Alti cizilmis pasajlar

Tuesday, December 2, 2008 | |

Sunu farkettim ki, bu aralar yazamiyorum. Yazamadigimda sinirleniyorum, sinirlendikce bir seyleri etrafa firlatma, sacma istegim nuksediyor. Odam ise alti cizilmis kitaplarla dolu. Paylasmak istedigim, sesli olarak okumak istedigim, alti cizilmis cumlecikler, pasajlar... Durum boyle olunca ben de dedim ki, 'madem bu aralar yazamiyorum, o zaman ben de biriktirdigim, icimde tuttugum alti cizilmis cumleleri yazayim buraya.' Hem kelimeleri yazdikca, belki tekrardan elim de alisir ve bu yaz-a-mama halini, birleserek anlamli olmus kelimelerle doldururum.

" Estha had always been a quiet child, so no one could pinpoint with any degree of accuracy exactly when (the year, if not the month or day) he had stopped talking. Stopped talking altogether, that is. The fact is that there wasn't an "exact when." It had been a gradual winding down and closing shop. A barely noticeable quietening. As though he had simply run out of conversation and had nothing left to say. Yet Estha's silence was never awkward. Never intrusive. Never noisy. It wasn't an accusing, protesting silence as much as a sort of estivation, a dormancy, the psychological equivalent of what lungfish do to get themselves through the dry season, except that in Estha's case the dry season looked as though it would last forever.


Once the quietness arrived, it stayed and spread in Estha. It reached out of his head and enfolded him in its swampy arms. It rocked him to the rhythm of an ancient, fetal heartbeat. It sent its stealthy, suckered tentacles inching along the insides of his skull, hoovering the knolls and dells of his memory, dislodging old sentences, whisking them off the tip of his tongue. It stripped his thoughts of the words that described them and left them pared and naked. Unspeakable. Numb. And to an observer therefore, perhaps, barely there. Slowly, over the years. Eshta withdrew from the world. He grew accustomed to the uneasy octopus that lived inside him and squirted its inky tranquilizer on his past. Gradually the reason for his silence was hidden away, entombed somewhere deep in the soothing folds of the fact of it.


It had been quiet in Eshta's head until Rahel came. But with her she had brought the sound of passing traines, and the light and shade and light and shade that falls on you if you have a window seat. The world, locked out for years, suddenly flooded in, and now Estha couldn't hear himself for the noise. Trains. Traffic. Music. The stock market. A dam had burst and savage waters swept everything up in a swirling. Comets, violins, parades, loneliness, clouds, beards, bigots, lists, flags, earthquakes, despair were all swept up in a scrambled swirling."

-Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things



verbumnonfacta said...

altı çizili satırları eğer birine söyleyemiyorsanız, en azından vaktin gece yarıları civarında dolandığı zamanlarda odanızda ayakta yüksek insalık idealleri için söylevler veren adamlar gibi yüksek sesle okumalısınız onları.
kendiniz için...

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