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یادداشتهای سرگردان روی آب
نویسندگان هجرت کرده از وطن کم نیستند و این دربارهی ایرانیان در دهههای اخیر بیش و بیشتر هم شده است. هجرت از خاک یک سوی ماجراست و هجرت از زبان نیز سوی دیگر آن. «بابک لکقمی» نویسندهی ایرانی هجرت کردهایست که سالهاست در کانادا زندگی میکند و به زبان انگلیسی مینویسد و یکی از نمونههای شاخص و درخشان هجرت از خاک و زبان مادریست. رمان او، «یادداشتهای سرگردان روی آب» با توجه بسیاری که در میان منتقدان و مخاطبان انگلیسیزبان به دستآورده، روایتی سیال و ذهنیست که این اتخاب فرم نه تنها موجب گیجی و منگی مخاطب نمیشود، بلکه شگفتی و گشودگی نیز حاصل میکند. داستانی که همچون نقاشیای آبستره، تصویرهایش بدیع، خوابآلود، پر از نقش و رنگ و البته قابل درک و فهم هستند و میتوان در هر لحظهاش در زمان، مکان و شخصیتهای متفاوت حرکت کرد درحالیکه همراه با راوی و لحظهی اکنونش بود! این لذت خیالانگیز چیزیست که میتوان با خواندن «یادداشتهای سرگردان روی آب» نصیب برد و در این لذت، کودکی تا جوانی و پیری را خواند و تصور کرد.
86 pages, Paperback
First published August 7, 2018
161 people want to read
About the author
Babak Lakghomi
3 books125 followersBabak Lakghomi is the author of South (Dundurn Press, 2023) and Floating Notes (Tyrant Books, 2018). His writing has appeared in American Short Fiction, NOON, Electric Literature, Fence, Ninth Letter, and The Adroit Journal, and has been translated into Italian and Farsi. Babak was born in Tehran, Iran, and currently lives and writes in Toronto.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 30 reviews
August 8, 2020
Nella quarta di copertina si legge: “Quaderni sull'acqua è un romanzo noir sperimentale, un racconto di mistero, solitudine e amore, raccontato attraverso una prosa minimale che costruisce un'originale atmosfera di dubbio e minaccia, e che compone un puzzle di cui mancano la maggior parte dei pezzi.”
Il protagonista della storia è Bob, almeno così dice di chiamarsi; ma neanche lui è convinto che sia questo il suo nome: “Non ricordo la prima volta che scrissi il mio nome. Ciò che ricordo è la prima volta che udii qualcun altro che veniva chiamato con il mio nome. Gli dissi che quello era anche il mio, di nome, ma lui non mi credette. Era un ragazzino grasso con una faccia paffuta. Somigliava a un piccolo boxer.”
Un fiume divide la vita do Bob, il suo passato dal suo presente così frammentato, fermo immagine sovraesposta sulla pelle del suo quaderno.
Al passato di Bob appartengono Ava, la moglie, e il figlio che sono andati via, lontano da lui: “Il mio nome è Bob e così descrivo la mia vita: una stanza in un attico con una tenda gialla in uno stretto corridoio, un letto a molle su un pavimento che scricchiola. Quaderni in uno zaino. Due tazze di caffè al giorno.
Questa è la mia vita dopo che sono andato via, oppure dopo che lei mi ha lasciato e io ho deciso di andarmene a mia volta.
Mi chiese se avessimo stampato le foto e le dissi che il negativo era sovraesposto. Non ricordo se dissi “sovraesposto” o “perduto”. Non credo che all’epoca sapessi cosa significasse “sovraesposto”, ma potrei aver semplicemente ripetuto ciò che avevo sentito da mio padre.”
Al presente di Bob appartengono Lily, Sheila, un’altra donna e un poliziotto della narcotici.
“Le vene sotto la tua pelle: le strade sulla mia cartina. Se le seguirai, non ti perderai, mi hai detto.”
Una scrittura molto poetica, un racconto avvincente in cui i frammenti sono tante tessere di un puzzle che fatica a comporsi. Un delitto, delle persone scomparse, i cui moventi saranno ignoti, fino alla fine.
“Ho una scrivania nella mia nuova stanza. Il retro della mia sedia è rivolto verso la finestra. Sento il vento che fa frusciare le foglie degli alberi. Volto la testa, ma non vedo una busta di plastica. Non ci sono automobili sulla strada. Tengo la fotografia delle gru della Manciuria sulla mia scrivania.”
E proprio come accade in una fotografia, “A volte la gente si nasconde dietro ciò che vuole che gli altri vedano.”
Il protagonista della storia è Bob, almeno così dice di chiamarsi; ma neanche lui è convinto che sia questo il suo nome: “Non ricordo la prima volta che scrissi il mio nome. Ciò che ricordo è la prima volta che udii qualcun altro che veniva chiamato con il mio nome. Gli dissi che quello era anche il mio, di nome, ma lui non mi credette. Era un ragazzino grasso con una faccia paffuta. Somigliava a un piccolo boxer.”
Un fiume divide la vita do Bob, il suo passato dal suo presente così frammentato, fermo immagine sovraesposta sulla pelle del suo quaderno.
Al passato di Bob appartengono Ava, la moglie, e il figlio che sono andati via, lontano da lui: “Il mio nome è Bob e così descrivo la mia vita: una stanza in un attico con una tenda gialla in uno stretto corridoio, un letto a molle su un pavimento che scricchiola. Quaderni in uno zaino. Due tazze di caffè al giorno.
Questa è la mia vita dopo che sono andato via, oppure dopo che lei mi ha lasciato e io ho deciso di andarmene a mia volta.
Mi chiese se avessimo stampato le foto e le dissi che il negativo era sovraesposto. Non ricordo se dissi “sovraesposto” o “perduto”. Non credo che all’epoca sapessi cosa significasse “sovraesposto”, ma potrei aver semplicemente ripetuto ciò che avevo sentito da mio padre.”
Al presente di Bob appartengono Lily, Sheila, un’altra donna e un poliziotto della narcotici.
“Le vene sotto la tua pelle: le strade sulla mia cartina. Se le seguirai, non ti perderai, mi hai detto.”
Una scrittura molto poetica, un racconto avvincente in cui i frammenti sono tante tessere di un puzzle che fatica a comporsi. Un delitto, delle persone scomparse, i cui moventi saranno ignoti, fino alla fine.
“Ho una scrivania nella mia nuova stanza. Il retro della mia sedia è rivolto verso la finestra. Sento il vento che fa frusciare le foglie degli alberi. Volto la testa, ma non vedo una busta di plastica. Non ci sono automobili sulla strada. Tengo la fotografia delle gru della Manciuria sulla mia scrivania.”
E proprio come accade in una fotografia, “A volte la gente si nasconde dietro ciò che vuole che gli altri vedano.”
June 29, 2019
A broken noir of intrigues that bleed away to an acute sense of isolation and loss. That's not a bad thing at all. The short, crystalline sections that make this up interweave across time and space (back, presumably, to political troubles in Iran given a reference to the Simorgh) to create a completely effective sensation of displacement. Could easily be read in a sitting, but lingers much longer.
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March 14, 2022اول کتاب را به زبان فارسی خواندم و ژانر نوار ش انگار وابسته به زبان انگلیسی باشد بازگشتم و یک بار دیگر به انگلیسی خواندم و واقعا خواندنی تر شد. کتاب ساده و کوتاهی که برای من در ساختار سه قطره خون صادق هدایت نوشته شده است- من یک داستان دارم که در مجموعه ی بعد از هفت قدم بلند چاپ شده و دقیقا ساختار سه قطره خون را دارد و به عطار اشاره می کند و هفت مرحله اش- جالب بود که در این کتاب هم به سیمرغ اشاره شده بود.
مردی که تحت تعقیب است و ماشینی مشکی او را می پاید. از زن و فرزندش یاد نمی کند که او را ترک کرده اند. بی هویت و تنهاست و با دو دختر لزبین شیوا و لیلا آشنا می شود که هر دو فرار می کنند و کارشان به بیمارستان روانی کشیده می شود اما در نهایت انگار که مرد هر سه ی اینها باشد درست توییستی که در انتهای داستان سه قطره خون رخ می دهد.
مردی که تحت تعقیب است و ماشینی مشکی او را می پاید. از زن و فرزندش یاد نمی کند که او را ترک کرده اند. بی هویت و تنهاست و با دو دختر لزبین شیوا و لیلا آشنا می شود که هر دو فرار می کنند و کارشان به بیمارستان روانی کشیده می شود اما در نهایت انگار که مرد هر سه ی اینها باشد درست توییستی که در انتهای داستان سه قطره خون رخ می دهد.
August 15, 2021
داستان عجیبی بود. با اینکه کار اول "بابک لکقمی" هست، اما پخته بودن قلمش با توجه به جزئیات، روان و بیگانگیای که در شخصیت وجود داشتند کاملا بارزه. منتظر کتاب بعدیش هستم.
July 19, 2021
Decent book to read in the current situation what with us all staying in all the time now. Very isolated and silent (in the way that silence is just the noise of the mind.).
August 12, 2022
«اگر آنها را دنبال کنی، گم نمیشوی.»
روایتی وهمآلود از تمام چیزهایی که میتوانستند وجود داشته یا نداشته باشند.
روایتی وهمآلود از تمام چیزهایی که میتوانستند وجود داشته یا نداشته باشند.
July 24, 2018
Floating Notes by Babak Lakghomi was excellent. The cover looks like mountains made from slivers of dreams, and that’s how it reads too. The narrator of Floating Notes is a man who interacts with a world that seems to disintegrate the farther he walks into it, encountering things that could be real or could be figments of his own imagination. He is chased by men in black cars, the eggs he eats are robbed from his boardinghouse by a frenchman who may be impersonating a pilot, or a Frenchman, or or or. Such a magnificently off kilter novella. Works of art in this mode are Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker, Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson, some of Denis Johnson’s more lucid dream style stuff. The plot of Floating Notes has one foot in noir (as an existential detective story) and the other foot in a sanitarium. Funny. Haunting. Thrilling. A novel as you’re reading where you might think, Oh I hope the author does this, and then Babak does something far far better.
March 14, 2023
Un quaderno lanciato nell’acqua non va subito a fondo. Le pagine iniziano a bagnarsi piano piano, qualche frase sparisce mentre altre resistono. È un sottrarre continuo finché sulla superficie non rimangono che cerchi concentrici, nulla più. Questa storia è come vedere affondare qualcosa che cerca di resistere all’acqua: il buio si prende parti del tutto e la mente può immaginare cosa sta accadendo solo osservando ciò che resta a galla.
Una storia fatta di sottrazioni è come un puzzle da comporre, un thriller costruito sul non detto.
Una storia fatta di sottrazioni è come un puzzle da comporre, un thriller costruito sul non detto.
August 24, 2021
Very different and worth checking out. Made up of short sections, making the disorientating mystery easier to digest but somehow more impactful.
February 9, 2025
A Note on Floating Notes
I just finished reading Floating Notes by Babak Lakghomi, whom I had the pleasure of meeting in person yesterday. He kindly signed my Persian copy (translated by Ahmad Pouri) and graciously extended me access to the English edition. I read them in the order I received them—first the Persian, then the English—though I would have preferred the reverse.
The story carries a profound solitude, the weight of a soul shaped by vast reading. I could trace the echoes of many literary masters within it—even Nabokov, my personal favorite. The birch trees and their scent reminded me of how memory, in Nabokov’s world, becomes a guide to survival. "The veins beneath your skin: the roads on my map. If you follow them, you won't get lost" (Floating Notes, p. 24).
The narrator, drifting between past and present, clings to memories and his diary as his sole means of survival. The non-linear narrative might have been disorienting, but its short, precise sentences allowed me to navigate it smoothly—like Bob himself, trying to stay afloat on the icy surface of events, refusing to be swallowed by them.Bob reminded me of many literary figures—Luzhin from The Defense, Benjy from The Sound and the Fury—characters lost in their own fractured realities. But Floating Notes is not a puzzle to be solved. The best way to experience it is to let go, to let oneself drift with its delicate current. The story finds its own way to unfold.
My heartfelt thanks to Babak Lakghomi for bestowing this reading experience upon me—a quiet yet powerful journey through memory, language, and survival.
I highly recommend Floating Notes to those who appreciate literary fiction that lingers long after the last page.
I just finished reading Floating Notes by Babak Lakghomi, whom I had the pleasure of meeting in person yesterday. He kindly signed my Persian copy (translated by Ahmad Pouri) and graciously extended me access to the English edition. I read them in the order I received them—first the Persian, then the English—though I would have preferred the reverse.
The story carries a profound solitude, the weight of a soul shaped by vast reading. I could trace the echoes of many literary masters within it—even Nabokov, my personal favorite. The birch trees and their scent reminded me of how memory, in Nabokov’s world, becomes a guide to survival. "The veins beneath your skin: the roads on my map. If you follow them, you won't get lost" (Floating Notes, p. 24).
The narrator, drifting between past and present, clings to memories and his diary as his sole means of survival. The non-linear narrative might have been disorienting, but its short, precise sentences allowed me to navigate it smoothly—like Bob himself, trying to stay afloat on the icy surface of events, refusing to be swallowed by them.Bob reminded me of many literary figures—Luzhin from The Defense, Benjy from The Sound and the Fury—characters lost in their own fractured realities. But Floating Notes is not a puzzle to be solved. The best way to experience it is to let go, to let oneself drift with its delicate current. The story finds its own way to unfold.
My heartfelt thanks to Babak Lakghomi for bestowing this reading experience upon me—a quiet yet powerful journey through memory, language, and survival.
I highly recommend Floating Notes to those who appreciate literary fiction that lingers long after the last page.
May 19, 2020
Floating Notes by Babak Lakghomi operates in the realm of the post-modern noir, in which fragments of clues and glancing interactions with characters lead the protagonist to try and find an overarching metanarrative to make sense of the whole fractious world around him or her (but it's usually him with these sorts of things.) The problem, I feel, with Floating Notes is in how sparse it is- this is a 100 page novella with a lot of white space- which by necessity sacrifices the level of detail that these types of noirs often differentiate themselves upon. If I'm not getting a ton of Pynchonian apocrypha or the visual textures and strangeness that a film (like the recent Under the Silver Lake) can provide, than what I'm getting is a lot of snippets.. it's almost like Floating Notes should be the actual notes that a noir protagonist receives and puzzles over in their own mystery. Putting it like that, I'm actually more intrigued in the novella now!
November 10, 2018
A mysterious noir narrative about missing people and identity that, like a brilliant haiku, hints at a much deeper meaning without explicitly saying it. The narrator is like a paranoid ghost floating through the floating world, trailed by his past and searching for a familiar face but unable to grasp anything long enough to hold on to it. It’s a book that needs to be read more than once I think.
September 5, 2018
A hypnotic book of fractured experience in which the narrator recounts the pieces of his life—violence, loss—but the pieces fit into no whole. Lakghomi creates fragments of prose like distorted mirrors.
January 27, 2019
An austere window into a troubled mind, echoing with paranoia and haunting imagery.
November 19, 2018
This piece slides the reader smoothly through brilliantly succinct world building and muted but harsh senses - it is like "falling but not wanting anyone to catch [you...]."
January 10, 2024
باران نوشت:
سفری پارانوید…
تو جهان این داستان، هیچ پاسخی وجود نداره، هیچ راهحلی نیست و همهچیز شناوره.
June 5, 2020
La nostra illusione di avere una "storia" viene messa alla prova da una raccolta di ricordi, flash-backs, frammenti, sensazioni, supposizioni. E forse se dovessimo raccontare la nostra "storia" ci renderemmo conto che abbiamo poco più di questo da dire - che di noi stessi sappiamo, e siamo in grado di raccontare, poco più di questo; che l' "identità" è precaria e flebile, un quaderno sull'acqua.
January 30, 2021
Interesting character interactions. A poignant tale with an ambiguous ending.
February 9, 2024
It’s a different kinda book. Must give it a try. Love the actual floating and scatteredness of the writing which the title suggests.
February 2, 2025
“My father had a small boat back home, we fished from the river there. Here, I fished on a large boat on the ocean. I remember the sound of the gulls fishing for the guts of fish that we threw back into the ocean. The smell of blood and salt. I gutted thousands of fish per day, my boots deep into the cold water. The blood from the boat left a red trail on the sea.”
—
“She said she had seen a black car on the street. I looked out the window and showed her the empty street. But she didn't believe me. She took my father's knife from the kitchen and put its edge on her wrist.
She pressed the tip on her pale skin. I grabbed her by her wrists and twisted her arms. She didn't drop the knife.
I pushed her on the floor and fell on top of her.
A sharp pain pointed to my armpit. My blood stained her summer dress.”
—
“Some of the notebooks were thrown into the river. Some of them were lost in a flood.
Now, I write my notes in a very small handwriting that only I can read.
Some nights I dream I am on my father's boat and I'm fishing my old notebooks from the bottom of the river.”
—
“The control room was blue. The paint peeled on its walls. There were still desks in the blue room, a dilapidated sofa, two chairs.
The room's big windows were covered with old newspapers.
Inside the desk drawers, there were cigarettes, coffee mugs, spoons. Whatever the reason was, people had left the place quickly, leaving their traces everywhere behind them.
I unzipped the sleeping bag and spread it on the floor. I offered her bread from my knapsack. After eating, she took off her pants. We went to sleep with our jackets covering us, our legs rubbed.”
—
“When I was a kid, my mother used to take me to the public bath early in the mornings. The cold mornings, the river frozen, asphalt cracked, me and her walked through a tunnel of snow. After the tunnel, I knew the bath was waiting for me, the warmth of the steam, the smell of soap, the female bodies through the fog. My body would go numb with the sudden change of temperature. I soaked myself in the small pool and sat on the big white stone until my mother would rub me with her wash cloth, something growing in the pit of my stomach. I felt like I was falling, not wanting anyone to grab me.”
—
“First I thought he was the contact, but then he had the policeman's face. We were on my father's boat fishing from the river. I heard his husky voice from beneath the water, his words bubbling out of the surface. I pulled out my fishing rod. His head started to come out of the water. His eyes were shut. The hook stuck out of his gums.”
—
“Lobsters mate after the female molts. Before that stage the female releases pheromones into the water to let nearby males know she is preparing to molt and mate. If there are multiple males interested in the female, they will fight each other for her. The lobster that wins the fight will take the female into his cave and protect her from predators. The male turns her over gently and pierces her abdomen with his first pair of pleodods.”
—
“She said she had seen a black car on the street. I looked out the window and showed her the empty street. But she didn't believe me. She took my father's knife from the kitchen and put its edge on her wrist.
She pressed the tip on her pale skin. I grabbed her by her wrists and twisted her arms. She didn't drop the knife.
I pushed her on the floor and fell on top of her.
A sharp pain pointed to my armpit. My blood stained her summer dress.”
—
“Some of the notebooks were thrown into the river. Some of them were lost in a flood.
Now, I write my notes in a very small handwriting that only I can read.
Some nights I dream I am on my father's boat and I'm fishing my old notebooks from the bottom of the river.”
—
“The control room was blue. The paint peeled on its walls. There were still desks in the blue room, a dilapidated sofa, two chairs.
The room's big windows were covered with old newspapers.
Inside the desk drawers, there were cigarettes, coffee mugs, spoons. Whatever the reason was, people had left the place quickly, leaving their traces everywhere behind them.
I unzipped the sleeping bag and spread it on the floor. I offered her bread from my knapsack. After eating, she took off her pants. We went to sleep with our jackets covering us, our legs rubbed.”
—
“When I was a kid, my mother used to take me to the public bath early in the mornings. The cold mornings, the river frozen, asphalt cracked, me and her walked through a tunnel of snow. After the tunnel, I knew the bath was waiting for me, the warmth of the steam, the smell of soap, the female bodies through the fog. My body would go numb with the sudden change of temperature. I soaked myself in the small pool and sat on the big white stone until my mother would rub me with her wash cloth, something growing in the pit of my stomach. I felt like I was falling, not wanting anyone to grab me.”
—
“First I thought he was the contact, but then he had the policeman's face. We were on my father's boat fishing from the river. I heard his husky voice from beneath the water, his words bubbling out of the surface. I pulled out my fishing rod. His head started to come out of the water. His eyes were shut. The hook stuck out of his gums.”
—
“Lobsters mate after the female molts. Before that stage the female releases pheromones into the water to let nearby males know she is preparing to molt and mate. If there are multiple males interested in the female, they will fight each other for her. The lobster that wins the fight will take the female into his cave and protect her from predators. The male turns her over gently and pierces her abdomen with his first pair of pleodods.”
November 17, 2018
A puzzling and hypnotizing bite of a story that reminded me a lot of Paul Auster's City of Glass. This book follows a nameless and identity-less person chase a mystery that seemingly changes at each turn. Who are we without our possessions, without our connections to other people, without our memories? What's real, what's convenient, and what's simply our imagination? Life doesn't give you answers and neither does Floating Notes. What it does give you, however, is a fascinating dream to take a meander through for a little while.
January 27, 2025
داستان یه روایت سیاله، ابتدا شاید به نظر برسه که انسجام نداره، ولی مثل تکه های پازل کنار هم میشینه و خیلی رولن پیش میره. درسته این پازل تا انتها کامل و دقیق نمیشه ولی مهم اینکه طرح اصلی پازل مشخص و قابل درک خواهد بود برای خواننده.
اگر تا حالا شده که فکر کنید کاش میشد برم تو ذهن آدما و ببینم تو ذهنشون چه خبره، به نظرم این کتاب میتونه ببرتتون توی ذهن شخصیت اصلی داستان. و این زاویه روایتگری، داستان رو جذاب کرده.
ولی اگر دوست دارید داستانی که میخونید چارچوب و سیر روایی مشخص و دقیقی داشته باشه، احتمال داره از خوندنش لذت نبرید
اگر تا حالا شده که فکر کنید کاش میشد برم تو ذهن آدما و ببینم تو ذهنشون چه خبره، به نظرم این کتاب میتونه ببرتتون توی ذهن شخصیت اصلی داستان. و این زاویه روایتگری، داستان رو جذاب کرده.
ولی اگر دوست دارید داستانی که میخونید چارچوب و سیر روایی مشخص و دقیقی داشته باشه، احتمال داره از خوندنش لذت نبرید
December 14, 2025
من احساس میکنم نویسنده از سبک صادق هدایت در نوشتن بوف کور ایده گرفته بود اما متاسفانه موفق نشده بود داستان پختهای بنویسه.
کتاب کوتاه بود و روان اما من با اینکه از روایت های سیال ذهن لذت میبرم، ازش لذت کافی رو نبردم اما رنجی که کشید رو انگاری که کشیده بودم.
فکر نمیکنم دوباره بخونمش مگر اینکه بخوام برم سراغ تحلیل روانی شخصیت هایی که دچار مشکلن و اون وقت باب این داستان میتونه مورد جالبی برای مطالعه باشه.
کتاب کوتاه بود و روان اما من با اینکه از روایت های سیال ذهن لذت میبرم، ازش لذت کافی رو نبردم اما رنجی که کشید رو انگاری که کشیده بودم.
فکر نمیکنم دوباره بخونمش مگر اینکه بخوام برم سراغ تحلیل روانی شخصیت هایی که دچار مشکلن و اون وقت باب این داستان میتونه مورد جالبی برای مطالعه باشه.
August 16, 2018
Fantastic! Read it!
December 18, 2018
"I had to saw a small door into the entrance door to be able to get into the plant."
August 3, 2021
روایتی سیال و ذهنی با تصاویر بدیع
October 13, 2023
An short odd mystery of a missing person and a lost narrator.
October 14, 2023
از متن کتاب :
گاهی آدم ها خودشان را پشت نقابی پنهان می کنند که می خواهند دیگران آن را ببینند.
وقتی می مانم چه کار کنم، دلم می خواهد در دفتر یادداشتم چیز بنویسم
گاهی آدم ها خودشان را پشت نقابی پنهان می کنند که می خواهند دیگران آن را ببینند.
وقتی می مانم چه کار کنم، دلم می خواهد در دفتر یادداشتم چیز بنویسم
October 14, 2024
Did not feel I connected with the characters or story - as soon as I felt a hook in it slipped out.
October 14, 2025
صرفا یسری یادداشت؟ ، ولی لی لی کی بود؟
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