Read Online Bliss: A Novel by O.Z. Livaneli - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: O.Z. Livaneli
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used to enjoy attending international conferences and seminars, but now he felt isolated at such meetings and withdrew to a secluded corner to watch the others. He would manage to carry on a conversation with Western academicians, but when the topic turned to the philosophies of the ancient Greeks or Romans, he would fall silent. He lacked a common background. It was no better with Arab intellectuals; he did not belong to the Eastern world either. The philosophical and scientific terminology of Latin, Greek, and Arabic were not internalized in his being. He was the victim of a shallow, groundless culture that mocked concepts that could not be expressed in single words or clichés.
İrfan thought he was, like most other Turkish intellectuals, a trapeze flyer, swinging between the Eastern and the Western cultures. He, like many others, suffered the vacuum that was created after an “Eastern” society of hundreds of years suddenly became “Western” in the twenties when the Arabic alphabet was abolished and replaced by the Latin alphabet. He was a trapeze artist who had let go of the fly bar of the East yet floated in the void, unable to land in the catch trap of the West.
İrfan’s nights were full of fear and weeping, and he felt he was losing control over the self he knew. He had to lose his identity, find a way to alter his destiny, and overcome the fear of death, a fear that had been sown in him and grew stronger day by day. He could not accomplish these things as long as his life revolved around that house, the coffin that symbolized his destiny, and his office at the university. İrfan could no longer play the role of either husband or professor. Like Sleeping Endymion, he would be obliged to determine his own fate, yet his destiny should not be one that resulted in an eternal sleep.
İrfan remembered his surprise upon reading that Dostoevsky had once approached his worst enemy, Turgenev, saying that he wanted to confess something to him. Turgenev was taken aback by this unexpected confidence.
“I once seduced a nine-year-old girl in a bathtub,” Dostoevsky declared, then turned to leave.
Astonished, Turgenev asked, “Why tell me this?”
“So you realize how much I despise you,” Dostoevsky replied, without looking back.
Only a courageous man could do that, and İrfan wished he could pay similar visits to his enemies, but he had no interesting stories or even lies to tell. His “successful life” was utterly insignificant. He was shit, and his friends were, too. The places he frequented were shit, as well. Istanbul itself was a rubbish heap, with its restaurants, its streets patrolled by wild dogs, its hills of refuse, those potential explosions of methane gas picked over by beggars and seagulls alike, its nightlife where children were exploited as prostitutes, and transvestites in high-heeled shoes held knives to the throats of taxi drivers. It was full of ignorance and filth. İrfan even felt that the waters of the Bosphorus, not just those of the Golden Horn, had begun to stink. And in the restaurants of these fetid areas, his alleged friends thought they had become members of the elite just because they paid hundreds of dollars for a bill that included carpaccio, pesto, sashimi, or other dishes with foreign names. He could bear neither his surroundings nor his life of imitation anymore, yet he had no idea how to communicate this, especially to his wife, whom, in fact, he loved sincerely.
He already knew Aysel’s response, “If you’re depressed, let’s go on holiday,” she would say, or, “We can find new places to eat.” A short, easy way of dealing with the problem. Nothing and no one was worth anything anymore.
Once again, İrfan remembered Hidayet, who had sailed off to see Cavafy’s city. When İrfan’s family had sent him to university in Istanbul, Hidayet’s refusal to follow the same path, putting out to sea instead, was now a precious memory.
“Why should I go to Istanbul and
İrfan thought he was, like most other Turkish intellectuals, a trapeze flyer, swinging between the Eastern and the Western cultures. He, like many others, suffered the vacuum that was created after an “Eastern” society of hundreds of years suddenly became “Western” in the twenties when the Arabic alphabet was abolished and replaced by the Latin alphabet. He was a trapeze artist who had let go of the fly bar of the East yet floated in the void, unable to land in the catch trap of the West.
İrfan’s nights were full of fear and weeping, and he felt he was losing control over the self he knew. He had to lose his identity, find a way to alter his destiny, and overcome the fear of death, a fear that had been sown in him and grew stronger day by day. He could not accomplish these things as long as his life revolved around that house, the coffin that symbolized his destiny, and his office at the university. İrfan could no longer play the role of either husband or professor. Like Sleeping Endymion, he would be obliged to determine his own fate, yet his destiny should not be one that resulted in an eternal sleep.
İrfan remembered his surprise upon reading that Dostoevsky had once approached his worst enemy, Turgenev, saying that he wanted to confess something to him. Turgenev was taken aback by this unexpected confidence.
“I once seduced a nine-year-old girl in a bathtub,” Dostoevsky declared, then turned to leave.
Astonished, Turgenev asked, “Why tell me this?”
“So you realize how much I despise you,” Dostoevsky replied, without looking back.
Only a courageous man could do that, and İrfan wished he could pay similar visits to his enemies, but he had no interesting stories or even lies to tell. His “successful life” was utterly insignificant. He was shit, and his friends were, too. The places he frequented were shit, as well. Istanbul itself was a rubbish heap, with its restaurants, its streets patrolled by wild dogs, its hills of refuse, those potential explosions of methane gas picked over by beggars and seagulls alike, its nightlife where children were exploited as prostitutes, and transvestites in high-heeled shoes held knives to the throats of taxi drivers. It was full of ignorance and filth. İrfan even felt that the waters of the Bosphorus, not just those of the Golden Horn, had begun to stink. And in the restaurants of these fetid areas, his alleged friends thought they had become members of the elite just because they paid hundreds of dollars for a bill that included carpaccio, pesto, sashimi, or other dishes with foreign names. He could bear neither his surroundings nor his life of imitation anymore, yet he had no idea how to communicate this, especially to his wife, whom, in fact, he loved sincerely.
He already knew Aysel’s response, “If you’re depressed, let’s go on holiday,” she would say, or, “We can find new places to eat.” A short, easy way of dealing with the problem. Nothing and no one was worth anything anymore.
Once again, İrfan remembered Hidayet, who had sailed off to see Cavafy’s city. When İrfan’s family had sent him to university in Istanbul, Hidayet’s refusal to follow the same path, putting out to sea instead, was now a precious memory.
“Why should I go to Istanbul and
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