I Was At The End Of My

...the Endless Repetition Of An Ordinary Miracle.

What Is Love?” “i Don’t Know.” “love Is The Name Given To The Bond Kemal Feels With Füsun Whenever They Travel Along Highways Or Sidewalks; Visit Houses, Gardens, Or Rooms; Or Whenever He Watches Her Sitting In Tea Gardens And Restaurants, And At Dinner Tables.” “hmmm … That’s A Lovely Answer,~ But Isn’t Love What You Feel When You Can’t See Me?” “under Those Circumstances, It Becomes A Terrible Obsession, An Illness.

To Savour Istanbul's Back Streets, To Appreciate The Vines And Trees That Endow Its Ruins With Accidental Grace, You Must, First And Foremost, Be A Stranger To Them.

Most Of The Time It's Not The Europeans Who Belittle Us. What Happens When We Look At Them Is That We Belittle Ourselves. When We Undertake The Pilgrimage, It's Not Just To Escape The Tyranny At Home But Also To Reach To The Depths Of Our Souls. The Day Arrives When The Guilty Must Return To Save Those Who Could Not Find The Courage To Leave.

[n]othing Is As Surprising As Life. Except For Writing. Except For Writing. Yes, Of Course, Except For Writing, The Only Consolation.