Inside a San Jose movie theater at the beginning of “Twister,” my body starts trembling. I feel nauseous and frightened. As the Dolby sound system echoes the blast of a tornado careening towards Helen Hunt’s character, the noise is so real and so familiar that it feels like an air raid, or what we used to refer to as a bombardment. (A bombardment is different from a missile attack which usually leaves nothing behind after the impact).
Years later, in my constant endeavor to deal with bouts of melancholy and mania, I dare to translate a highly complicated mystic poem by Tahereh Qurratul-ayn, with the hope of finding in her words the one I had lost contact with in my youth.
Years later, in my constant endeavor to deal with bouts of melancholy and mania, I dare to translate a highly complicated mystic poem by Tahereh Qurratul-ayn, with the hope of finding in her words the one I had lost contact with in my youth.
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