The Black Book

[N]othing is as surprising as life. Except for writing. Except for writing. Yes, of course, except for writing, the only consolation.

When you look into the faces of these quiet creatures who don't know how to tell stories--who are mute, who can't make themselves heard, who fade into the woodwork, who only think of the perfect answer after the fact, after they're back at home, who can never think of a story that anyone else will find interesting--is there not more depth and more meaning in them? You can see every letter of every untold story swimming on their faces, and all the signs of silence, dejection, and even defeat. You can even imagine your own face in those faces, can't you?

We live but for a short time, we see but very little, and we know almost nothing; so, at least, let's do some dreaming. Have yourself a very good Sunday, my dear readers.

...at the end of the day there was nothing to be gained by reminding people that everything that had ever been written, even the greatest and most authoritative texts in the world, were about dreams, not real life, dreams conjured up by words.

¡Ninguna vida se parece a otra!... Cada historia es una historia precisamente porque no existe otra igual.

To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has left never to return: It is to grieve, dear reader, it is to weep.

Okuduğun kitaptaki becerikli ve kederli kahraman bendim; mermer taşlar, iri sütunlar ve karanlık kayalar arasından rehberimle birlikte yeraltındaki kıpır kıpır hayatın mahkumlarına koşan ve yıldızlarla kaplı yedi kat göğün merdivenlerinden çıkan yolcu bendim; uçurumu aşan köprünün öteki ucundaki sevgilisine, "Ben senim!" diye seslenen ve yazarı onu kayırdığı için sigara küllüğündeki zehir izlerini çözen kül yutmaz dedektif bendim... Sen sabırsız, sessizce sayfayı çevirirdin. Aşk için cinayetler işledim, atımla Fırat Nehrini geçtim, piramitlere gömüldüm, kardinalleri öldürdüm: "Canım, ne anlatıyor o kitap öyle?" Sen evli barklı ev kadını, ben akşam o eve dönmüş kocaydım: "Hiç." En son otobüs, en boş otobüs bütün boşluğuyla evin önünden geçerken koltuklarımız karşılıklı titrerdi. Sen elinde kapağı kartondan kitap, ben elimde okuyamadığım gazete, sorardım: "Kahramanı ben olsam beni sever miydin?" "Saçmalama!" Gecenin acımasız sessizliği diye yazardı okuduğun kitaplar, sessizliğin acımasızlığı nedir bilirdim.

They, like me, like all of us, had, once upon a time, in a past so far away it seemed like heaven, caught by chance a glimpse of an inner essence, only to forget what it was. It was this lost memory that pained us, reduced us to ruins, though still we struggled to be ourselves.

You'll forget it all: the cruel power of your superiors, the thoughtless things you wish you'd never said, the stupidities, the unfinished work, the lack of consideration, the betrayals, the injustices, the indifference, those who've blamed you, those who will blame you, your financial troubles, the rush of time, the endless waits, the things and people forever beyond your reach, your loneliness, your shame, your defeats, your wretchedness, your pain, and the catastrophes - all those catastrophes - in just a few minutes you'll forget them all. The prospect comforts you. Patiently you wait.

What makes the marvellous is its peculiar way of being ordinary; what makes the ordinary is its peculiar way of being marvellous.

How different from the cosy world of Rüya's detective novels, where authors never vexed a hero with more signs than he needed.

...a nation could change its way of life, its history, its technology, its art, literature, and culture, but it would never have a real chance to change its gestures.

I must be myself, I said over and over. I must forget these people buzzing inside my head, I must forget their voices, their smells, their demands, their love, their hate, and be myself, I must be myself, I told myself, as i gazed down at the legs resting so happily on the stool, and I told myself again as I looked up to watch the smoke I'd blown up to the ceiling; I must be myself, because if I failed to be myself, I become the person they wanted me to be; if I had to be that insufferable person, I'd rather be nothing at all. It would be better if I didn't exist,...

Near Taksim he suddenly found himself inside a crowd of people leaving a movie theater. They were staring straight ahead, as if in a trance, walking down the stairs arm in arm or with their hands plunged in their pockets, and Galip was so overwhelmed by what he read in their faces and that his own nightmare faded into the background. What he read in their faces was peace: these people had been able to forget their own sadness by immersing themselves in a story. They were here, on this wretched street, but at the same time they were there, inside the story to which they'd so eagerly given themselves over. They had gone into theater with minds sucked dry by pain and defeat,but now their minds were full again with rich story that gave meaning to their memories and their melancholy. They can believe they're someone else! thought Galip longingly. For a moment he was tempted to go in to watch the film they'd just seen,to lose himself in the same story and become someone else. As they wandered down the street, stopping now and again to gaze into boring shop windows, Galip watched the return to the dull and dreary world they knew so well. They don't make much effort! Thought Galip.

After all, nothing can be as astounding as life. Except for writing. Yes, of course, except for writing, the sole consolation.

Mi ignorancia hacía mi victoria aún más insoportable, pero mi modestia y mi vergüenza aliviaban mis culpas.

...no creo que podamos vivir sin imitar a otros, sin querer ser otros.