TUZLU SU SALTWATER
14B_Catalogue
14B_Catalogue
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174 Bilge Karasu<br />
Antoloji / Anthology<br />
175<br />
için, kısırlığı baştan kabul ettiğini unutmamalı...<br />
Avuçları daha çok kanamasın diye kürekleri, yola çıktığından bu yana kaçıncı kez –ne<br />
olacak, kaçıncı kez diye saymak, kaçıncı kez diye düşünmek neye yarar, ne çıkar böyle sayımlardan,<br />
bu da artık önemsiz; hiç değilse sayı saymasını unutmalı bir zaman– bırakıyor<br />
elinden. Ellerini suya batırıyor. Avuçları, sanki başkasının avuçları, kendinin değil; sızlıyor.<br />
Cızırdıyor gibi, kızgın yağ dolu bir tavaya su sıçramışçasına cızırdar gibi...<br />
Bu da bitecek zaten. Artık kürek kullanmak da yok. Taş taşımak var belki birkaç günlüğüne yahut<br />
saatliğine. Onu da bilmiyor.<br />
Oysa bir şeyler kurmak için inanmalı insan. Her şeyden önce, inanmalı...<br />
Island (1970)<br />
Seçen Hera Büyüktaşçıyan<br />
He turns to look ahead. He must be getting close to the island, since the dark imposing mass of<br />
its rocky peak has grown more distinct in the advancing dawn. His exhausted arms pull the oars<br />
with the numbed ease of a body that has grown indifferent to thought or will. He can hardly hear<br />
sounds. The oars plunge into the water, withdraw, plunge again; the sea tears open, yielding to<br />
the boat, mends itself in the morning calm.<br />
He turns to look again. The island, getting larger as he approaches, appears to shrink in the glow<br />
of the sun rising from behind it. The first rays are about to touch the surface of the sea. A soft<br />
breeze makes Andronikos shiver, carrying the whisper, the scent of pine needles from the island.<br />
It has been a very long time since he experienced a new scent, different from everyday scents<br />
or even last night’s smell of fish, seaweed, salt... Still, Andronikos has no time to enjoy such distractions,<br />
though his soul craves them. He knows it shouldn’t but can’t say why. An indistinct<br />
grin settles on his lips, which would have been considered a smile of sorts in the monastery, in<br />
Byzantium. Once upon a time, when he used to belong to a community, more precisely, until<br />
yesterday — when he finally realised that he had made himself believe all along, that he had deceived<br />
himself into thinking that he believed he belonged to a community. No, it wasn’t yesterday<br />
but the day before. Morning is breaking; yesterday is already more than a day ago.<br />
From now on, he’ll have time. Abundant time. To die, to live, to experience new things... In fact, so<br />
much time that it will have no intrinsic meaning or value. How best to use this time? He ought to<br />
do something. Perhaps create something. Yet to create, to find the strength to create something…<br />
Andronikos laughs. He still can’t resist the seduction of such nonsense, such absurd reasoning.<br />
This deceptive, good for nothing, impotent...<br />
No, not impotent. Such reasoning shouldn’t even be called impotent. He shouldn’t forget that he accepted<br />
impotence from the start. So that he could use the word ‘love’ often, freely, with dizzying abandon,<br />
until he made believers of others, made them nauseous with his play on words, until he convinced<br />
himself, too, that love is the mainmast of the universe, he accepted impotence from the start…<br />
He releases the oars to keep his palms from bleeding too much. How often he has had to release<br />
them since the start of his journey, he’s lost count. (Why even count? He should stop counting<br />
at least for now.) He plunges his hands into the water. He can hardly feel his battered palms, as<br />
though they’re not his, except for their pain, a sharp, hissing pain — like water spilled in scalding oil.<br />
This, too, will pass, he thinks, this exertion at the oars. Soon he’ll have to carry stones. For the<br />
next few days or just hours perhaps. He doesn’t know.<br />
Yet to create something, one must first believe. Above all else, believe...<br />
Selected by Hera Büyüktaşçıyan Translated by Aron Aji & Fred Stark<br />
R. D. Laing<br />
Düğümler (1970)<br />
Her şey her şeyde<br />
Her insan tüm insanlarda<br />
Herkes her insanda<br />
Her varlıkta tüm varlık<br />
Hepsi her birinde<br />
Her biri hepsinde<br />
Zihindir tüm ayırımlar – zihince, zihinde, zihnin<br />
Ayırım yoksa yok demek ayıracak zihin<br />
İçtedir bir<br />
Knots (1970)<br />
All in all<br />
Each man in all men<br />
all men in each man<br />
All being in each being<br />
All in each<br />
Each in all<br />
All distinctions are mind, by mind, in mind, of mind<br />
No distinctions no mind to distinguish<br />
One is inside<br />
Rainer Werner Fassbinder<br />
Yaşamın Taklit Edilişi:<br />
Douglas Sirk Filmleri Hakkında (1971)<br />
Çeviren Tarık Günersel<br />
Aşk Rüzgârları’ndaki [Written on the Wind] Rock Hudson, gerçekten dünyanın en inatçı domuzu.<br />
Dorothy Malone’un içindeki özlemi az da olsa mutlaka seziyordur. Kadın kendini ona<br />
sunar; durumu anlasın diye az çok ona benzeyen tiplerle alenen iş tutar. Rock’ın tek söyleyebildiği<br />
ise “Seni asla memnun edemem”. Tanrı biliyor ki, memnun edebilir. Dorothy odasında<br />
bir ölünün dansını ederken –bu belki de deliliğin başlangıcıdır– babası ölür. Ölür, çünkü<br />
suçludur. Çocuklarına sürekli diğerinin, yani Rock’ın onlardan daha iyi olduğunu hatırlatıp<br />
durmuştur; ta ki gerçekten de öyle olana kadar. Çünkü hiçbir zaman istediği şeyi yapamamış<br />
olan babanın gözünde, Rock’ın –hiç para kazanmamış ve ne zaman isterse ava çıkabilen– babası<br />
her zaman daha iyi olandı. Çocuklar, zavallı enayilerdir. Baba muhtemelen hatasını anlar<br />
ve suçluluktan nalları diker. İzleyici her halükarda anlamıştır. Ölümü korkunç falan değildir.
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