My Fathers Suitcase highlighted.docx

My Fathers Suitcase highlighted.docx

《My Fathers Suitcase highlighted.docx》由会员分享，可在线阅读，更多相关《My Fathers Suitcase highlighted.docx（13页珍藏版）》请在冰豆网上搜索。

MyFathersSuitcasehighlighted

MyFather'sSuitcase

Twoyearsbeforehisdeath,myfathergavemeasmallsuitcasefilledwithhiswritings,manuscriptsandnotebooks.Assuminghisusualjoking,mockingair,hetoldmehewantedmetoreadthemafterhewasgone,bywhichhemeantafterhedied.

'Justtakealook,'hesaid,lookingslightlyembarrassed.'Seeifthere'sanythinginsidethatyoucanuse.MaybeafterI'mgoneyoucanmakeaselectionandpublishit.'

Wewereinmystudy,surroundedbybooks.Myfatherwassearchingforaplacetosetdownthesuitcase,wanderingbackandforthlikeamanwhowishedtoridhimselfofapainfulburden. Intheend,hedepositeditquietlyinanunobtrusivecorner.Itwasashamingmomentthatneitherofuseverforgot,butonceithadpassedandwehadgonebackintoourusualroles,takinglifelightly,ourjoking,mockingpersonas（acharacterassumingbyanauthorinawrittenbook）tookoverandwerelaxed.Wetalkedaswealwaysdid,aboutthetrivialthingsofeverydaylife,andTurkey'sneverendingpoliticaltroubles,andmyfather'smostlyfailedbusinessventures,withoutfeelingtoomuchsorrow.

Irememberthataftermyfatherleft,Ispentseveraldayswalkingbackandforthpastthesuitcasewithoutoncetouchingit.Iwasalreadyfamiliarwiththissmall,black,leathersuitcase,anditslock,anditsroundedcorners.Myfatherwouldtakeitwithhimonshorttripsandsometimesuseittocarrydocumentstowork.IrememberedthatwhenIwasachild,andmyfathercamehomefromatrip,Iwouldopenthislittlesuitcaseandrummagethroughhisthings,savouring（togiveaflavorof）thescentofcologneandforeigncountries.Thissuitcasewasafamiliarfriend,apowerfulreminderofmychildhood,mypast,butnowIcouldn'teventouchit.Why?

Nodoubtitwasbecauseofthemysteriousweightofitscontents.

Iamnowgoingtospeakofthisweight'smeaning.Itiswhatapersoncreateswhenheshutshimselfupinaroom,sitsdownatatable,andretirestoacornertoexpresshisthoughts–thatis,themeaningofliterature.

WhenIdidtouchmyfather'ssuitcase,Istillcouldnotbringmyselftoopenit,butIdidknowwhatwasinsidesomeofthosenotebooks.Ihadseenmyfatherwritingthingsinafewofthem.ThiswasnotthefirsttimeIhadheardoftheheavyloadinsidethesuitcase.Myfatherhadalargelibrary;inhisyouth,inthelate1940s,hehadwantedtobeanIstanbulpoet,andhadtranslatedValéryintoTurkish,buthehadnotwantedtolivethesortoflifethatcamewithwritingpoetryinapoorcountrywithfewreaders.Myfather'sfather–mygrandfather–hadbeenawealthybusinessman;myfatherhadledacomfortablelifeasachildandayoungman,andhehadnowishtoendurehardshipforthesakeofliterature,forwriting.Helovedlifewithallitsbeauties–thisIunderstood.

Thefirstthingthatkeptmedistantfromthecontentsofmyfather'ssuitcasewas,ofcourse,thefearthatImightnotlikewhatIread.Becausemyfatherknewthis,hehadtakentheprecautionofacting asifhedidnottakeitscontentsseriously.Afterworkingasawriterfor25years,itpainedmetoseethis.ButIdidnotevenwanttobeangryatmyfatherforfailingtotakeliteratureseriouslyenough...Myrealfear,thecrucialthingthatIdidnotwishtoknowordiscover,wasthepossibilitythatmyfathermightbeagoodwriter.Icouldn'topenmyfather'ssuitcasebecauseIfearedthis.Evenworse,Icouldn'tevenadmitthismyselfopenly.Iftrueandgreatliteratureemergedfrommyfather'ssuitcase,Iwouldhavetoacknowledgethatinsidemyfatherthereexistedanentirelydifferentman.Thiswasafrighteningpossibility.BecauseevenatmyadvancedageIwantedmyfathertobeonlymyfather–notawriter.

Awriterissomeonewhospendsyearspatientlytryingtodiscoverthesecondbeinginsidehim,andtheworldthatmakeshimwhoheis:

whenIspeakofwriting,whatcomesfirsttomymindisnotanovel,apoem,orliterarytradition,itisapersonwhoshutshimselfupinaroom,sitsdownatatable,andalone,turnsinward;amiditsshadows,hebuildsanewworldwithwords.Thisman–orthiswoman–mayuseatypewriter,profitfromtheeaseofacomputer,orwritewithapenonpaper,asIhavedonefor30years.Ashewrites,hecandrinkteaorcoffee,orsmokecigarettes.Fromtimetotimehemayrisefromhistabletolookoutthroughthewindowatthechildrenplayinginthestreet,and,ifheislucky,attreesandaview,orhecangazeoutatablackwall.Hecanwritepoems,plays,ornovels,asIdo.Allthesedifferencescomeafterthecrucialtaskofsittingdownatthetableandpatientlyturninginwards.Towriteistoturnthisinwardgazeintowords,tostudytheworldintowhichthatpersonpasseswhenheretiresintohimself,andtodosowithpatience,obstinacy,andjoy.AsIsitatmytable,fordays,months,years,slowlyaddingnewwordstotheemptypage,IfeelasifIamcreatinganewworld,asifIambringingintobeingthatotherpersoninsideme,inthesamewaysomeonemightbuildabridgeoradome,stonebystone.Thestoneswewritersusearewords.Asweholdtheminourhands,sensingthewaysinwhicheachofthemisconnectedtotheothers,lookingatthemsometimesfromafar,sometimesalmostcaressingthemwithourfingersandthetipsofourpens,weighingthem,movingthemaround,yearinandyearout,patientlyandhopefully,wecreatenewworlds.

Thewriter'ssecretisnotinspiration–foritisneverclearwhereitcomesfrom–itishisstubbornness,hispatience.ThatlovelyTurkishsaying–todigawellwithaneedle–seemstometohavebeensaidwithwritersinmind.Intheoldstories,IlovethepatienceofFerhat,whodigsthroughmountainsforhislove–andIunderstandit,too.Inmynovel,MyNameisRed,whenIwroteabouttheoldPersianminiaturistswhohaddrawnthesamehorsewiththesamepassionforsomanyyears,memorisingeachstroke,thattheycouldrecreatethatbeautifulhorseevenwiththeireyesclosed,IknewIwastalkingaboutthewritingprofession,andmyownlife.Ifawriteristotellhisownstory–tellitslowly,andasifitwereastoryaboutotherpeople–ifheistofeelthepowerofthestoryriseupinsidehim,ifheistositdownatatableandpatientlygivehimselfovertothisart–thiscraft–hemustfirsthavebeengivensomehope.Theangelofinspiration（whopaysregularvisitstosomeandrarelycallsonothers）favoursthehopefulandtheconfident,anditiswhenawriterfeelsmostlonely,whenhefeelsmostdoubtfulabouthisefforts,hisdreams,andthevalueofhiswriting–whenhethinkshisstoryisonlyhisstory–itisatsuchmomentsthattheangelchoosestorevealtohimstories,imagesanddreamsthatwilldrawouttheworldhewishestobuild.IfIthinkbackonthebookstowhichIhavedevotedmyentirelife,IammostsurprisedbythosemomentswhenIhavefeltasifthesentences,dreams,andpagesthathavemademesoecstaticallyhappyhavenotcomefrommyownimagination–thatanotherpowerhasfoundthemandgenerouslypresentedthemtome.

Iwasafraidofopeningmyfather'ssuitcaseandreadinghisnotebooksbecauseIknewthathewouldnottoleratethedifficultiesIhadendured,thatitwasnotsolitudehelovedbutmixingwithfriends,crowds,salons,jokes,company.Butlatermythoughtstookadifferentturn.Thesethoughts,thesedreamsofrenunciationandpatience,wereprejudicesIhadderivedfrommyownlifeandmyownexperienceasawriter.Therewereplentyofbrilliantwriterswhowrotesurroundedbycrowdsandfamilylife,intheglowofcompanyandhappychatter.Inaddition,myfatherhad,whenwewereyoung,tiredofthemonotonyoffamilylife,andleftustogotoParis,where–likesomanywriters–he'dsatinhishotelroomfillingnotebooks.Iknew,too,thatsomeofthoseverynotebookswereinthissuitcase,becauseduringtheyearsbeforehebroughtittome,myfatherhadfinallybeguntotalktomeaboutthatperiodinhislife.HespokeaboutthoseyearsevenwhenIwasachild,buthewouldnotmentionhisvulnerabilities,hisdreamsofbecomingawriter,orthequestionsofidentitythathadplaguedhiminhishotelroom.Hewouldtellmeinsteadaboutallthetimeshe'dseenSartreonthepavementsofParis,aboutthebookshe'dreadandthefilmshe'dseen,allwiththeelatedsincerityofsomeoneimpartingveryimportantnews.WhenIbecameawriter,IneverforgotthatitwaspartlythankstothefactthatIhadafatherwhowouldtalkofworldwriterssomuchmorethanhespokeofpashas（amanofhighrankoroffice）orgreatreligiousleaders.SoperhapsIhadtoreadmyfather'snotebookswiththisinmind,andrememberinghowindebtedIwastohislargelibrary.Ihadtobearinmindthatwhenhewaslivingwithus,myfather,likeme,enjoyedbeingalonewithhisbooksandhisthoughts–andnotpaytoomuchattentiontotheliteraryqualityofhiswriting.

ButasIgazedsoanxiouslyatthesuitcasemyfatherhadbequeathedme,IalsofeltthatthiswastheverythingIwouldnotbeabletodo.Myfatherwouldsometimesstretchoutonthedivan（咖啡馆，长沙发椅）infrontofhisbooks,abandonthebookinhishand,orthemagazineanddriftoffintoadream,losehimselfforthelongesttimeinhisthoughts.WhenIsawonhisfaceanexpressionsoverydifferentfromtheoneheworeamidthejoking,teasing,andbickeringoffamilylife–whenIsawthefirstsignsofaninwardgaze–Iwould,especiallyduringmychildhoodandmyearlyyouth,understand,withtrepidation,thathewasdiscontent.Now,somanyyearslater,Iknowthatthisdiscontentisthebasictraitthatturnsapersonintoawriter.Tobecomeawriter,patienceandt