Hatice Tunç
@haticetunc
Edebiyat burada bize yardım edemez.
Şu anda okuduğu kitap
Only the living seem incoherent. Death closes the series of events that constitutes their lives. So we resign ourselves to finding a meaning for them. To refuse them this would amount to accepting that a life, and thus life itself, is absurd. Yours had not yet attained the coherence of things done. Your death gave it this coherence.
Hangi tür kitapları seviyorsun?
🔎 Polisiye
💕 Romantik
🚀 Bilim Kurgu
🏰 Fantastik
📖 Klasik
🧠 Kişisel Gelişim
🏛️ Tarih
😱 Gerilim
You never read Neruda’s Residence on Earth, for fear that the poems in that collection wouldn’t live up to their title. Being unknown, they were more real to you than they would have been if they had disappointed upon reading.
You did not fear death. You stepped in its path, but without really desiring it: how can one desire something one doesn’t know? You didn’t deny life but affirmed your taste for the unknown, betting that if something existed on the other side, it would be better than here.
You couldn’t have been said to dance, exactly. Despite the music sounding around you, bodies being carried away by the whirling bass, it didn’t get inside you. You used to trace out the steps, but you were mimicking dancing, rather than doing it. You would dance alone. When a look crossed yours, you’d smile like someone caught off guard in an absurd situation.
In your hand, a cigarette was a piece of art. Did you like to smoke, or to be seen smoking? You used to blow perfect smoke rings, thick and dense. They would travel for two meters before wrapping themselves around an object and dissolving on it. I remember their trajectory at night against the light of a lamp.