~
The sound of falling snow has always been enchanting. Babaji's Van Morrison: "gonna get my big boots/ gonna go walkin'/ in the woods..." Was recently out, and, turning to watch the window, managed to walk into a snowbank. Though enclouded it is not a dark night, and i would share it with people, possibly on skiis... a problem: none of my People currently home ski except Z, and he is on the other side of Edmonton; some of those who did ski at one point ended up seduced by b-ball (ahem).
It is only through the refracted lines of my family's history that i learn to accept the unworthy fact of my own existence; geneological constructs will convince, where individual realities will not. Concrete, critical, cold externals...
Usman is a child who knows the meaning of "love".
And, to those partying tonight as per "New Year's", guess what? it's still only the 8th of Dhu'l-Qa'dah! muahaa! (:
Anyhow, my one point of tonight is this: reading the reviews of father-mine's two novels from back in the 80s, i am 1) ashamed and 2) questioning. At a time when i was living my first few years of life, blissfully oblivious, people were critically "heralding his talent". Ashamed of myself, that i am not able to read/appreciate them; questioning, if asking him to finish the trilogy would be a misguided effort, now that he has moved Beyond and contributes in Other Ways. But: I resolve: to learn Urdu properly. Yes, i do realize it is a dying/dead language of a dying race, the lingua franca of a people who have mislocated their own culture and their own selves, but i yet am firm on this: i *will* learn Urdu, bi idhni Llah, iA.
"Muzzaffar's [sic] style is one of the most personal in its sincerity. It testifies to a fondness for violent habits of mind and feeling. It is a style that has been moulded into shape by the maturing of his genius under the action of an exalted sense of prophecy: of a spiritual enthusaism, and under the influence of an intimate contact with the current literary thought. His imagination, the strongest of his faculties, lends unity in movement and in tone to his broader narrative and pictures ... he avows the melancholy which mingles with the clear-sightedness of the modern mind; he reveals a more complex and more attrative sensibility than that of his contemporaries. In all likelihood, he will stand the test of time. He is the promoter of the doctrine of intellectual culture, to a civilization mainly satisfied with the success of empirical ambitions. In sum, the current of critical thought bathing the dim unconscious recesses of the soul, and restoring its spontaneous freshenss to all the inner personality of man, this spirit of calm self-possession, are the hallmarks of Muzzaffar's [sic] profound writings. The wisdom which he evokes is elevating and impressive. He lives up to it to the utmost of his ability and gives inspiring examples of his faith."
"...a prime example of metaphysical fiction..."
"Nightvisionary...the readiness to experiment and deference to the dictates of artistry hang in the balance..."
"...Muzaffar Iqbal's prose is an amalgam with uncomplicated narrative suddenly bursting into purple blossoms...it has an undeniably mystical undertone. It is the dark night of the soul in which things are found or identities lost or vice versa."
