I’m reading Mirrors of the Unseen. Journeys in Iran by Jason Elliot. I’ll review it when I’ve finished, but a quotation on page 214 caught my eye this morning. It’s from Gharbzadegi by Jalal al-eAhmad.

“Once he gets across the bridge, he doesn’t care if it stands or falls. …everywhere he is only a spectator.”

Can you imagine the devastating loneliness of living in such a manner? It is acedia, a sloth of the soul.

Strangely I was thinking of bridges, yesterday. How books are bridges between worlds, built by author, editor and reader.

Bridges are the means of moving from one place to another, whether that is a physical place or a metaphysical space. If we don’t care whether they fall, if we don’t build and repair them, what is to stop our society atomising and individuals moving with random atom bumping patterns?

[The photo from Wikimedia is of Sushtar Bridge, shared by Ali Afghah. It’s beautiful.]