An Essay of Love

From AN ESSAY OF LOVE

 

 

ONE

Some regret the past, some say the past is an experience; some never mention a word about the past, some live only in the past

What is the past but a period of time in which we reach today and the process called life... And our life is full of choices and coincidences. Isn’t it a choice, a coincidence that shapes our identity?...

Sometimes both of them.

 

No matter how much you have tried for years, you have been unable to find the true love you were looking for. Your choices and coincidences have carried you away from it. How touching and how sad... Just when you strongly believe you will never be1 able to find it and have grown used to sorrow, you see a woman among thousands of people and thousands of noises.        

You instinctively feel that in her you will find true love. In no time           –what’s time anyway– you are head over heels in love and sure that happiness is in her. You gather up the world’s greatest courage, feeling like a knight in the Middle Ages - you have always been a Don Quixote - you approach her and ask her name. What thrilling, unforgettable and breathtaking moments they are...

The beautifil lady, that brunette, turns around and tells her name: You have either misunderstood or have heard that it was “Love”.

Her name is love. What a beautiful word: love. What a coincidence...

You cannot believe your ears. She is going to the East and will call you when she returns. She, also, has instinctively chosen you.

Do not look for the answers to questions, let love be the only thing you look for. Choose to look for love; let coincidences govern your life.

 

Love: What a magical word!...

 

 

FOUR

I even turn to birds for help. No trace of you anywhere f Inside I am covered with a film of sorrow. Here I am: a silly romantic.

I spent years looking for my free personality. I have not found it yet. I have always looked for someone I can fall madly in love with, and ardently desire. I have looked for her although I knew that finding her would mean utter confusion. I have looked for that passion and I believe everything will change if I find it. Only then can I talk about true –how frequently I am using this word – yes, true love.

 

Oh, how I would like to stroke her hair! To catch her lips, get caught in her eyes and hold her tiny hands. On a dark night with a melody playing in the background, I would like to feel her body next to mine and lay my head on her lap and talk for hours. If only I could hear her say to me “I love you.”

 

Today the city was without you again. Your absence is so obvious that the city and I are both sad lovers. The city is all in darkness. Another day gone makes me sad in fact. Yet I rejoice instead. I am a day closer to that day when I am going to see you. Mine is a joyful sorrow.

We never could get rid of sorrow anyway... Every joy, every happiness we shared went hand-in-hand with sorrow. We have always lived the sorrow and the autumn.

We Have Always Lived the Autumn: This will be the title of one of my

books. An autobiographical essay about myself and the city. We have been living the autumn, the city and I.

It’s autumn now, isn’t it? You are not here; the city and I are sad and calm...

 

“Writing is salvation” and I am going to write a book whose title will be We Have Always Lived the Autumn. I will tell about the sorrows of the city, and all its streets. The more I write, the freer I will become. All its buildings, all its dead-ends, all its castles and all its coasts I will write about. And I will write about prisons and passionate people. All this will continue for pages. And in a little section I will write about myself. Quite humbly. I will write about my friendships; I will write about love but not about my loves: My loves have always been my secrets.

I will tell about the rainy days on which I wandered in the streets of the city, and the free personality I am looking for. A khaki color will be dominant in my book and the adventures of lovers in Emirgan or Saraybur- nu, too.

Love: What a magical word. My loves are a magnificent poem. But I am a master of prose, I will write about the city and a little about myself: We Have Always Lived the Autumn. When tomorrow comes - every new day is a tomorrow in fact - I will get up early in the morning, with the first rays of the sun.

I will get those pens of mipe that I have never used, the newest, the freshest pens of mine and my pute white sheets of paper and take my place before my desk.

 

The books I have written, I must make fair copies of them myself. I must write love on an old-fashioned typewriter, yet on pure white sheets of paper. I am a writer of love. Each and every moment of my life I look for sorrow and I look for that old man who said “There is no happy love,” and that beautiful woman.        

 

Translated by Mine Güven, The Turkish Pen, September 1994, Vo.II, No.7.

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