrants to Europe and North America, publication of Persian books abroad also increased, and a number of Persian publishers and booksellers were established. In a sample survey of 1,200 books published between 1979 and 1992, the following statistical table was obtained: Table 1

Country

Titles

Country

Titles 103

Germany

374

United Kingdom

France

185

Pakistan

55

United States

163

Canada

28

Sweden

149

Denmark

23

Source: M. Mehrâbi, Ketâb-shenâsi-ye ketâbhâ-ye Fârsi-ye montashere dar khârej az keshvar, 1357–1371 (Bibliography of Persian Books Published Abroad, 1979–92, Köln, 1992), p. 12.

According to M. Mehrâbi, the above table comprises a quarter of the number of books published between the two dates. According to the same author, during this period some 1,000 books published in Iran were reprinted abroad with or without permission of their authors, and sometimes with the cooperation of the authors themselves. In the past 15 years, however, the number of books published in Sweden has soared because of the subsidy that the Swedish government pays toward the publication of Persian books 493

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as part of its policy of helping minority nationals and refugees maintain their language and literature.

Aspects of Book Publishing Abroad Most often authors have to pay for the printing expenses of their books, which then they leave to their publishers to distribute for a 50 % commission, even when a book bears the name of its publisher. If a publisher agrees to print and publish a book, the author still seldom receives any royalty. At most, he/she may receive up to 50 free copies. The press run of Persian books are generally low, ranging, as a rule, from 100 to 1,000 in view of their prospective buyers being scattered in different countries and the difficulties of distribution. In the United States, however, the situation is better on account of the fact that there are several cities where there is a concentration of first and second generation Persian émigrés, and the fact that such émigrés are generally far better off financially than their European and Australian counterparts; the authors of more popular books may receive 10 % to 20 % royalty on the net or the list price in the US. The largest categories of books are memoirs and autobiographies of political notables of the Pahlavi regime, of some of the people involved in the earlier stages of the Revolution who had later to take refuge abroad, of political prisoners of the Pahlavi and the subsequent regime, of leaders of political parties and factions. Oral history books, too, have had a relatively good sale next to the above. Next are books on topical political issues and historical problems as well as ideological subjects. Next come books of literature such as collection of poems, short stories (mostly of modernist kind, published particularly in Sweden), novels, plays, humor, literary criticism, and philosophical topics. A number of books which cannot receive permission for publication in Iran are published abroad with the consent of their authors such as Gardanband-e moqaddas (Holy Necklace) by the human rights activist Mehrangiz Kâr (Barân Publishers, Sweden), or Ey diyâr-e rowshanam (O My Bright Country) by the poet Simin Behbahâni (Sherkat-e Ketâb, USA). 494

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Index âb  196–97 Abân Lâheqi  256, 339–40, 373 Abbâdi of Marv, Qotb-al-Din Abu’l-Mozaffar Mansur b. Ardashir  283, 306 Abbâs (or Abu’l-Abbâs) of Bâdghis  53 Abbâs I, Safavid Shah  405, 457, 470 Abbâs Mirzâ  434 Abbâsi, Shaykh  406 Abd-al-Ali  435 Abd-al-Ali Mirzâ Uktâ’i  427 Abd-al-Ali Mowbed Bidgoli  441 Abd-Allâh of Shiraz, Mowlânâ  457 Abd-al-Aziz Bahâdor Khân  458 Abd-al-Aziz Javâher-Kalâm  427 Abd-al-Aziz Khân b. Nadr Khân  458 Abd-al-Hayy Gardizi, see Gardizi Abd-al-Mo’men of Khoy  394 Abd-al-Nabi Fakhr-al-Zamâni  34 ’Abd-al-Qâher al-Jorjâni, see Jorjâni Abd-al-Rahmân Sufi  455 Abd-al-Rashid  248 Abd-al-Razzâq Beg Donboli  430–31, 434 Abd-Allâh Ansâri, see Ansâri Abd-Allâh b. al-Mo’tazz, see EbnMo’tazz Abd-Allâh Qâjâr  437 Abd-Allâh, see Rôzbeh

âb-e hayât  203, 205, 209, 221–22 Abhar al-âsheqin  301 abjad  331–32 abr  197 Abraham, see Ebrâhim abru  202–3 Abu-Abd-Allâh Mohammad b. Karrâm  275 Abu-Abd-Allâh Mohammad of Termedh  270 Abu-Abd-al-Rahmân Solami, see Solami Abu-Ali Bal’ami, see Bal’ami Abu-Amr Othmân b. Hoseyn of Ghazne  415 Abu-Bakr Atiq of Nishapur  275 Abu-Bakr b. Sa’d b. Zangi  258 Abu-Bakr Mohammad Varrâq  391 Abu-Eshâq Kâzaruni, see Kâzaruni Abu-Hafs Haddâd of Nisha­pur  287 Abu-Hafz Omar Samarqandi  279 Abu-Hâmed Mohammad Ghazâli, see Ghazâli Abu-Hâtem Mozaffar Esfezâri  460 Abu-Helâl al-Askari  129, 132, 305 Abu’l Abbâs, see Abbâs of Bâdghis Abu’l-Abbâs Dabbi  449 Abu’l-Faraj al-Eṣfahâni  129, 380 Abu’l-Faraj Runi  140 Abu’l-Fath Malekshâh b. Saldoq  448 Abu’l-Favâres Fanâruzi  340

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General Introduction to Persian Literature Abu’l-Fazl  338 Abu’l-Fazl Bal’ami  256 Abu’l-Fazl Beyhaqi, see Beyhaqi Abu’l-Fotuh Râzi  276 Abu ’l-Hasan Kharaqâni, see Kharaqâni Abu’l-Hasan of Bost  280 Abu’l-Heytham of Gorgan  29 Abu’l-Ma’âli Nasr-Allâh, see Nasr-Allâh Abu’l-Mafâkher Yahyâ of Bâkharz  281 Abu’l-Majd Mohammad b. Mas’ud of Tabriz  25 Abu’l-Mo’ayyad of Balkh  251 Abu’l-Mozaffar Shâhpur of Esfarâ’en  274 Abu’l-Qâsem Eshâq of Samar­qand (Hakim Samarqandi)  277 Abu’l-Rajâ Khomraki of Marv  280 Abu-Mansur Ma’mari of Tus  247, 256 Abu-Mansur Mo’ammar of Isfahan  282 Abu-Mansur Mohammad b. Abdal-Razzâq  247 Abu-Mansur Movaffaq b. Ali of Herat  408 Abu-Mansur of Herat  388 Abu-Moslem-nâme  252 Abu-Nasr Ahmad b. Ahmad of Bokhâra  273 Abu-Nasr Darvâzjaki (or Darvâjaki) of Bukhara  276 Abu-Nasr Tâher b. Mohammad Khâneqâhi  306 Abu-No’aym of Isfahan  285, 288 Abu-Novâs  53, 141, 369, 375 Abu-Obeyda  126 Abu-Sa’d Vâ’ez Khargushi  288

Abu-Sa’d Khargushi  280 Abu-Sa’id b. Abu’l-Kheyr  30, 289 Abu-Sa’id Hojviri  278 Abu-Shakur of Balkh  261 Abu-Sharif Jorbâdhqâni  249, 250 Abu-Tâleb Makki  280 Abu-Tammâm  127–28, 376 abyât  97 “Account of the Atesh Kedeh”  80 adab  52, 73, 129, 163, 346, 359, 369, 379 adab-e talab  164 adabiyyât  2 Adam  183, 204, 219–20, 225, 331 Âdharakhshi, see Ra’di Adib-al-Mamâlek, Mohammad Sâdeq Farâhâni  441 Adib Pishâvari, Ahmad  429 afâ’il  102 Âfarin-nâme  261 Aflâki, Shams-al-Din Ahmad  286 Afrâsiyâb  231 Afshar, Iraj  427, 488 Afshâri  442 Afshin  389 âftâb  195–96 Afzal-al-Din Kermâni  250–51 aghrâż  137, 234 Aghrâz al-siyâsat fi a’râz alriyâsat  260 Ahmad b. Khezrôye  287 Ahmad b. Mohammad b. Zeyd of Tus  274 Ahmad b. Musâ (Shâh-Cherâgh)  452 Ahmad Ghazâli, see Ghazâli Ahmad of Jâm (Zhende-Pil)  290, 304–5, 451 Ahmad Qomi  456–57 Ahrâr, Khwâje Obeyd-Allâh  292

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Index âhu  179 Ahura Mazda  313 Ajâyeb al-makhluqât  454 Akbar  338, 404, 432 Akbar-nâme  404 Akhlâq al-Ashrâf  267 Akhlâq-e Nâseri  352 akhrab  103 Akhtal  127 Akhtar  488 Akhtya  313 ‘aks  146 Alâ’-al-Dowle Garshâsp  454 Alâ-al-Din “Jahân-suz”  258 Alâ-al-Din Key-Qobâd I  256, 263 Alexander the Great, see Eskandar Ali b. Abd-al-Aziz al-qâżi alJorjâni  130 Ali b. Abi-Tâleb  185, 243, 358, 456 Ali b. Mohammad, known as Nezâm  342 Ali b. Musa al-Rezâ, Imam  4, 451 Ali b. Othmân Hojviri, see Hojviri Ali b. Shâdân of Rayy  388 Ali Khân Zahir-al-Dowle  459 Ali-Akbar Tabâtabâ’i  317 al-Âmedi  130 Amin-e Râzi  34, 157 amir al-sho’arâ  25–26, 239 Amir Hasan, see Hasan of Delhi Amir Hoseyni of Herat  301 Amir Kabir Publications  445 Amir Khosrow, see Khosrow Amir Mo’ezzi, see Mo‘ezzi Âmoli  414 Amuzgâr, Habib-Allâh  441 anâr  187–88 anbar  200 Anbâri  156 andarz-nâmag  28

Andreopoulos, Michael  340 Ange de Saint Joseph  431 Anis al-moridin va rowzat almohebbin  273 Anjoman-e Âthâr va Mafâkher-e Farhangi  444, 480 Anjoman-e Âthâr-e Melli  444, 480 Anjoman-e Ketâb  445 Anjoman-e Khâqâni  27 Anjoman-e falsafe va hekmat-e eslâmi  482 Anqâ  179, 186, 294, 377 Ansâri of Herat, Abd-Allâh  30, 118, 276, 282–85, 287 Anushe, Hasan  489 Anushirvân, see Khosrow I Anushirvân b. Khâled  249, 258 anvâ’  234 Anvâr-e soheyli  166, 256, 338 Anvari  9, 34, 164, 242–43, 266 Anvari, Hasan  446 Anwari-Alhosseyni, Shams  320–21, 323–24 Appolonius  353 aqd-e anâmel  217 aqiq  193 aqrab  179 al-’arabiyya al-foṣḥâ  134 Aramaic  43, 46, 55 Ardabili  458 Ardashir I  343 Aredvi Sura Anahita  313 Âref Nowshâhi  433 Arestâtâlis, see Aristotle arghavân  188 Aristotle  94, 131–32, 149, 348, 352–53, 355, 358, 361–62, 365 Arslân Shâh  453 aruz, aruż  97, 100–101, 104–7, 141 Âryanpur, Yahyâ  90

545

General Introduction to Persian Literature ‘arz  422 Arzhang  387 Asadi of Tus  53, 116, 337, 388, 408–9 Âsaf  224 Âsaf-al-Dowle Bahâdor Yahyâ  447 A’shâ  375 ash’âr-e molamma’  376 Ash’ari, Abu’l-Hasan  278 Ashraf of Mazandaran  418 Ashraf-Sâdeghi, A.  481 Asrâr al-balâgha  133, 154 Asrâr al-towhid fi maqâmât Sheykh Abu-Sa’id  289–90 Asrâr-nâme  309–10 Assemaneus, I. S.  427 Âstân-e Qods-e Razavi  427, 451 âstarbadraqe  423 Atabat al-kataba  264 Âtashkade  80 Ateş, Ahmed  144–45, 147 âtesh  197–98 Atsiz, Khwârazmshâh  151, 242, 264 Attâr, Farid-al-Din  31, 41–42, 92, 181, 186, 228, 279, 285–87, 291, 294–96, 298, 302, 309–10, 352–53, 357, 360, 364, 366, 379, 381 Avâref al-ma’âref  281 âvâz  112 Averroes (Ebn-Roshd)  132, 365 Avesta  184, 314 Avestan, Avestic  50, 312, 315, 330 Avicenna, see Ebn-Sinâ Ayâdgâr î Zarêrân  99, 339 Ayâz  219, 228, 299 âyine  214 Âyine-ye Mirâth  428, 480 Ayyuqi  253, 381, 394

Az Irân che midânim  482 Az Sabâ tâ Nimâ  90 âzâd  122 Âzar  198, 220 Aziz-al-Din Nasafi  307–8 Azod-al-Dowle  452, 462, 466 azraq  199 Azraqi  340 Bâbâ Tâher Oryân  30, 120 Bâbor  6 Bactrian  51 Badâye’ al-afkâr fi sanâye’ alash’âr  165–67 Badâye’ al-sanâye’  165, 167–70 al-Badi’, see Ketâb al-badi’ badi’  127–29, 135–37, 139–71, 363, 375 badi’ lafẓi  136 badi’ ma’navi  136 badi’iyya  128 badihe-gu’i  32 Bahâ’-al-Din of Baghdad  258, 264 Bahâ’-al-Dowle Firuz  452 bahâr  201 Bahâr, Mohammad-Taqi (Malekal-sho’arâ)  xiii, 4, 27, 65, 93–94, 429, 442, 480 Bahâr, Têk Chand  65 Bahârestân  379 Bahmanyâr, Ahmad  429, 442 bahr  103, 105 Bahr al-Favâ’ed  260 Bahr al-mahabba fi asrâr almavadda  274 Bahrâm V (Gur), Sasanid king  15, 24, 254, 315, 360, 372 Bahrâm Chobin  256 Bahrâm Mirzâ, Safavid prince  398, 457

546

Index Bahrâmshâh, Yamin al-Dowle, Ghaznavid sultan  31, 240–41, 243, 256–57, 262, 276, 337 Bâkharzi  17, 371 Bal’ami, Abu Ali Mohammad  17, 56, 63, 247, 250, 261, 336–37, 383 balâgha, balâghat  132–37, 145, 147, 234 Balfour, Francis  433 Balyâni, Amin-Mohammad  290 Bâmdâd-e khomâr  478 banafshe  188 Banât al-na’sh  195 bâni  438 Bâqellâni  126 Bâqerezâdeh, Mohsen  489 Bârbad  100 bargozide  75 Bar Hebraeus  362 Bardâsiri, Mohammad  381 Barlaam and Joasaph, see Belawhar and Budhâsaf barq  199 Bashshâr b. Bord  127, 141, 369 basit  105 basmale  419 bâsma, bâsme  430–31 bâsme-chi  431 bâsme-kâri  431 bâsme-khâne  431 Bausani, Alessandro  83–84, 87, 95, 120, 235–36, 241, 252 bayân  134–35, 161, 163, 167–68, 170–71 Bayâni, Khânbâbâ  442 al-Bayân va’l-tabyin  127 bayâz  35, 75, 415, 418, 425 Bâyazid Bestâmi (Bastâmi)  270

bayn-al-daffatayn  420 Bâysonghor b. Shâhrokh, Timurid prince  397, 452, 455 Bayt al-Hekma  348 bâz  179 bâzgasht-e adabi  8, 10, 65, 89–90 bâzu-bandi  410 Bedil, see Bidil Beh Nashr  483 Behâr al-anvâr  438 Behbahâni, Simin  494 Behzâd  399 Behzâd, Kamâl-al-Din  456–57, 467 Belawhar and Budhâsaf  341–42 Belqis  224 Berukhim  442 Beshr  353 Beyhaqi, Abu’l-Fazl  12, 17, 24, 240, 249–50, 264 Beyhaqi, Zahir al-Din Abu’l-Hasan Ali b. Zeyd (Ebn Fondoq)  62, 75, 249, 257, 417, 453 beyt  97, 130 beyt-al-kotob  448 Bibliotheca Indica  429, 432 Bidel (Bedil)  8 Biographical Notices of Persian Poets  79 Biruni  17, 58, 343, 465 Bizhan  231, 393 Bland, Nathaniel  79, 81 Blochet, Edgard  427 Bohlul  379 Bohtori  127, 376 Bokhâri  257, 265 boland  108 bolbol  180 Bondâri  383 Bongâh-e Tarjoma va Nashr-e Ketâb  443, 475, 481

547

General Introduction to Persian Literature Bonyâd-e Farhang-e Iran  444, 475, 482 Bonyâd-e Fârsshenâsi  482 Bonyâd-e Mowqufât-e Dr. Mahmud Afshâr  446, 483 Bonyâd-e Pazhuhesh-hâ-ye Eslâmi  483 Book of Mazdak  339 Boqrât  352 Bostân al-ârefin va tohfat almoridin  284 Boyce, M.  344 Bozorgmehr)  28, 211, 229, 315, 355 Browne, E. G.  xiii, 11, 42, 77, 84, 85, 88, 429, 440 Bruijn, J. T. P. de  92, 240 Bu-Ja’farak Beyhaqi  62 Bundahishn  46 Bürgel, J. C.  345, 364–65 Burgess, Charles  436 Burgess, Edward  436 Burzôy  335–36 Bushâq-e At’eme  266 Bustân  29, 57, 258 Cânakya-nîtiśâstra  341 Carlyle, Thomas  71 Catherine II  440 Cebetis Tabula  381 A Century of Persian Ghazals. From Unpublished Díwáns  79 Chahâr maqâle  12, 258, 352, 356, 429 chahârbeyti  119 chahâr-lowh  419 châp  430 Chaqmâq  472 châv  430 Chehel majles  292

cheshm  203 chistân  315, 317, 319 chowgân  211 Cinghiz Khân  463 Columbia Encyclopaedia  443 “Contributo a una definizione dello ‘stile indiano’ della poesia persiana”  95 Corbin, H.  357, 364 Cormick, Dr. John  434 dabir  133, 147–48 Dabirsiyâqi, Mohammad  446 daffe  420 daftar  425 Daftar-e pazhuhesh-hâ-ye farhangi  482 dahân  203–4 Dalâ’el al-e’jâz  133–34 Damanaka  335 Dânâg u Mênôg î Khrad  313 dandân mushi  420 Dâneshnâme-ye adab-e Fârsi  446, 489 Dânesh-nâme-ye Alâ’i  282 Dâneshnâme-ye âthâr-e târikhiye Fârs  482 Dâneshnâme-ye jahân-e eslâm  446, 488 Dâneshnâme-ye zabân o adabiyyât-e fârsi  446, 489 Dâneshnâme-ye zabân o ada­ biyyât-e fârsi dar shebh-e qârre  489 Dâneshpazhuh, MohammadTaqi  427 Daqâ’eq al-she’r  166 Daqiqi  53, 239, 339 Daqqâq, Abu-Ali  278, 291 Dar jostoju-ye sobh  475

548

Index Dârâ (the Elder)  220, 354 Dârâb-nâme  355 Darajât al-mo’âmalât  282 dâr-al-ketâb  448 Dari  16, 48–55, 57, 148 Darius I, Achaemenid king  314, 347 Darmesteter, J.  344 dârughe  467 Darvish Ali Buzjâni  286 Daryâbandari, Najaf  444 Daryaee, Touraj  481 Dâstân-e Masih  431 Dâstân-e morghân  293 Dâstân-e san pedro  432 dastâr  213 Dastur al-moluk  468 Dastur-e Dabiri  264, 414 Dastur-nâme  267 Daudpota, Umar Muhammad  377 David  226 Dâye, see Najm al-Din Râzi Dâyerât-al-ma’âref-e bozorg-e Eslami  446, 488 Dâyerât-al-ma’âref-e fârsi  443 Dâyerât al-ma’âref-e ketâbdâri va ettelâ’resâni  489 Dâyerât-al-ma’âref-e tashayyo’  446, 489 Dehkhodâ, Ali-Akbar  319 Dênkart  46 derâz  108 deyr  210 Dhakhire-ye Khwârazmshâhi  357 Dheyl-e Seyr al-ebâd  297 dhu’l-loghatayn  17, 371 dhu’l-qâfiyatayn  153 Dhu’l-Romma  127 Dieu, Louis de  431 Diogenes  353, 365

Dissertations on the Rhetoric, Prosody and Rhyme of the Persians  169 divân  23, 33, 73, 244–45, 374, 426 Divân al-ma’âni  129 divân al-she’r  25 Divân-e Albese  266 Divân-e At’eme  266 Divân-e Shams  351 do’â  238 do’â-ye ta’bid  157 dobeyti  119–20, 244, 373 Doerfer, Gerhard  120 dorr  193 Dowlatshâh  25, 34, 40, 144, 321, 340, 374 Drakht î Asūrîg  99, 313 dulâbi  462 Dumyat al-qasr  17 ebdâ’  150 Eblis  198, 219–20 Ebn-Abd-Rabbeh  129 Ebn-Abi-Own  129 Ebn-al-Arabi, Mohyi-al-Din  44, 308, 365, 367 Ebn-al-Moqaffa’  48–49, 255–57, 334–38, 343–44, 375, 382–83 Ebn-Bâbaveyh (Bâbuyeh)  342 Ebn Balkhi  250 Ebn-Bibi  263 Ebn-e Sinâ, see Ebn-Sinâ Ebn-Esfandyâr  344 Ebn-Faqih  344 Ebn-Fondoq, see Beyhaqi, Zahir alDin Abu’l-Hasan Ali b. Zeyd Ebn-Heshâm  288 Ebn-Howqal  51 Ebn-Khafif of Shiraz  289 Ebn-Khaldun  44, 136, 143

549

General Introduction to Persian Literature Ebn-Khordâdhbeh  100 Ebn-Mo’tazz  128, 132, 148, 152, 157 Ebn-Moqle  215 Ebn-Nadim  337, 339, 352, 382, 389, 409, 412, 463, 465 Ebn-Qotayba, Ebn-Qoteybe  127, 141, 129, 382 Ebn-Rashiq  131, 137, 141, 160 Ebn-Roshd  132, 365 Ebn-Sallâm al-Jomaḥi  129 Ebn-Senân al-Khafâji  132–33 Ebn-Sinâ (Avicenna)  17, 30, 58, 132, 282–83, 294–96, 298, 356–57, 362, 364, 381, 444, 452, 454, 460, 463, 465, 471 Ebn-Ṭabâṭabâ  129–30 Ebn-Yamin  244 Ebrâhim (Abraham)  188, 198, 220, 223, 249, 273, 379 Ebrâhim Mirzâ, Safavid prince  398, 457 Ebrâhim Sultân, Timurid prince  456 Echo de la Presse  439 Edâre-ye koll-e ketâb  479 al-efrâṭ fi’l-ṣefa  128 eghrâq  163, 168 eghrâq fi’l-sefa  154 Ehteshâm-al-Saltane, Mahmud  441 Ehyâ’ olum al-din  17, 280, 383 Eilers, Wilhelm  120 ejâzât  426 E’jâz al-Qur’an  126 e’jâz al-Qur’an  126, 137, 165 E’jâz-e Khosravi  269 Ekhvân al-Safâ’  360–61, 364 ekhvâniyyât  263 Elâhi-nâme  285, 291, 309, 352, 360 ‘elle  103 ’elm al-’aruż, elm-e aruz  112, 125

’elm al-adab  134 ’elm al-badi’, elm-e badi’  136, 139–71 ’elm al-balâgha, elm-e balâghat  134, 168 ’elm al-bayân, elm-e bayân  134–35, 139–71, 160–61 ’elm al-estedlâl  134 ’elm al-ma‘âni, elm-e ma’âni  134–35, 160–61 ’elm al-naḥv  133, 135 ’elm al-qâfiya, ’elm al-qavâfi, elme qâfiye  112, 125 ’elm al-ṣarf  133 elm-e horuf  331 Elmi  439 eltefât  128 Elwell-Sutton, L. P.  106, 113, 116 Emâd-al-Din of Isfahan  17 Emâd-al-Dowle  452 Emâmi, Karim  444 Empedocles  359 Emra’l-Qeys  375 e’nât  153 Encyclopaedia of Islam  489 Encyclopaedia of Persian Language and Literature in the sub-continent  481 Encyclopaedia of Persian Literature  481 enshâ’  135, 375 entekhâb  75 Eqbâl-Ashtiyâni, Abbâs  430, 442 Eqbâl-nâme  353, 361, 364 al-Eqd al-farid  129 Eqd al-olâ  250 ersâl al-mathal  154 Ershâd al-tâlebin  433 Esfandyâr  231 Eshâq b. Ebrâhim of Nishapur  272

550

Index Eshârât  471 al-Eshârât va’l-Tanbihât  283 eshq-nâme  298 Eshq-nâme  301 eshteqâq  147, 153, 162 Eskandar (Alexander the Great)  45, 208, 214, 220–22, 254, 298, 307, 338, 347, 352–56, 364–65, 454–55 Eskandar Monshi  457 Eskandar-nâme  221, 254, 298, 345, 355, 364 Eskander b. Omar Sheikh  35 Esmâ’il I, Safavid Shâh  456–57 Esmâ’il II, Safavid Shah  329 Esmâ’il I b. Ahmad, Samanid ruler  261 al-esnâd al-khabari  135 Esrâfil  225 Estakhri  47, 49, 387 este’âra, este’âre  128, 136, 148–49, 152, 154, 161, 163, 168, 362 estedrâk  155 estetrâd  161 etâb  234 e’tedhâr  234 E’temâd-al-Saltane, MohammadHasan Khân Sani’ alDowle  436, 439–40, 459 E’temâd-al-Saltane, MohammadBâqer Khân  440–41 e’terâz al-kalâm qabla-’ltamâm  154 e’terâz-e kalâm  152 E’tesâm-al-Molk, Abu’lQâsem  427 E’tezâd-al-Saltane, Ali-Qoli Khân  438–39 Ethé, Carl Hermann  xiii, 11, 81–84, 87, 319, 426

eṭnâb  135, 161 Ettehâd, Hushang  484 Ettelâ’  439 Ettelâ’ât  488 Euclid  348 Eve  183 Ey diyâr-e rowshanam  494 ’Eyâr al-she’r  129–30 Eyn-al-Qozât of Hamadân  300, 303, 307–8 Eyniyye  292 Eyshi  457 ezâfe  109, 111 Ezrâ’il  226 Ezz-al-Din Atâ’i  301 Ezz-al-Din Key-Kâvus, Saljuq sultan of Rum  256 Ezz-al-Din Mahmud of Kashan  281 fahlaviyyât  53, 119 fakhr  238, 240, 242 Fakhr-al-Din Ahmad Hallâj  266 Fakhr-al-Din Ali Kâshefi  287–88 Fakhr-al-Din al-Râzi  134 Fakhr-al-Din Bahrâmshâh, ruler of Erzinjân  262 Fakhr-al-Din Erâqi  300–302 Fakhr-al-Din Mobârakshâh Marvrudi  297, 309 Fakhr-al-Din of Gorgân, see Gorgâni Fakhr-al-Din Owhad of Sabzevâr  460 Fakhr-al-Din Râzi  134, 276 fâkhte  181 Falak al-sa’âdat  439 fâl-nâme  36 Fâni, Kâmrân  489 Fârâbi  362–63, 365

551

General Introduction to Persian Literature Farâmarz b. Khodâdâd Kâteb of Arrajân  252 Faras-nâme  267 Farazdaq  127 fard  116 Farhâd  229–30 Farhang-e bozorg-e sokhan  446 Farhang-e Irân-zamin  488 Farhang-e mo’âser  484 Farhang-e sokhan  485 Farhang-e Sho’uri  432 Farhang-nâme-ye kudakân o nowjavânân  489 Faridun Hoseyn Mirzâ  467 Farrokhi of Sistan  21, 23, 91, 141, 150, 173, 239–40, 373 Farrokhi-ye Sistâni  91 Farrokhzâd  249 Fârsi-ye Dari, see Dari Fârs-nâme  250 Fârs-shenâkht  482 faṣâḥa  132, 134–35 fâsele  102 al-faṣl va-l-vaṣl  135 Fath-Ali Khân Sabâ  27, 90, 406 Fath-Ali Shah  27, 90, 406, 433, 458 Fath-nâme  434 Favâ’ed al-fo’âd  292 Feghâni of Shiraz  7 Fehrest  337, 352, 382, 389 Ferdows al-morshediyya fi asrâr al-samadiyya  289, 291 Ferdowsi  8, 11, 27, 29, 32, 53–56, 58, 83, 91–92, 183, 208, 211–12, 221, 239, 246–48, 251–52, 268, 273, 314, 336, 338–39, 355, 359, 380, 383, 393, 397, 414, 441, 444 Ferdowsi va shahnâme-ye u  91

Fer’own  379 Fi haqiqat al-eshq  300 Fihi mâ fihi  292, 311 fil  181 fipâ  479 firâmuz  412 Fitzgerald, Edward  119 Flügel, Gustav  81, 83, 426 fonun  234 The Forms of Harkarn  433 Forughi, Mohammad-’Ali  440–42 Foruzânfar, Badi’ al-Zamân  xiii, 86, 429, 442 Franklin Publications  475 frashna  312, 315 Frederick the Great  440 Friedreich, J. B.  318 Gabriel  225 Galen  348, 352, 354, 360–61 Ganjine-ye noskhe-bargardân-e motun-e fârsi  488 Garcin de Tassy, Joseph  170, 320 Gardanband-e moqaddas  494 Gardizi, Abd-al-Hayy  248–50 Garrusi, Amir Nezâm  428–29 Garshâsp-nâme  53, 251, 388, 408 Gâthâ  99, 312, 314 Gayumarth  212 Gentius, Georgius  10, 432 Georgian  341 Geschichte der persischen Littera­ tur  83 Geschichte der schönen Rede­ künste Persiens  78 Geykhâtu  430 Ghaeni, Zohreh  489 ghâliye  200, 213 Ghani, Qâsem  442 gharaż  137

552

Index ghazal  9, 12, 37–38, 112, 115, 117, 121–22, 137, 169, 171, 175, 234–35, 241, 243–46, 266, 296, 301, 373–74 Ghazâli, Ahmad  29, 200, 274, 291–92, 294, 298–301, 303–4, 307–8, 310–11, 356 Ghazâli, Abu-Hâmed Mohammad 17, 29, 58, 60, 259–60, 262, 280, 294, 297, 349, 383 ghazaliyyât  374 Ghâzân Khân  395–96, 450, 454, 467 Ghiyâth-al-Din Key-Khosrow  256 ghobâr  216, 457 gholov  168 Ghorar al-siar  382 al-Ghorbat al-gharbiyya  296 Gibb, E. J. W.  85 Gladwin, Francis  169 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von  78–79 Gol (-e sorkh)  188–89 golchin  75 Golchin-Ma’âni, Ahmad  75 Golestân  3, 10, 66, 258, 265, 268, 375, 379, 432, 434, 450, 477 Gorgâni, Fakhr-al-Din  21, 122, 253, 268, 342–43 gôsân  21 Goshtâsp  339, 343 Gowharshâd  468 gozide  75 Gozide dar akhlâq o tasavvof  306 Grammatik, Poetik und Rhetorik der Perser  170, 319 Grundriss der iranischen Philologie II  xiii, 82, 91 Guide to Publishers and Book­ sellers of Iran  485 Gutas, D.  349

Habashi  452 Habl al-matin  488 habsiyyât  27, 242, 374 Hadâ’eq al-balâgha  170, 320 Ḥadâ’eq al-seḥr fi daqâ’eq al-she’r 137, 145, 151, 158–59, 161, 163, 166–67, 169, 264, 317 Haddâd-Âdel, Gh.  488 hadhf  135 al-Hâdi  333 Hadiqat al-haqiqa  29, 30, 241, 262, 265, 297, 309–10 Hâfez  9, 11, 31, 36, 77–78, 89, 92, 111, 114, 209, 243, 245, 266, 302, 319, 324–25, 329–30, 371, 376, 400, 425, 454, 477, 482, 484 Haft eqlim  34, 156–57 Haft owrang  195, 274, 419 Haft peykar  122, 229, 254, 268, 315, 353, 360 Haft qolzom  169–70, 319, 321 Hägg, T.  354 Hâj Mohammad-Hasan of Isfahan 438 Hâji Khalife  465 Hâji Mirzâ Âqâsi  459 Hâjseydjavâdi, Fattâneh  478 hajv  25, 121, 137, 234, 238, 240, 243, 246, 266 hakim  28 Hakim-nâme  296 Hâlât-o sokhanân-e Abu-Sa’id-e Abu’l-Kheyr  289 Hallâj, Hosein b. Mansur  192, 210, 227, 298–99, 390 hall-e manzum  264 Halm, Heinz  450 Hamadhâni, Badi’al-zamân  373 Hamâse-sarâ’i dar Irân  93

553

General Introduction to Persian Literature Hamd-Allâh Mostowfi  75, 428–29, 456 Hamid-al-Din Abu-Bakr Omar of Balkh  374 Hamid-al-Din Naguri  300 Hammer-Purgstall, Joseph von 77–84, 87, 318, 321 hamza  108 Hamze Esfahâni  338, 387 Hanzale of Bâdghis  40 Haqâ’eq al-hadâ’eq  166, 317 al-ḥaqiqa va-l-majâz  136 Hariri  157, 371, 373, 463 Harkarn of Multan  433 Hârun al-Rashid  379, 409 Hârut  205, 226 Hasan of Delhi, Amir  403, 447 Hasan of Abivard  463 Hasan-e Ghaznavi  243 hasb-e hâl  37, 242 hâshiye  426 Hâtefi, Abd-Allâh  399 Hâtem Tâ’i  379 Hayy ebn Yaqzân  295, 298, 381 hazaj  120, 122 hazaj-e akhrab-e makfuf  106 hazaj-e akhrab-e maqbuz  106 hazaj-e mosaddas-e akhrab-e maqbuz-e mahdhuf  117, 122 hazaj-e mosaddas-e mahdhuf  117 hazaj-e robâ’i  106 hazaj-e sâlem  106, 109, 119 Hazâr Afsân  46 Ḥâzem al-Qarṭâjanni  132, 362 Hazin, Sheykh Ali  460 hazl  234, 246, 265 hazliyyât  25, 246, 266 Heinz, Wilhelm  95 hejâ’  121, 132, 137 Helâli, Badr-al-Din  399

Helyat al-owliyâ’  285, 288 Henning, W. B.  423 Heracles  359 Hermes Trismegistus  353 hesâb-e abjad  215, 325–26 hesâb-e jomal  325, 327 Hezâre-ye Ferdowsi  91 Hippocrates  348, 352, 357, 359 Historia Christi  431 Historia Sancti Petri  432 History of Iranian Literature  xiii, 11, 86 hodhod  181 Hodud al-âlam  429 Hojviri of Jollâb, Abu ’l-Hasan Ali b. Othmân  29, 278, 284–85, 288, 299 Holal-e motarraz  318, 320 Homâ  181–82, 187 Homâ’i, Jalâl  142, 442 Homer  361 Horace  73, 139 Horn, Paul  83 Horri, Abbas  489 Hoseyn Âqâ Amin-al-Zarb  441 Hoseyn b. Safi of Ardakân  420 Hoseyn Bâyqarâ, Timurid sultan 256–57, 397, 399, 456 Hoseyn Gâzorgâhi  399 Hoseyn Pâshâ Amir Bahâdor  441 Hoseyn Tahvildâr  471 Hoseyn Vâ’ez Kâshefi  166–67, 256, 338, 399 Hoseyni, Atâ’-Allâh  165, 167–70 ḥosn al-ebtedâ‘ât  128 hosn al-ta‘lil  146, 152, 154, 171 hosn-e maqta’  155, 157, 163, 168 hosn-e matla’  155, 163, 168 hosn-e matlab  168 hosn-e takhallos  155

554

Index hosn-e talab  155 Houtum-Schindler, A.  434 Hülegu  461 Id-e fetr  24, 202 ihâm  156, 171 ijâz  135, 161 Iltotmesh of Sind  258, 260 Der indische Stil in der persischen Literatur  95 “Das iranische Nationalepos”  91 Iranistik  481 Isâ (Jesus)  182, 195, 198, 203, 221–22 ishik âqâsi bâshi  435 Ivanow, Vladimir  426 Izâh  167 Jacob, see Ya’qub jadval  417, 419, 420 jadvalkash  414 Ja’far al-Sâdeq  331 Ja’far b. Yahyâ b. Khâled Barmaki  256, 409 Ja’far Bâysonghori of Tabriz  413 Ja’far of Tabriz, Mowlânâ  455 Ja’fari  409 Ja’fari, Abd al-Rahim  445, 475 jafr  330, 332 Jahân-e Ketâb  478 Jâhez  127 Jâjarmi  34 Jâlinus, see Galen jâm  208 jam’ o tafriq o taqsim  154 Jamâl Khalil Shervâni  34 Jamâl-al-Din Abu-Ruh  289 Jamâl-al-Din Ay Aba Ulugh Bârbak  250 Jamâl-al-Din of Isfahan  242

Jamâli of Dehli  287 Jamâlzâdeh, Mohammad-Ali  65 jâm-e Jam  208 Jâme’ al-rovât  458 Jâme’ al-tavârikh  395–96, 430, 454 Jâmi, Abd-al-Rahmân  11, 41, 65, 78, 89, 114, 225, 255, 274, 287–88, 318, 320–21, 355, 357, 366, 379–80, 397, 399, 404, 418–19, 460 Jamshid  201, 208, 212, 221, 224, 230, 247 Jarir  127, 375 Jauss, H. R.  236 javâb  3, 266 Javâdipur, Mahmud  443 Javâme’-al-hekâyât va lavâme’ alrevâyât  258, 260, 284 Jâvid-e kherad  296 jedd  234, 265 Jehâdiyye  434 Jehângir  404 jenâs  128 Jesus, see Isâ Job  226 joghd  182 Johâ  379 Jonah  226 Jones, Sir William  139, 432 jong  35, 75, 425 Jong-e Eskandari  35 Jorbâdhqâni  258 Jorjâni, Abd al-Qâher  133–34, 136, 141, 149, 154 Jorjâni, Esmâ’il b. al-Hoseyn  357 Joseph, see Yusof Joveyni, Alâ al-Din Atâ-Malek 429, 461, 463 joz’  102 Judeo-Persian  47, 95, 406, 408

555

General Introduction to Persian Literature kabâb  214 kabk  182 kabud  199 kabutar  182 kâda  169 kâfur  189 kâghadh (kâghad)  415, 418 kâghadh-bor  418 kâghadh-e abri  416 Kâghadh-e Akhbâr  435 kâghadh-khâne  416 kâh  190 Kalâbâdhi (or Golâbâdi), AbuBakr  277, 282, 284, 384 al-kalâm al-jâme‘  150, 154 al-kalâm al-mohtamel be-’lma‘nayn al-zeddayn  146 kalântar  467 Kalile va Demne  58, 235, 247, 255–57, 265, 335–41, 375, 382, 390, 393, 429 Kamâly-Sarvestâni, Kurosh  482 kamand  417, 419–20 kâmel  105 Kanz al-gharâyeb  142 Kâr, Mehrangiz  494 Karami, Ahmad  484 Karaṭaka  335 Karimi-Hakkak, Ahmad  90 Kârnâme-ye Balkh  266 kâr(e)vân  218 Kârvân-e Hend  75 Kâshef al-asrâr  308 Kashf al-asrâr va oddat al-abrâr  275 Kashf al-haqâyeq  308 Kashf al-mahjub  278–79, 284–85, 288 al-Kashshâf  134 kashide  108 kâteb  15, 133

Kâteb-e Esfahâni  371 Katibe (CD)  477 katibe  419 Kâve  91, 488 Kâzaruni, Abu-Eshâq  289, 291 kelid-dâr  467 kelk  418 kenâya  136, 161, 168 Kendi  349, 364 kerâsa  411 Ketâb al-abniya ‘an hadâ’eq aladviya  388–89, 408, 410, 412, 418, 429 Ketâb al-aghâni  129, 380 Ketâb al-bad’va’l-târikh  339 Ketâb al-badi’  128, 132, 152, 157 Ketâb al-fehrest  409 Ketâb al-kâfi fi’l-aruz va-’lqavâfi  160 Ketâb al-kâfi fi’l-aruzeyn va-’lqavâfi  160 Ketâb al-loma’  278 Ketâb al-ma’âni’l-kabir  127 Ketâb al-Ṣenâ’ateyn  132 Ketâb al-she’r va’l-sho’arâ’  127 Ketâb al-ta’arrof le-madhhab ahle’l-tassavof  277, 384 Ketâb ekmâl al-din va etmâm alne’ma  342 ketâbati  413 ketâbche  426 ketâbdâr  466 ketâbdârbâshi  468 Ketâb-e hafte  477 Ketâb-e Jafr  331 Ketâb-e Mâ  484 Ketâb-e mâh  477 ketâbkhâne  448 Ketâbkhâne-ye Âyatollâh Mar’ashi  483

556

Index Ketâbkhâne-ye Majles  482 Ketâbkhâne-ye melli  479 Ketâbshenâsi-ye melli-ye Irân  481 Key Khosrow  208 Key-Kâvus b. Eskandar b. Qâbus  12, 19–21, 40, 56, 63, 142, 259, 414 Key-Khosrow of Konya  257 Keyhân  488 khafif  107, 122 khafif-e makhbun  107 khafif-e mosaddas-e makhbun-e mahdhuf  117 khâk  199 khâl  204 Khalil b. Ahmad  97, 101–5, 125, 147, 363 Khalkhâli, Abd-al-Rahim  441 khâme  418 khamriyyât  374 Khamse  122, 254, 381, 403, 405, 419, 456–57 Khâne-ye ketâb  476–77, 490 Khâqâni  9, 34, 37, 242, 258, 269, 328, 350–51, 360, 376, 381, 417, 448 khar  182–83 kharâbât  210, 218 Kharaqâni, Abu’l-Hasan  30, 270 Kharidat al-qasr  17 al-Khaṭib al-Qazvini, Khatib-e Qazvini  134, 167–68 Khatib-e Tabrizi  160–61 Khatm al-gharâ’eb  448 khatt  204 Khayyâm, see Omar Khazânedârlu, Mohammad-Ali  93 khâzen-al-kotob  466 khâzeni  466 Kherad-nâme-ye Eskandari  357

kheyfâ  155 khezânat-al-kotob  448 khezâne  448 Khezr  199, 204, 221–23, 326 Kholâsat al-akhbâr  456 khonyâgar  20–21 Khorramshâhi, Bahâ’ al-Din  489 Khorshidi  142 khoruj  136 Khosrow of Delhi, Amir  6, 94, 255, 267, 269, 355, 397, 403–4, 447 Khosrow I Anushirvân (Anu­ shervân)  28, 211–12, 229, 255–56, 315, 335, 347, 355 Khosrow II Parviz (Parvêz)  100, 194, 229–30, 256 Khosrow o Shirin  230, 254, 257, 268, 360 Khwadây-nâmag  46, 338, 382 Khwâju Kermâni  254, 397 Khwândamir  456 Khwârazmi  50 Kimiyâ-ye sa’âdat  17, 280, 383 kofriyyât  374 kolliyyât  34, 426 Komeyt  127 Konuz al-asrâr va romuz al-ahrâr 301 korrâse  420, 426 kotobkhâne  448 ku, ku  181 kutâh  108 la’l  193 La’li of Badakhshan, Mirzâ La’l Beg  288 lafẓ  130, 133, 157, 168 lâki  421 lâle  190

557

General Introduction to Persian Literature Lama’ât  300 Lambton, A. K. S.  260 Latâ’ef al-tafsir  276 Laufer, B.  415 Lavâyeh  300 Laylâ, see Leyli Lazard, Gilbert  48–49 Lesân al-’ajam  432 The Letter of Tansar  343–44 Lewis, Franklin D.  92 Leylat al-qadr  202 Leyli  227–28, 298–99, 380–81 Leyli o Majnun  117, 228, 254, 435 A Literary History of Persia  xiii, 42, 84–85 Lobâb al-albâb  13, 34, 39, 53, 74, 80 Loġaz und Mo’ammâ. Eine Quellen­studie zur Kunst­form des persischen Rätsels  320 Loghat-e Fors  53, 116, 336, 388 Loghat-nâme  319 Loghat-nâme-ye Fârsi  446 loghaz  156, 315–19, 327 Loghz Qâbes  381 al-Loma’ fi’l-tasavvof  282 Loqmân  226, 379 Loqmân (periodical)  481 Lorimer, D. L. R.  121 Losensky, Paul  95, 319 Lotf-Ali Beg Âdhar  80 lotf-e takhallos  163–64 Luther, K. A.  264 ma’âni  134–35, 167–68 Ma’âref (Ebn-Qoteyba)  382 Ma’âref (periodical)  481 Ma’âther-e soltâniyye  431 Ma’âther-e soltâniyye  434 mâdeh  22 madh  121, 234, 238, 266, 269

al-madh al-movajjah, madh-e movajjah  148, 152, 155 al-madhhab al-kalâmi  128 madhiyyât  374 madid  105 madih  37, 132, 137, 238, 245 magas  183 mâh  196 Mahâbhârata  336 maḥâsen al-kalâm128 Mahâsen al-kalâm  145–46, 149, 152, 157 Mahâsen Esfahân  466 al-Maḥâsen fi l-naẓm va-lnathr  137 mahdhuf  103 al-Mahdi  333 mâhi  183 Mahjub, Mohammad-Ja’far  93–94 Mahmud I, Ghaznavid sultan  25, 27, 84, 142, 219, 228, 239–40, 248, 253, 299, 453, 461, 470 Mâhyâr Navâbi, Yahyâ  445 Majales  292, 311 Majâles-e sab’e  291–92 majâz  145, 161, 163 Majâz al-Qur’ân  126 Majd-al-Din Baghdâdi  307 majhul  67, 114 Majlesi, Mohammad-Bâqer  342, 434, 438, 460 Majma’ al-sanâye’  169 Majma’-e zakhâ’er-e Eslâmi  484 majmu’e  35, 75, 397, 425 Majnun  227–28, 230, 298–99, 380–81 Majnun Rafiqi  462 makhbun  103 makhlas  269

558

Index Makhzan al-asrâr  41, 262 malek al-sho’arâ  4, 25, 27 Mâlek Deylâmi  457 Malek Dinâr  250 Malfuzât  292 Malikhâ  353 mamduh  22, 243, 245 Ma’mun b. Mohammad Khwârazm­shâh  453 Ma’mun, caliph  257, 348, 363 ma’nâ  130, 133, 135, 168 Manâfe’ al-hayavân  396 Manâqeb al-ârefin  286 Manâqeb al-sufiyye  283 Mâni  219, 387 Manizhe  393 Manshuri of Samarkand  142 Mansur b. Nuh, Samanid amir  55, 247, 261, 271, 383 Mansur, caliph  257 Mansurre Ettehâdiyyeh, Mansurre  484 Manteq al-tayr  181, 186, 228, 294, 309 Manthra  312, 315 Manuchehr  314 Manuchehr Khân (Mo’tamad-alDowle)  434–35 Manuchehri  239–40, 173, 242, 244, 373, 376 Manzumehâ-ye fârsi  93 Maqâlât  292 Maqâmât  373, 379, 464 maqlub  153, 162 Maqsad al-aqsâ  308 maqta’  269 mâr  183 marghash  421 al-Marghinâni, Nasr b. al-Hasan 137, 145–47, 157, 161

Markaz-e asnâd va târikh-e diplomâsi  481 Markaz-e asnâd-e enqelâb-e eslâmi  481 Markaz-e barrasi-ye asnâd-e târikhi  481 Markaz-e nashr-e dâneshgâhi  446, 481 Markaz-e pazhuheshi-ye mirâth-e maktub  480 marthiya  137, 234, 240 ma’ruf  114 Mârut  205, 226 Mary  222, 225 Maryam, see Mary Marzbân-nâme  257, 429 masâri’  97 masnu’  165 mastar  417 Mas’ud I, Ghaznavid sultan  239–40, 248–49 Mas’ud III, Ghaznavid sultan  243, 266, 453, 463 Mas’ud Qomi  274 Mas’ud Zell-al-Soltân, Qajar prince  459 Mas’ud-e Sa’d-e Salmân  27, 154, 240, 242–43, 266–67, 463, 466 Mas’udi  47, 343, 387 Mas’udi of Marv  339 Ma’sume (Setti Fâteme)  452, 457 matbu’  162, 164–65 al-Mathal al-sâ’er fi adab al-kâteb va-l-shâ’er  133 mathnavi  9, 37, 84, 98, 116–17, 121–22, 234–35, 240–42, 253–54, 261, 266–67, 273–74, 301, 308–11, 366, 373, 380, 397

559

General Introduction to Persian Literature Mathnavi-ye ma’navi  208, 310–11, 328–29, 351, 357, 367, 394, 402, 419 matla’  115, 245, 269 Medieval Persian Court Poetry  89 Meftâh al-najât  305 Meftâḥ al-‘olum  134, 161 Mehdi Khân of Astarabad, Mirzâ  473 Mehr  488 Mehrâbi, M.  493 Mehregân  23, 201 Meisami, Julie Scott  89, 363, 377 Mélikoff, I.  252 Mellat-e Saniyye-ye Irân  438 Menhâj al-bolaghâ’  132 Mersâd al-ebâd  306–7 Mesbâh al-arvâh  296, 381 Mesbâh al-hedâya va meftâh alkefâya  281 Mesbâh fi’l-tasavvof  307 Meskavayh (Meskawayh, Meska­ weyh)  352, 358, 381, 423 mesrâ’  97, 108 Mevlânâ, see Rumi mey  209 Me’yâr al-ash’âr  104 Meybodi, Abu’l-Fazl Rashid-alDin  275–76, 304 Meyerovitch  367 Meyhani, Mohammad  264, 414 Mey-khâne  34 Middle Persian  28, 43–47, 49–51, 56, 59, 62, 85, 99–101, 117, 121, 220, 312–13, 334–35, 337–38, 340–41, 344, 382, 426, 444 Minorsky, Vladimir  343 Minovi, Mojtabâ  427, 429, 480 Mir Ali of Herat, Mowlânâ  457

Mir Ali of Tabriz  413 Mir Emâd  459 Mir Hoseyn of Nishâbur  318 Mirâth-e farhangi  481 Mirâth-e hadith-e shi’e  484 Mirâth-e maktub  446, 480 Mirâth-e shabâb  428 Mirhâdi, Turân  489 Mirzâ Abu’l-Qâsem Farhang  169 Mirzâ Ali, Mowlânâ  457 Mirzâ Asad-Allâh of Shiraz  434 Mirzâ Ja’far of Tabriz  434 Mirzâ Rezâ Kalhor  436 Mirzâ Sâleh of Shiraz  435 Mirzâ Shafi’  459 mo’ammâ  156–57, 315–25, 327, 330 mo’arraq  421 Mo’assese-ye târikh-e mo’âser-e Irân  481 Mo’assesse-ye Imâm Sâdeq  484 mobâlaghat  168, 362 Modarres-e Razavi, MohammadTaqi  167, 480 modavvar  146 Mo’ezz-al-Dowle  452 Mo’ezzi, Amir  26, 157, 164 Mohaddeth  24 Mohammad Ali Râvandi, see Râvandi Mohammad b. Abd-Allâh Bokhâri  256, 337 Mohammad b. Abd-alRazzâq  338 Mohammad b. Arslân Shâh  453 Mohammad b. Mahmud of Nishapur  276 Mohammad b. Malekshâh  250, 259 Mohammad b. Mansur  262, 461 Mohammad b. Mobârakshâh  260

560

Index Mohammad b. Monavvar  289 Mohammad b. Qâzi of Malatya  257 Mohammad b. Vasif, Mo­hammad‑e Vasif  15, 53, 238–39 Mohammad Jahân-Pahlavân  254 Mohammad Javâd Behruzi  319 Mohammad Mostamli, see Mostamli Mohammad Shâh Qâjâr  459 Mohammad Zangi of Bukhara  300 Mohammad-Ali of Âshtiyân  433 Mohammad-Ali Shâh Qâjâr  441, 459 Mohammad-Bâqer Shafti  460 Mohammad-Hasan Khân, see E’temâd-al-Saltane Mohammad-Qoli Qotb-Shâh  404 Mohammad-Reza Shâh Pahlavi  442 Mohammadi, Mohammad H.  489 mohaqqaq  412 Moḥâżarât al-odabâ’  129 moḥdath  127, 378 moḥdathun  141, 150, 156 Mohebb-Ali  457 Mohl, J.  359, 442 Mohreq al-qolub  435 Mohsen-e Feyz of Kashan  460 mohtamel-e zeddeyn  152 mohtaseb  231 Mohtasham of Kâshân  329 Mo’jam al-boldân  448 al-Mo’jam al-mofahras le-alfâz wa’l-ahâdith Behâr alanvâr  484 al-Mo’jam al-mofahras le-alfâz wa’l-ahâdith kotob arba’a  484 al-Mo’jam al-mofahras le-alfâz wa’l-ahâdith Vasâ’el alShi’a  484 Mo’jam al-torâth al-kalâmi  484

al-Mo’jam fi ma’âyir ash’âr al’ajam  12–13, 64, 130, 157–67, 317, 429 mojarrad  148 Mojmal al-tavârikh va’l-qesas  249 mojtathth-e makhbun  107 mokarrar  153 mokhammas  117 Mokhber-al-Dowle, Ali-Qoli  438 Mokhtâri, Othmân  25, 240 Mokhtâr-nâme  310 Mokhtasar  142 molamma’  146 Mollâ Mohammad  434 momken  168 monâvel  466 Mo’nes al-ahrâr  34 Mo’nes al-oshshâq  296, 300–301 Monjik of Termez  53, 149–50 Monkar  226 monsareh-e matvi  107 monsareh-e mothamman-e matvi  118 monshi  64, 375 Montajab-al-Din Badi’ Joveyni 258, 264 montakhab  75 Montakhab-e Nur al-olum  272 Moqaddasi  51, 452, 462, 466 Moqanna’  196 moqatta’, moqatta’ât  33, 146 moqatta’e  116, 372 Moqtader, caliph  423 moqtazab  147 morâ’ât al-nazir  146, 157, 168 Mo’rab  160 morabba’  104, 117 moraddaf  153 moraqqa’  400, 406–7, 425 moraqqa’-sâzi  416

561

General Introduction to Persian Literature mosaddas  103, 117 Mosâheb, Gholâm-Hoseyn  443 mosahhaf  155 mosajja’ât  96 mosammat  117, 153, 239, 373 mosarra’  116, 153 mosâvât  161 mosavvade  426 Moses, see Musâ moshaf  426 moshâkel  119 moshk  179, 190, 200, 213 Mosibat-nâme  279, 295 Mostamli, Abu-Ebrâhim Esmâ’il of Bokhara  277, 284, 383 moṭâbaqa, motâbeqe  128, 147, 152, 154, 168 motaharrek  102 motakallaf  162 motakallafât  165 motalavven  153 Motanabbi  130, 155, 157, 376 motaqâreb  55, 122 motaqâreb-e mothamman-e mahdhuf  117 motaqâreb-e sâlem  107 Motarjem  478 Mo’tasem, caliph  390 Motavakkel, caliph  348 motazâdd  147–48, 152, 154 mothamman  103 motreb  22 movashshah  146, 156 movassal  146 al-Movâzana bayn she’r AbiTammâm va’l-Boḥtori  130 Mowbad  253 mow’eze  235, 292 Mowlânâ, see Rumi Mowlavi, see Rumi

Mozaffar-al-Din Shâh Qâjâr  436, 441 mozâre’  100 mozâre’-e akhrab-e makfuf  107 mozdavej  116, 373 mozhgân  205 Munshi Newal Kishore  433 mur  183–84 Musâ  200, 219, 221–23, 273, 379 Musâ al-Kâzem  451 Musâ’i, Davud  484 musâvât  135 Musavi-Bojnurdi, Kâzem  446, 488 Mush o gorbe  267 muy  205 Nâder Shâh  452, 458–59, 473 Nafâ’es-al-fonun fi ‘arâyes al’oyun  414 Nafahât al-ons  287–88 Nafisi, Sa’id  442 Nahj al-khâss  282 naḥv  135 naḥvi  124 al-Najât  454 Nâji-Nasrâbâdi, Mohsen  483 Najm-al-Din Kobrâ  283, 307–8 Najm-al-Din Mokhtâr b. Mohammad Zâhedi  465 Najm-al-Din Qomi  249 Najm-al-Din Râvandi, see Râvandi Najm-al-Din Râzi (Dâye)  294–95, 306–7 Nakir  226 Nâma-ye Dâneshvarân-e Nâseri  438 Nâme-ye Farhangestân  481 Nâme-ye Irân-e bâstân  481 nâme  426

562

Index Nâme-ye Bahârestân  428 Nâme-ye Dâneshvarân  439 Namrud  223 Napoleon  440 Naqd al-she’r  129, 160 nard  211–12 narges  191 Nâser Kabir Hasan  450 Nâser-al-Din Shâh  436–37, 439, 442, 459, 472 Nâser-e Khosrow  9, 29, 36, 53, 63, 279, 316, 353, 364 Nashât, Mirzâ Abd-alVahhâb  459 al-Nâshe’ al-Akbar  129 Nashr-e dânesh  481 Nashr-e Târikh-e Irân  484 nasib  137, 237, 245 Nasihat al-moluk  259 Nasir-al-Din of Tus  104–5, 283, 352, 450, 455, 460, 462 Nasir Khattât, Khwâje  467 naskh  409, 412, 436 naskh-ta’liq  413 Naṣr b. al-Ḥasan al-Marghinâni, see al-Marghinâni Nasr II b. Ahmad, Samanid ruler  238–39, 256–57, 336, 338 Nasrâbâdi, Mohammad  318 Nasr-Allâh b. Mohammad Monshi, Abu ’lMa’âli  256–57, 265, 337, 375 nasta’liq  412–13, 436, 457 nassâkh  32 Nâtel-Khanlari, Parviz  98, 443–44 nathr  58, 133 nâz  180 Nazari of Qom, Mowlânâ  457 nazire  3 naẓm, nazm  58, 96, 133

Nehâyat al-ijâz fi derâyat ale’jâz  134 Nezâm of Bukhara, Mowlânâ  457 Nezâm-al-Din Owliyâ, Khwâje  292, 447 Nezâm-al-Din Sâleh  169 Nezâm-al-Din Shâmi  342 Nezâm-al-Molk  259, 460 Nezâmi of Ganje  9, 34, 37, 41, 92, 117, 122, 221, 228–30, 242, 254, 257, 262, 268, 315, 345, 351, 353, 355, 360–61, 364–65, 378, 381, 397, 403–5, 419, 456–57 Nezâmi-Aruzi  12, 19, 32, 40, 258, 352, 356, 362, 363, 429, 435 Nezâri of Qohestân  267 Nezhat al-majâles  34 Nicholson, R. A.  85, 139, 366 Nimâ Yushij  90 nim-fathe  108 Nimrod  220, 223 Nishâpuri  265 niyâz  180 al-Nokat fi e’jâz al-Qur’an  126 Nöldeke, Theodor  91 Noskhe-pajuhi  428 Nosrat Khân  403 “Noten und Abhandlungen zu besserem Verständnis des west-östlichen Divans” 79 Nowruz  24, 201 Nozhat al-âsheqin  300 Nuh I, Samanid ruler  261, 409 Nuh II b. Mansur, Samanid ruler  261, 277, 452, 463, 465 Nuhi  409 Nur al-olum  272 Nur-al-Din Abd-al-Rahmân Esfarâyeni  308

563

General Introduction to Persian Literature Obeyd-e Zâkâni  243, 267 Of Piety and Poetry: The Inter­ action of Religion and Literature in the Life and Works of Ḥakīm Sanā’ī of Ghazna  92 Old Persian  45 Olearius, Adam  450 Öljeytu  395 Ologh Beg  455–56 Omar b. Sahlân of Sâva  453, 460 Omar Khayyâm  xiv, 30, 36, 58, 119, 477 Omar Sheykh  454 al-Omda fi mahâsen al-she’r va adabeh va naqdeh  131, 160 Omidsâlâr, Mahmud  488 Omm-Ali  287 Ons al-tâ’ebin  304, 305 Onsori  25–26, 53, 56, 141, 149–50, 155, 157–58, 173, 239, 248, 253, 354, 376, 421, 453 “On the Earliest Persian Biography of Poets, by Muhammad Aufi” 80 Oshshâq-nâme  301 ostâd  19 Otbi, Abu-Nasr  248–50, 258 Othmân b. Hoseyn Varrâq of Ghazne  389 Ouseley, Sir Gore  79, 80–81, 83 Owfi, Mohammad  13, 22, 34, 39, 53, 74, 258, 260, 284 Owhad al-Din of Kerman  290 Owhad al-Din Tabib-e Râzi  296–97 Owrâd al-ahbâb va fosus alâdâb  281 Owsâf al-ashrâf  283 ‘Oyun al-akhbâr  129, 382

Ozbak b. Mohammad JahânPahlavân  257 Pahlavi  45, 47–51, 54, 56, 58, 342–43, 382, 408 Palmer, E. H.  85 Pančatantra  255, 335, 341 pari  214 Parivash  468 Pârsi  48–54, 148 Pârsîk  45 pârsi-ye dari  49, 70 pârsi-ye sare  441 Parthian  45–46, 48–49, 51, 121, 253 Partow-nâme  263 parvâne  184 Parviz (Parvêz), see Khosrow II Parviz, Hoseyn (Hasan Taqizadeh)  442 Pâzand  50 Pazhuheshgâh-e olum-e ensâni  482 Pazhuheshgarân-e mo’âser-e Iran  484 Père Raphael du Mans  458 Perry, B. E.  341 “Persian Literature (BellesLettres) from the Time of Jâmî to the Present Day,” 89 Pertsch, Wilhelm  81, 170, 319, 426 Pharaoh  219, 222 Pir Mohammad Jahângir  454–55 pirâmuz  412 pir-e moghân  210, 231 Pizzi, Italo  82–84, 87, 89 Plato  293, 352–54, 357–58, 360–61, 365 Poetics  131–32, 362 Porphyry  353 Potiphar  225 Pourjavâdy, Nasr-Allâh  446

564

Index Pseudo-Plutarch  361 Ptolemy  348, 359–60 Pythagoras  360 Qabul Mohammad  170, 320, 328 Qâbus-nâme  12, 63, 142, 259, 414, 423 Qadimi, Mowlânâ  457 Qâ’em-maqâm, Mirzâ Isâ  434 qâfiye  141 qalam  418 qalamdâni  421 qalam-e farangi  417 qalam-e fulâdi  417 qalam-kâr  431 qalandar  210, 218, 231 qalandariyyât  374 Qamari  149–50 Qâne’i of Tus, Ahmad b. Mahmud  256, 337 Qâri of Yazd  266 qarib  107 qarib-e akhrab/makfuf  107 Qârun  379 qaṣida, qaside  8, 37–38, 89, 91, 98–99, 115–17, 121–22, 136, 138, 141, 155, 157–58, 164, 169, 234–35, 237–38, 242–46, 266, 269, 372–74, 378 qaside-ye masnu’  165–66, 242 qat’e (qet’e)  33, 37, 116, 234, 244–46, 266–67, 372 qat’e-nevisi  416 Qatrân  53 Qavâmi Motarrezi of Ganje  165, 242 Qavvâl  30 Qazvini, see al-Khaṭib al-Qazvini Qazvini, Zakariyâ b. Mohammad  454

Qazvini, Mohammad  429, 440–42 qematr  463 qertâs  415 Qesas al-anbiyâ  272 Qessat al-ghorbat algharbiyya  382 qeṭ‛a  138, see also qat’e qet’e, see qat’e Qeys  227 Qeys b. Molawwah (Majnun)  380 Qezel Arslan  242, 254 Qodâma b. Ja’far  129, 130, 137, 141, 160 Qomi  258, 458, 462 qomri  184 Qosheyri, Abu’l-Qâsem  278, 280–81, 283–84, 285, 299, 306 qossâs  270 Qotb-al-Din Mohammad, atâbeg  453 quatrain, see robâ’i Qunavi, Sadr-al-Din  427, 460, 465 Qur’an-e Qods  50 Qut al-qolub  280 Râbe’a al-Adaviyya  276, 287 Rab’-e Rashidi  450, 461, 465–67, 473 Rabi’ al-abrâr  129 rabi’iyyât  374 Rabib-al-Din Hârun  257 radd a’jâz al-kalâm ‘alâ mâ taqaddamahâ  128 radd al-ajoz ‘alâ ’l-ṣadr  128, 153, 157, 162 Ra’di, Gholâm-Ali Âdharakhshi  442 radif  110, 114, 118, 153, 156, 378

565

General Introduction to Persian Literature Râduyâni, Mohammad b. Omar  137, 142, 144–51, 157, 161, 167, 264, 317 Rafi’-al-Din Eshâq of Hamadan  288 rafs  462 al-Râgheb al-Eṣfahâni  129 Râhat al-sodur  56, 250, 390, 414 Rahâyesh-o goshâyesh  279 Rahimi-Rise, A. R.  424, 433 Rahiq al-tahqiq  297–98, 309 Râhnemâ-ye bâzâr-e ketâb  476 Râhnemâ-ye nâsherân va ketâbforushân  476 rajaz  104, 373 rajaz-e matvi-ye makhbun  106 rajaz-e sâlem  106 Rakhsh  231 ramal  100, 104, 107, 122 ramal-e makhbun  107 ramal-e mashkul  107 ramal-e mosaddas-e mahdhuf  117 ramal-e sâlem  106 Ramezâni, Mohammad  442 raqtâ  155 Rashahât-e eyn al-hayât  286–87 Rashid-ad-Din Fazl-Allâh  395, 416, 430, 448, 454, 460–61, 468, 473 Rashid-al-Din Vatvât (Rashid-e Vatvât)  114, 137, 145, 151–59, 161–64, 166–67, 242, 264, 317, 460 Rashidi of Samarqand  142 Râvandi, Najm al-Din Mo­ hammad b. Ali  56, 250–51, 265, 288, 391, 414 ravi  32, 113–14 raz  191 Râzi, Shams-e Qeys, see Shams alDin Mohammad b. Qeys Râzi

Razi’-al-Din b. Tâvus  460 Recasting Persian Poetry  90 Reinert, Benedikt  378 rekâba  411 rend  210, 218, 231 Republic  293, 361 Resâla  278, 281, 283–85, 306 Resâlat al-teyr  293, 295 Resâle  320 resâle  374, 425 Resâle-ye mo’ammâ’iyye  317 Resâle-ye ta’lim-e âbele-kubi  434 rethâ’  137 reyhân  216, 412 Rezâ Shah Pahlavi  442 Rezvân  226 Rhetoric  131–32, 362 Rhétorique et prosodie des langues de l’Orient Musulman  170, 320 Rieu, Charles  81, 426 Rish-nâme  267 Ritter, Hellmut  377–78 robâ’i  30, 97, 101, 106–7, 110, 115, 119–21, 234–35, 244, 266, 373 Robâ’iyyât  477 robâ’i-ye tarâne  116 rokn  102 Rokn-al-Din Solaymân II of Konya  257 Rommâni  126 Rosarium Politicum  432 Rosen, Victor  426 Rostam  185–86, 230–31, 251, 293, 314, 359 Rostam b. Ali b. Shahriyâr  453 Rostam-Ali  457 Rowh al-arvâh  293 Rownaq al-majâles  279

566

Index Rowshanâ’i-nâme  279 Rowz al-jenân va rowh aljanân  276 Rowzat al-fariqayn  280 Rowzat al-riyâhin  286 Rowzat-al-Oqul  257 Rôzbeh  48 Rubáiyát  119 Rückert, Friedrich  170, 319, 321 Rudâbe  230, 314 Rudaki  20, 25–26, 29, 38, 53, 58, 63, 94, 114, 120, 150, 239, 244, 256, 292, 297, 336–37, 340, 382 Rudimenta Linguae Persicae  432 Rumi Past and Present, East and West: The Life, Teaching and Poetry of Jalâl al-Din Rumi  92 Rumi, Mowlânâ (Mowlavi, Mev­ lana) Jalâl-ad-Din  xiv, 9, 31, 34, 36, 92, 110, 115, 118, 208, 292, 310–11, 324–25, 328–29, 345, 354, 356, 366, 376, 379, 394, 402, 419, 451, 484 Ruzbehân-e Baqli of Shiraz  290, 301 Ruz-e alast  223 Ruznâme-ye elmiyye-ye dowlat-e aliyye-ye Iran  438 Ruznâme-ye Mellati  438 Rypka, Jan  xiii, 11, 77, 85–86, 234–35, 245 Sa’âdat, Esmâ’il  489 sabab  102, 104 sabk  4 sabk-e Erâqi  6 sabk-e Esfahâni  7 sabk-e Hendi  7, 88, 90

sabk-e Khorâsâni  5 Sabk-e Khorâsâni dar she’r-e fârsi  93 sabk-e Torkestâni  5 Sabk-shenâsi yâ tatavvor-e nathre fârsi  xiii, 65 Saboktegin  248–49 Sabuhi  4 sabz  199–200 Sachau, Eduard  81 Sad kaleme  456 Sad meydân  282–84 Sa’d b. Abu-Bakr  258 sadaf  193 Sa’d-al-Din Hamuye  307–8 Sa’d-al-Din Varâvini  257 Sade  23 Sâdeqi, A.-A.  53 Sa’di  3, 9–11, 29, 31, 33, 57, 65–66, 165, 244–45, 258–59, 265, 268, 292, 302, 363, 371, 375–76, 379, 404, 419, 432, 434, 450, 473, 477, 484 Sa’di-shenâsi  482 Sadr, Ahmad  489 Sâ’eb of Tabriz  7, 9 Safâ, Dhabih-Allâh  xiii, 77, 87–88, 93, 427 Safi, Safavid Shah  458 Ṣafi-al-Din al-Ḥelli  128 Safi-al-Din Eshâq of Ardabil  290, 427, 450, 457, 465, 471 safine  35, 75, 425 Safine-ye Tabriz  35 sag  184–85 Sâheb b. Abbâd  371, 460, 466 Sahife-ye Sajjâdiyye  477 sahl o momtane’  164 saj’  3, 96, 132, 136, 153, 157, 162, 251, 375

567

General Introduction to Persian Literature sâken  102 Sakkâki  134–36, 143, 161, 167–68 Salâmân and Absâl  357 sâlem  103 Saljuq-nâme  250 Salmân-e Sâveji  166, 244 Sâm  185 Sâm Mirzâ  457 Sam’âni, Shehâb-al-Din  293, 304 Samak-e Ayyâr  252 samandar  185 Samarqandi  409 Sâmeri  222 Sami’i, Ahmad  444 Ṣan’at al-kalâm  132 San’ati-zâdeh, Homâyun  443 Sanâ’i of Ghazne  9, 26, 29–30, 34, 41–42, 92, 122, 240–41, 243, 245, 262, 265–66, 295, 297–98, 301, 308, 310, 366, 379, 381, 461 San’ân, Shaykh  228 sanâye’  167 sanduq  463 Sanjar  259, 264, 453 sâqi  34, 210 sâqi-nâme  34 al-sareqât al-she’riyya, sareqât-e she’r  131, 136, 159–60 sari’  122 sari’-e matvi  107 sari’-e mosaddas-e matvi-ye maksuf  117 sar-lowh  419 sarlowh-sâz  457 Sarrâj of Tus, Abu-Nasr  29, 278, 280, 282 sarv  191 al-Savâd al-a’zam  261, 277 Savâneh  298–301, 307, 311, 356

al-Sâyer al-vâjed elâ’l-sâter alvâhed al-mâjed  283 Sâzmân-e Asnâd-e Melli  446 Sâzmân-e asnâd-e melli-ye Irân  480 Sâzmân-e châp va enteshârât-e vezârat-e farhang  482 Sâzmân-e joghrâfiâ’i-ye artesh  482 Sâzmân-e Khadamât-e Ejtemâ’i  475 Schimmel, A.  345, 357 Schultz, Wolfgang  318–20 sefid  200 sehr-e halâl  168 Sekandar, see Eskandar Selselat al-dhahab  42 Semnâni, Alâ-al-Dowle  292 ṣen’at al-ketâba  133 ṣenâ’at al-enshâ’  133 Sendbâd-nâme  260, 339–41 sepand  192 Serâj al-sâ’erin  305 Serâj-al-Mella va’l-Din Mohammad b. Mohammad of Ghazne  342 Serr al-Asrâr  355 Serr al-faṣâḥa  132 al-Settin al-jâme’ le-latâ’ef albasâtin  274 Seyf-al-Din Ghâzi b. ÂqSonqor  256–57 Seyr al-’ebâd elâ’l-ma’âd  262, 295, 297, 309 shâbak  477 Shab-e yaldâ  201 Shaddâd  227 shâ’er  18–19, 22 Shâ’er-e â’ine-hâ: bar-resi-ye sabke hendi va she’r-e Bidel  95 shâ’eri  19, 40

568

Index Shafi’, Mohammad  421 Shafi’i-Kadkani, MohammadRezâ  89–90, 94–95 Shâh Abd-al-Azim  452 Shâh Jehân, Mughal ruler  404 Shâh Mahmud of Nishapur  456 Shâh Ne’mat-Allâh Vali  290, 451 Shah Shojâ’  330 Shâhanshâh-nâme  27, 406 shâhbâz  179 Shâhin of Shiraz  406 Shahmardân b. Abi’l-Kheyr  59 Shahname  8, 11, 29, 32, 55, 91–92, 122, 183, 230, 246–47, 251–52, 256–57, 268, 293, 314, 336, 338–39, 358–59, 383, 393–94, 397, 400, 414, 428, 441–42, 456, 459 Shahname of Sa’dlu  429 shahrâshub  267 Shahr-e ketâb  490 Shâhrokh  88–89, 452, 454, 468, 470, 472 sham’  210 Shams al-Din of Bardsir  296 Shams-al-Din Ahmad Aflâki, see Aflâki Shams-al-Din Faqir of Delhi  170, 320 Shams-al-Din Mohammad b. Qeys Râzi (Shams-e Qeys) 12–13, 32, 64, 105, 116, 119–20, 130, 136, 157–67, 170, 317, 372, 429 shamse  418 Shams-e Tabrizi  292 Shâpur I  347 Shapur II  52 Sharaf al-Nabi  288 Sharaf-al-Din Ali Yazdi, see Yazdi

Sharaf-al-Din Râmi  166, 317 Sharaf-nâme  403 Sharh al-Ta’arrof le-madhhab altasavvof  383 Sharh-e ta’arrof  277–78 Sharif Mo’ammâ’i  318 Sharq  488 Sharvânshâh Akhsetân b. Manuchehr  254 shatranj  212 Shebli  274 Shefâ’  471 Sheil, Lady Mary  436 shekaste-nasta’liq  413 she’r  19, 41, 253 al-She’r va’l-sho’arâ’  129 She’r-e fârsi dar ahd-e Shâh­ rokh  88 Sherkat-e Elmi va Farhangi  443, 481 Sheykh Oveys, Jalâ’erid sultan  454 Shirzâd  266 shishe  214 Sho’ubiyye, Sho’ubiyya  15, 370 Sho’uri  432 Showrâ-ye ketâb-e kudak  489 Si nâme  301 siar al-ârefin  287 Sibaveyhi  105 simiyâ  331 Simorgh  181, 185–86, 230–31, 293–94, 377 Sira  288 siyâh  200 Siyar al-moluk  259, 338 Siyâsat-nâme  259 so’âl-o javâb  146, 152, 154 Socrates  353, 364–65 Sogdian  46, 51, 57

569

General Introduction to Persian Literature Soheyl  195 Soheyli, Sheykh Ahmad  256 sohof  426 Sohrâb  231, 263, 294, 298 Sohravardi, Shehâb-al-Din Omar  281 Sohravardi, Shehâb-al-Din Yahyâ  262, 283, 296, 364–65, 381–82 sokhan  40 Sokhan  488 Sokhan va sokhanvarân  xiii, 87 Solami, Abu-Abd-al-Rahmân of Nishapur  29, 282, 284–85, 287 Soleymân (Solomon)  181, 183–84, 224, 230 Soleymân b. Râshid  409 Soleymân I, Ottoman sultan  457 Soleymân, see Solomon Soleymâni  409 Soleymanshâh  263 Solomon, see Soleymân Soltân-Ebrâhim  452 Soltân-Ali of Mashhad  456 Soltân-Hoseyn, Safavid Shâh  458, 471, 473 Soltân Hoseyn (Mirzâ), see Hoseyn Bâyqarâ soltâni  410 soltâniyyât  263 sonbol  192 sorkh  200 sorme  213 Sorush  482 Sovar al-kavâkeb  455 Sovar-e khiyâl dar she’r-e fârsi  94 sowme’e  210 Sprenger, Aloys  426

St John of Damascus  341 Storia della Letteratura Persiana  83 Storia della Poesia Persiana  82 Studia Persica  483 Subtelny, Maria  319 Sufi-nâme  306 sukhte  421 susan  192 Suz o Godâz  406 Suzani  243, 266 ta’ajjob  146, 154, 168 Ta’arrof  282, 284 tab’  430 Tabaqât al-sufiyya  284–85, 287 Ṭabaqât foḥul al-sho’arâ’  129 Tabari, Mohammad b. Jarir  17, 51, 55–56, 246–47, 261, 271, 338, 382–83 Tabibzâdeh, O.  481 table  420 tabligh  168 tadharv  186 Tadhkerat al-moluk  468 Tadhkerat al-owliyâ  285–87 Tadhkerat al-sho’arâ  34, 40, 374 tadhkere  13, 34, 73–76, 79–80, 88, 374 Tadhkere-ye Sâmi  457 tafri’  161 Tafsir  247, 261, 383 tafsir  426 Tafsir-e Basâ’er-e Yamini  276 tafsir-e jali(y) o khafi(y)  154 Tafsir-e Surâbâdi  275 Tafsir-e Sure-ye Yusof  274 tafvif  161, 164, 168 taghazzol  234 Tahdhib al-asrâr  280

570

Index Tahmâsp I, Safavid Shah  398, 400, 414, 456–57, 462, 467 tahmid  269 Tahmine  359 tahrir  419 tahriri  413 Tahuri, Abd al-Ghaffâr  489 Tâ’i  376 Tâj al-masâder  62 Tâj al-qesas  273 Tâj al-tarâjem fi tafsir al-Qur’an le’l-a’âjem  274 tajâhol al-’âref  128, 150, 154 Tâj-al-Din Ahmad  425 Tâj-e Halâvi, Ali b. Mo­ hammad  166 Tajâreb al-omam  423 tâjik  46 Tajik  62, 67, 86 tajnis  128, 148, 152–53, 157, 162, 362 takallof  165 Takesh, Khwârazmshâh  264 takhallos  38, 136, 155, 245 ta’kid al-madh be-mâ yoshbeho ’l-dhamm  155 takmil  161 talâ’om  150 Talhe b. Tâher  409 Talhi  409 ta’liq  412 ta’liqât  426 ta’liq-e shekaste  412 Talkhiṣ  135 Talkhiṣ al-Meftâḥ  134 Tamhidât  303, 307 tamthil  163, 168 tanâsob  157, 171, 359–60 Tansar  343–44 tansiq-e sefât  168

Taqavi, Nasrollâh  429 tâqche  462 taqdim va-ta’khir  135 Taqizâdeh, Sayyed Hasan  91–92, 434, 441 taqrirât  426 taqsim  150 tarassol  263 Tarbiyat, Mohammad-Ali  441 târikh  168, 317–18, 327–30 Ta’rikh al-rosol va’l-moluk  246, 382–83 Ta’rikh al-sufiyya  284–85 Ta’rikh al-Yamini  248–49 Târikh-e adabiyyât dar Irân  xiii, 87–88 Târikh-e adabiyyât-e kudakân-e Iran  489 Târikh-e Beyhaq  62, 75, 429 Târikh-e gozide  75, 456 Târikh-e Jahângoshâ  429 Târikh-e Mas’udi  12 târikh-e mo’ammâ’i  317 Târikh-e Sistân  15, 53 Târikh-e Tabarestân  344 tariqât  234 ta’riz  168 tarjamat al-akhbâr va-’l-amthâl va-’l-hekma  146 tarjame  146 tarji’  153 tarji’-band  117, 239, 373 Tarjomân al-balâgha  137, 142, 144–52, 155, 157, 159, 161, 167, 264, 317 Tarjome-ye Tafsir-e Tabari  271 tarkib-band  117, 373 Tarlan, A. N.  320 tarsi’  148, 153, 162, 419 Tarsusi  355

571

General Introduction to Persian Literature al-Tasfiya fi ahvâl almotasavvefa  306 tashbih  128, 136, 149, 154, 161, 168, 234, 237, 269 al-Tashbihât  129 tashbih-e ma’kus  149 tashif  216 tash’ir  419 Tatemme-ye Sevân-al-hekma  453 al-Tavassol elâ’l-tarassol  264 tavil  105 Ta’vil moshkel al-Qur’an  127 tâvus  186 Taylor, A.  318 Taylor, W. C.  77 ta’ziye  83 tazmin  154, 160 tazmin al-mozdavaj  153 ṭebâq  128 Tha’âlebi, Abu-Mansur  17, 371, 382 Thales  353 Thamarât al-qods men shajarât al-ons  288 Târikh-e adabiyyât-e kudakân-e Iran  489 tholth  412 Thot-Hermes  330 Thousand and One Nights  46 Timur  454–55 Toghrel III b. Arslan  250, 254, 391 Tohfat al-Erâqeyn  448 Tohfat al-mohebbin  413 toranj  418 towshih  162 Turândokht  315 Tusar  343–44 tuti  186–87 Utas, B.  354

vâfer  105 vâgushak  319 Valid b. Yazid  127 Vâmeq o Adhrâ  253, 354, 421 Vaqâye’-e ettefâqiyye  488 Vâqedi  463 Vaqf-nâme-ye Rab’-e Rashidi  448 varaq  415, 418 al-varaq al-khorâsâni  409 Varâvini  264, 429 Varqe o Golshâh  253, 354, 381, 394 varrâq  388, 414–15 al-Vasâṭa beyn al-Motanabbi vakhoṣumeh  130 vâsete  117 vasf  234 vassali  420 vatad, vated  102–3 va’z  235 vazn  103–5 Vesâl of Shiraz  317 Vil’chevkij, O. L.  319, 328 Vis o Râmin  21, 122, 253, 268, 342–44, 354 Welcoming Fighānī  95 West-Östlicher Divan  78 Wilson, H. H.  77 Windfuhr, Gernot  319 World Survey of Islamic Manuscripts  424 Xerxes  347 Yâdegâr  488 Yaghmâ  488 Yaghmâ’i, Habib  91, 442, 480 Yaghnobi  51 Yahyâ Ma’âz of Ray  274

572

Index yakhdân  463 Yamin-al-Dowle Bahrâmshâh, see Bahrâmshâh Ya’qub (Jacob)  198, 224–25, 273, 300 Ya’qub b. Leyth, Saffarid ruler  15, 53, 238 Ya’qub Sarrâj of Shiraz  413 yâqut  194 Yâqut  215, 415, 448, 466 Yarshater, Ehsan  88, 319, 326, 443, 488 yâsaman  192 Yasht  313 yasht  99 Yasna  313 Yatimat al-dahr  17 Yazdi, Sharaf-al-Din Ali  318, 320–21, 330 Yeki bud yeki nabud  65 Yôishta Fryâna  313 Yusof (Joseph)  198, 205, 212, 219, 224–25, 273–74, 300, 379–80 Yusofi, Gholâm-Hoseyn  91 Yusof o Zoleykhâ  225, 255, 273–74 Zabânshenâsi  481 Zâd al-ma’âd  434 Zâd al-mosâferin  279 Zafar-nâme  428–29 zâgh  187 zâhed  231 Zahhâk  183, 230

Zahir of Samarqand  260 Zahir-al-Din Beyhaqi  75 Zahir-al-Din Nishâpuri  250 Zahir-al-Din of Fâryâb  25 Zahiri of Samarqand, Mohammad b. Ali  340 Zâl  185–86, 200, 230, 293, 313 Zamakhshari  129, 134 zanakhdân  205 zar  194 Zarathushtra (Zardosht, Zoro­ aster), 191, 198, 209, 312, 330 zard  201 Zardosht, see Zarathustra zehâf  104, 106 Zeyn-al-Âbedin of Tabriz, Mirzâ  433–35 Zeyn al-akhbâr  248 Zeynabi  150 Zib-al-Nesâ Begom  468 Zinat al-majâles  436 Zinati  150 Zinat-nâme  142 Żiyâ’-al-Din b. al-Athir  133 Ziyâ’-al-Din Ebn-e Yusof Hadâ’eq  427 zohd  235, 243 zohdiyyât  374 Zoleykhâ  225, 273, 300, 380 zomorrod  194 zonnâr  205, 213, 228, 231 Zoroaster, see Zarathustra Zowzani  62

573