It has been years, and this is still full of awesomeness. especially at this moment in time, it is more true than ever.
"So let me change the mood with a few sweet words that will, I hope, serve as well as that music. The question we writers are asked most often, the favorite question, is: Why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write. I write because I can’t do normal work as other people do. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can partake of real life only by changing it. I write because I want others, the whole world, to know what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, in Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all life’s beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but—as in a dream—can’t quite get to. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy. "
- from "My Father's Suitcase" by Orhan Pamuk
and to my own parents who have managed to make a living hell out of the precious time that really should be one's most relaxed and happy, which one really may not have another chance of in a lifetime.
thank you for being so destructive.
yet i fully understand why you come to such thoughts and actions, and could not help pitying you.
i only have my pen... not an impressive one... but i only have my pen.
My Father's Suitcase
Posted by
YN
Thursday, December 15, 2011
4 comments:
都不知道說什麼了8:[
總覺得父母那代,被毒害太多,常不通人情、待兒女更少世故。
真心希望能有個懂你能保護你的男孩在你身邊,和你說心裡話。
坦白說過去跟你聊時總覺得你很“克己”(無奈笑),稍微說兩句,你就會表示“我好多了”或者“這些話對我很有用”之類的,但同時我又理解好多事不能隨便對人說得太透徹,那樣會叫自己不知道自己是誰。
擁抱。
抱住,抱住~
ironically...父母也真心希望我有美满人生,though... according to their rules and standards only.
倘若不想决裂,一点办法也没有。
另外我说话时真的有那么为他人着想吗?~心~XD
下次同你别处再聊。
Hold onto that 'pen'. Create a life, many lives. Keep writing!! ah ... parents... they are who they are due to their circumstances. You will be a great liberal parent one day! TIFF
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