”Several days ago she brought me a prayer book with a layer of dust on top of it . But neither the rabbles’ prayers nor any of their books, writings or thoughts was useful for me. What use did I have for their nonsense and their lies? Wasn’t I myself the result of many succeeding generations, and weren’t their hereditary sufferings inherent in me? Wasn’t the past in myself? Never have any of these the mosque, the call to prayer, the ablutions, the noisy spitting, the bowing and prostration in front of the Almighty or absolute Creator with whom one could converse only in Arabic none of these has ever had any effect on me.
Even when I was healthy and attended a mosque several times, my efforts to harmonize my thoughts and feelings with those of others were futile. My eyes scanned the glazed tiles and the intricate designs on the walls. Those designs then relieved me from the obligations of the mosque and transported me into a realm of delightful dreams. During the prayer, I closed my eyes and hid my face in the palms of my hands. In this self-created night, I uttered my prayers as if they were some irresponsible words spoken in a dream. My pronunciation of the words of the prayer was devoid of inner meaning because I preferred to speak to a friend, or an acquaintance rather than to God or to an All Powerful One. God was too much for me.”
Sadegh Hedayat in the Blind Owl.
The book here: