هل العشق يجعل الإنسان غبيّاً أم أن الأغبياء فقط يعشقون !
Orhan Pamukأنا تعيسة لإني لا أفهم مايقول قلبي
Orhan Pamukكان خلفي زمن لا محدود حتّى قبل أن أولد , وبعد أن متّ أيضاً , زمن لا ينتهي !
لم أفكر بهذا وأنا حي .
كنت أعيش وسط ضوء بين زمنين مظلمين .
لعلّهم اعتادوا . ما أسوأ هذا !
لإن الإنسان وهو ميّت يشعر بإن الحياة التي تركها خلفه تسير كما تركها , وكما كانت في الماضي.
الموت ليس نهاية كل شيء , وهذا مؤكد , ولكنه مؤلم إلى حدّ لا يمكن تصوّره , وتحمّل هذا الألم غير المحدود صعب إلى حدّ أن جزءاً من عقلي يرى مخرجه الوحيد نسيان هذا الأمر والإندفاع بقوة نحو نوم هانئ .
Orhan Pamukشعرت بدفء في داخلي و أنا أعمل , كما شعرت أنني من عباد الله الصالحين . ثمّ دعوت إلى الله مطوّلاً لكي لا يحرمني شعور الصلاح هذا .
Orhan PamukI amused myself with mental games in which I changed the focus, deceived myself, forgot altogether what had been troubling me or wrapped in a mysterious haze.
We might call this confused, hazy state melancholy, or perhaps we should call it by its Turkish name, hüzün, which denotes a melancholy that is communal rather than private. Offering no clarity; veiling reality instead, hüzün brings us comfort, softening the view like the condensation on a window when a tea kettle has been spouting steam on winters day. Steamed-up windows make me feel hüzün, and I still love getting up and walking over to those windows to trace words on them with my finger. As I trace out words and figures on the steamy window, the hüzün inside me dissipates, and I can relax; after I have done all my writing and drawings, I can erase it all with the back of my hand and look outside. But the view itself can bring its own hüzün. The time has come to move towards a better understanding of this feeling that the city of Istanbul carries as its fate.
And before long, the music, the views rushing past the window, my fathers voice and the narrow cobblestone streets all merged into one, and it seemed to me that while we would never find answers to these fundamental questions, it was good for us to ask them anyway.
Orhan PamukTags: questioning
My prolonged study of these photographs led me to appreciate the importance of preserving certain moments for prosperity, and as time moved forwards I also came to see what a powerful influence these framed scenes exerted over us as we went about our daily lives.
To watch my uncle pose my brother a maths problem, and at the same time to see him in a picture taken thirty-two years earlier; to watch my father scanning the newspaper and trying, with a half-smile, to catch the tail of a joke rippling across the crowded room, and at that very same moment to see a picture of him to me that my grandmother had framed and frozen these memories so that we could weave them into the present.When, in the tones ordinarily preserved for discussing the founding of a nation, my grandmother spoke of my grandfather who had died so young, and pointed at the frames on the tables and the walls, it seemed that she, like me, was pulled in two direction , wanting to get on with life but also longing to capture the moment of perfection, savouring the ordinary life but still honouring the ideal. But even as I pondered these dilemmas-if you plucked a special moment from life and framed it, were you defying death, decay and the passage of time, or were you submitting to them? - I grew very bored with them.
Tags: memories
After a time, my hand had become as skilled as my eyes. So if I was drawing a very fine tree, it felt as if my hand was moving without me directly it. As I watched the pencil race across the page, I would look on it in amazement, as if the drawing were the proof of another presence, as if someone else had taken up residence in my body. As I marveled at his work aspiring to become his equal, another part of my brain was busy inspecting the curves of the branches, the placement of mountains, the composition as a whole, reflecting that I had created this scene on a blank piece of paper. My mind was at the tip of my pen, acting before I could think; at the same time it could survey what I had already done. This second line of perception, this ability to analyse my progress, was the pleasure this small artist felt when he looked at the discovery of his courage and freedom. To step outside myself , to know the second person who had taken up residence inside me, was to retrace the dividing line that appeared as my pencil slipped across the paper, like a boy sledding in the snow.
Orhan PamukTags: drawing
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