My Diary Has Its Own Kind Of

Time Had Not Faded My Memories (as I Had Prayed To God It Might), Nor Had It Healed My Wounds As It Is Said Always To Do. I Began Each Day With The Hope That The Next Day Would Be Better, My Recollections A Little Less Pointed, But I Would Awake To The Same Pain, As If A Black Lamp Were Burning Eternally Inside Me, Radiating Darkness.

It's Very Gratifying To Me To See My Works Bringing People Closer To My Country.

Censorship Should Never Be Allowed. One Should Be Able To Say Anything. But I Refuse To Let Politics Be Foisted On Me.

It Is Not My Intention To Explain Turkey, Its Culture And Its Problems. My Literature Has A Universal Concern: I Want To Bring People And Their Emotions Closer To My Readers, Not Explain Turkish Politics.

How Much Can We Ever Know About The Love And Pain In Another's Heart? How Much Can We Hope To Understand Those Who Have Suffered Deeper Anguish, Greater Deprivation, And More Crushing Disappointments Than We Ourselves Have Known? Even If The World's Rich And Powerful Were To Put Themselves In The Shoes Of The Rest, How Much Would They Really Understand The Wretched Millions Suffering Around Them? So It Is When Orhan The Novelist Peers Into The Dark Corners Of His Poet Friend's Difficult And Painful Life: How Much Can He Really See?