The Crow(s)

"Ama daha sonra fark ettigim gibi bu goruntuler, aldigim hazzin ve mutlulugun nedeni degil, kiskirtici birer resmiydi yalnizca... Yillar sonra, ona neden bu kadar cok asik oldugumu anlamaya calisirken, yalniz sevismelerimizi degil, sevistigimiz odayi, cevreyi, siradan seyleri de hatilamaya calisirdim. Bazan arka bahcedeki iri kargalardan biri balkonun demirlerine konar, sessizce bizi seyrederdi. Cocuklugumda bizim balkonuna da konan kargalarin aynisyidi. Cocuklugumda annem "Hadi uyu, bak karga seni seyrediyor," der, bu da beni korkuturdu. Fusun'un da boyle korktugu bir karga varmis."

"Ask, Cesaret, Modernlik" - Masumuyet Muzesi, Orhan Pamuk

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"The Boy Named Crow: Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about.”

"Together you walk along the beach back to the library. You turn off the light in your room, draw the curtains, and without another word climb into bed and make love. Preety much the same sort of lovemaking as the night before. But with two differences. After sex, she starts to cry. That's one. She buries her face in the pillow and silently weeps. You don't know what to do. You gently lay a hand on her bare shoulder. You know you should say somtehing, but don't have any idea what. Words have all died in the hollow of time, piling up soundlessly at the dark bottom of a volcanic lake. And this time as she leaves you can hear the engine of her car. That's number two. She starts the engine, turn it off for a time, like she's thinking about something, then turns the key again and drives out of the parking lot. That blank, silent interval between leaves you sad, so terribly sad. Like fog from the sea, that blankness wends its way into your hearth and remains there for a long, long time. Finally it is a part of you.

She leaves behind a damp pillow, wet with her tears. You touch the warmth with your hand and watch the sky outside gradually lighten. Far away a crow caws. The Earth slowly keeps on turning. But beyond of any of those details of the real, there are dreams. And everyone's living in them."

"Nobody's going to help me. At least no one has up till now. So I have to make it on  my own. I have to get stronger - like a stay crow. That's why I gave myself the name Kafka. That's what Kafka means in Czech, you know-crow."

Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami

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"Winter.

Here is what I do on the first day of snowfall every year: I step out of the house early in the morning, still in my pajamas, hugging my arms against the chill. I find the driveway, my father's car, the walls, the threes, the rooftops, and the hills buried under a foot of snow. I smile. The sky is seamless, the snow so white my eyes burn. I shovel a handful of the fresh snow into mouth, listen to the muffled stillness broken only by the cawing of crows. I walk down the front steps, barefoot, and call for Hassa to come out and see."

From "The Kitten Runner", Khaled Hosseini

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Cok eski bir tisort baskisinda olan karga resmi