Ingiliz roman yazari James Hilton’in olum yildonumu (20 Aralik 1954)
“Dudaklarda purolar bitmeye yuz tutmustu; yillar sonra bir araya gelip de birbirlerinden ne kadar uzaklasmis olduklarini anlayan butun eski okul arkadaslarinin duydugu hayal kirikligi bizim de icimize cokmeye basliyordu. Rutherford yazar olmustu; romanlar yaziyordu. Wyland, buyukelcilik sekreterlerinden biriydi. Biraz once Tempelhof’ta yedigimiz aksam yemegini bizlere o ismarlamisti. Bana kalirsa pek cani gonulden yapmasa bile diplomatlarin boyle durumlar icin hazir bulundurduklari kibarlik ve guler yuzle gelmisti bu isin ustesinden. Bir yabanci ulke baskentinde uc yalniz ve bekar Ingiliz erkegi olmamiz disinda hicbir sey bizi bir araya getiremezdi saniyorum. Wyland Tertius’un, okul gunlerinden aklimda kalan hafif ukala ve dar kafali kisiliginin sunca yildir hic duzelmemis oldugunun coktan farkina varmistim. Rutherford’u ise daha bir gozum tutmustu. Okul yillarinda kah zorbalikla hukmettigim, kah tepeden bakarak kanadimin altina aldigim o ustun zekali ve pisirik cocugu cok iyi asmis, cok gerilerde birakmayi basarmisti. Onun ikimizden de daha cok kazanip daha keyifli bir yasam surdugunu bilmek, o gece Wyland’la beni ortak bir histe bulusturdu: hafif bir kiskanclik!” Yitik Ufuklar
“Cigars had burned low, and we were beginning to sample the disillusionment that usually afflicts old school friends who have met again as men and found themselves with less in common than they had believed they had. Rutherford wrote novels; Wyland was one of the Embassy secretaries; he had just given us dinner at Tempelhof—not very cheerfully, I fancied, but with the equanimity which a diplomat must always keep on tap for such occasions. It seemed likely that nothing but the fact of being three celibate Englishmen in a foreign capital could have brought us together, and I had already reached the conclusion that the slight touch of priggishness which I remembered in Wyland Tertius had not diminished with years and an M.V.O. Rutherford I liked more; he had ripened well out of the skinny, precocious infant whom I had once alternately bullied and patronized. The probability that he was making much more money and having a more interesting life than either of us gave Wyland and me our one mutual emotion—a touch of envy.”
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