By Pamuk, Orhan & Freely, Ureen [Pamuk, Orhan]
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Extra resources for Other Colors
I don’t know who was in the right. Perhaps by then I too was longing to escape. But still I loved it when he put on his tape of Brahms’s First Symphony, passionately conducting an imaginary orchestra with his imaginary baton. It would annoy me when, after a lifetime of seeking pleasure and running away from trouble, he would lament the fact that self-indulgence offered no meaning beyond itself and seek to blame others. ” There were other times when I was troubled by my failure to be as happy, comfortable, carefree, and handsome as he was.
It’s raining. It’s as if that seagull standing there is thinking, I know, I know, it’s raining; but there’s not much I can do about that. Or: Yes, it’s raining, but what importance does that have? Or maybe something like this: By now I’ve accustomed myself to rain; it doesn’t make much of a difference. I’m not saying they’re very tough, these seagulls. I watch them through the window, I watch them when I’m trying to write, when I’m pacing up and down the room; even seagulls can get panicky about things beyond their own lives.
Though my imagination is still conjuring up beautiful images, even these pass quickly in the film in my head. Time passes. There’s nothing. It’s already nighttime. Doom and defeat. What’s for supper? The lamp atop the table is lit; next to it sits a bowl of salad and bread, all in the same basket; the tablecloth is checkered. … A plate and beans. I imagine the beans, but it’s not enough. On the table, the same lamp is still burning. Maybe a bit of yogurt? Maybe a bit of life? What’s on television?