Hermes Kitap
"Writing is opposing the monosyllabic 'I'" There is Noone That Cannot Be Named / İlhan Berk

[Story]"Giving Up The Hearts" | Murat Gülsoy

Kupadan Vazgeçmek | Sinan Çakmak


I am sitting at a round table. There is a thick broadcloth on it. Similar to the ones on game tables, green. There are embroidered symbols on right and left sides: The Spade, The Club and The Diamond. But there is no Hearts! First of all, I keep walking around the table... Afterwards I become enlightened; the one who wins the gamble loses the love... The Hearts accordingly symbolize love... One should give up the game to win the love; they who made this broadcloth try to tell this, I say to myself... Then I am sitting at the table and I am opening my notebook to note down those that come to my mind. I begin to write... There is dark blue ink in the pen. Like always. Besides taking the note titled as “giving up the hearts”, I am thinking: Why am I not using black ink? The answer comes spontaneously: Black is not a colour, it means blankness. Letters written in black mean that they have never been written. Each letter becomes a peep-hole that opens to blankness, if we write in black... I should also write these thoughts of mine, I decide. At that moment, I raise my head and look at the roses in the middle of the table. They are dead! I am horrified. It cannot be that so much time has gone by, I murmur... I do not realize that I am in a dream, but I can feel something odd in the reality. It cuts to my heart that time goes by so fast. Opposite thoughts are running through my mind: I cannot realize how the time goes by while writing (This is so natural, because there is no time in writing). If it goes on like this, a little later I will also die by aging (There is not anything strange in this, everybody ages). But I will have lived nothing; I will just be dropping some lines, sitting at this table (Be it so, there will be some things remaining from you). But I have not written what I have intended to write yet; days go by while I am writing a page (But readers cannot know this). Do they read? Yes, some people should read what I write. I should put this notebook somewhere that it can be seen easily. Inside these thoughts, the ambiance becomes crowded. There is a humming noise around me. When I lift my head up, I see myself sitting at a very long table. Here is a hotel. We are at the restaurant part. There are white long tables. But there is nothing on them. They are empty. My father is sitting next to me. My uncles are there. My uncles who died for a long time ago. I am surprised seeing them. I am even horrified. I whisper in my father's ear: Look daddy! My uncles have arrived. My father pays no attention. But are they not dead, I say in a low voice. My father is smiling. I cannot be sure whether he can hear me. Everybody is cheerful. I think to myself: As my father is not surprised seeing my dead uncles, this should be his dream, not mine, if it were my dream I would also not be surprised and could not remember that they were dead. After that, saying that I should note these down, I put my hand in my pocket. The notebook is not there. I have lost it. This makes me so sorry at that moment. So sorry. While looking at blue stains of ink on my hands, I am moved and tears run down from my eyes. Alas, I say to myself, I should stop crying or my father will understand that my uncles are dead. But I am not crying for them… I am crying for my own dream, for losing my notebook and things that I wrote in it... I wish I had not given up the Hearts. That is why I wrote these lines to you, as soon as I woke up. Can you forgive me?

» You can read the story in Turkish from

Translation published on 23/12/2008
Translated by
Xece Sunar

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