Cek yazar Bohumil Hrabal'in olum yildonumu ( 3 Subat 1997 )
" Zira ben okurken, gercek anlamda okumam, agzima guzel bir cumleyi alir, bonbon gibi emerim, kucuk bir kadeh likor gibi yudumlarim, ta ki dusunce icimde alkol gibi eriyip dagilana kadar; sadece beynime, yuregime nufuz etmekle kalmaz, damarlarimin koklerine, kilcal damarlarin kokcuklerine kadar isler. " Gurultulu Yalnizlik
" Kilometrelerce okunacak seyle yuklu tavanligin altinda sarhos, sirtustu uzanmis yatarken bazi seyleri, son derece nahos bazi seyleri dusunmeye korkarim, ornegin, ceketinin ters cevrilmis kolunda bir gelincik yakalayan ve tavuklari yaraladi diye adil bir sekilde oldurmeyip de hayvanin kafasina bir civi cakarak serbest birakan su korucuyu dusunmemeye calisirim. Hayvan avluda olene kadar uluyarak kosmus... Bir yil sonra korucunun oglu bir beton karma makinasini onarmaya calisirken elektrik carpmasindan olmus. Dun birdenbire kursun harcamak konusunda cimri davranan ormancinin, rastgeldigi butun kirpileri sivri bir kaziga gecirerek oldurdugunu hatirladim, ta ki gunun birinde karaciger kanserine yakalanana kadar; adam uc ayda oldu, karninda bir tumor ve beyninde dehsetle. Kitaplarin bana karsi komplo kurdugunu isittigimi sandigim zaman, bu tur dusunceler panige surukluyor beni, oyle dengemi bozuyor ki bu durum, pencerenin yaninda bir sandalyede uyumayi tercih ediyorum, once beni sivrisinek gibi ezip sonra da, tipki kafesli bir asansor gibi, yeri delerek mahzene kadar giden kitaplarin goruntusunden dehsete dusuyorum. insanin yazgisindan kacamadigini goruyorum: mahzende is ustundeyken kafama kitaplar, siseler, hokkalar, zimbalar yagar tavandaki acikliktan, evimde de her aksam kitaplar dusup oldurecek gibi olur beni, ya da en iyisinden agir yaralanmaktan kil payi kurtulurum. Tuvaletin ve odamin tavanina astigim o damokles'in kilici yuzunden cikip bira almak zorunda kalirim, o berbat sona karsi tek kalkanimdir bira... "
" I lie on my back half drunk under a canopy of miles and miles of texts, trying hard not to remember, but then I'll think of the time the local forester caught a marten in an inside-out sleeve lining and, instead of killing it, justly, for having gobbled up some chickens, he took a nail, hammered it into its head, and then let it go darting and howling around the yard until it died. And then I'll remember how a year later the forester's son was killed by a live wire while repairing a cement mixer. Just yesterday the figure of the forester came back to me, out of the blue, under my canopy, and I remembered him sharpening a stick each time he came across a hedgehog curled up in a ball and sinking that sharp stick into the hedgehog's stomach—he was too cheap to waste a bullet— until one day he took to bed with cancer of the liver and in return for all those hedgehogs he spent three long months curled up in a ball, a tumor in his stomach and horror in his brain, before he died. Such are the thoughts that make me panic when I hear the books above me plotting their revenge, and I am so terrified by the prospect of having them flatten me and then crash through each floor all the way to the basement, like an elevator, that I prefer sleeping in my chair by the window. The way I look at it, my life fits together beautifully: at work I have books -- and bottles and inkwells and staplers -- raining down on me through the opening in the cellar ceiling, and at home I have books above me constantly threatening to fall and kill or at least maim me. The swords of Damocles that I've hung from my bathroom and bedroom ceilings force me to make as many trips for beer at home as at work.... "
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Originally Posted by Koray
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