translate this to persian:
And how are those calls made? Let’s go back to the case(s) of the flowers.
At the start of this chapter, I mentioned two characters with emblematic flowers.
There are lots more, of course, but two will suffice.
First, Nero Wolfe. Wolfe has many character emblems, so many in fact that I
sometimes think the emblems are a substitute for actual characterization.
Perhaps this is generally true of fictional detectives; they’re almost always less
fully developed than main characters in standard novels, yet they seem to have
twice as many tics and signs hanging about them. Wolfe has his great size—a
fifth of a ton, we’re told in more than one novel—as well as his personal chef,
Fritz; his bottles of beer, always delivered to him already opened and waiting;
his dislike of personal contact; his rare books; and his clothing, especially his
invariably yellow shirts. You can do a good deal with any of them. In fact, I once
heard the famous literary biographer Leon Edel hold forth for many minutes on
the significance of a writer named Rex (Latin for king) Stout having a hero
named Nero (as in the emperor), whose stature at four hundred pounds is well
beyond stout. See the fun you can have with books? But the one emblem that
best defines Wolfe is the orchid. He cultivates them in his rooftop greenhouse.
Either they or the greenhouse itself figure into the plots of several of the novels
and stories. They seem almost anomalous at first, being so delicate and small, so
dainty set against his great girth. But both he and they are hothouse creatures. He
almost never leaves the brownstone he calls home. Fresh air is anathema to him.
Like them, he requires very precise and careful handling in order to bring out his
genius. Moreover, they allow him to express his artistic side, to show a passion
completely absent in every other area of his existence. When he is troubled or
perplexed, he retreats to the greenhouse to commune with his orchids, nearly the
only things in his world with which he is never angry. We could learn the things
we know about Wolfe without orchids, but they offer a kind of shortcut to that
knowledge, both revealing and reinforcing aspects of his character in ways both
tangible and vivid.
And what of Clarissa Dalloway? On a purely practical level, she needs
flowers for her party that evening: what, after all, is a gathering without a bit of
floral decoration? Flowers present lead to flowers past and memories of being a
girl in flower many years earlier. The imagery is more troubled than with
Wolfe’s orchids, however—perhaps to be expected of a more complex, layered
narrative. Clarissa collects the flowers at the shop as promised, of course, and
their reflection in a window catches the eye of the doomed, frantic ex-soldier
Septimus Warren Smith when the car backfires in the street. He can’t be sure
what the reflection is an image of—a tree perhaps, even the tree behind which
his dead comrade Evans hides throughout the day—but he is sure the image is
fraught with meaning especially for him. Or perhaps merely fraught. And there
is a fitting image of the reader’s enterprise: an image that catches our eye,
suggesting some secondary thing of whose meaning we can’t quite be certain
and whose significance is vague at best. We are forced, like Septimus, to invent,
to select for ourselves from a catalog of dim possibilities the one or two most
likely or most comforting or perhaps least implausible.