Populer romanlarin Amerikali yazari Harold Robbins’in olum yildonumu (14 Ekim 1997)
Firtinanin sekizinci gunuydu. O gune kadar, boylesine siddetli bir firtinaya rastlanmamisti. Kervandakilerin hepsi daha kucucukken dinledikleri deveci ihtiyar Mustafa'nin anilari arasinda bile boyle bir firtinayi duymamislardi. Mustafa kefiyesiyle yuzunu iyice orterek kervanbasi Fuat'in cadirina dogru zorlukla ilerlemeye calisti. Yolunu kaybedip de ucsuz bucaksiz colun ortasinda kalmamak icin, ara sira duraklayip ortuyu aralayarak cevresine bakmiyordu. Her durusunda da o minicik kum taneleri birer igne gibi yuzune saplaniyordu. Yasli adam, cadira girmeden once durdu, genzine dolan kum tanelerinden kurtulmak icin kendini zorlayarak, tukurmeye calisti. Ama agzi islanmamisti bile, sadece kumun puturlu kurulugunu hissediyordu. Fuat, titrek aleviyle karanlikta golgeler olusturan yag kandilinin durdugu masanin yanindaki koltugundan deve surucusune sessizce bakti. Dev gibi bir adamdi; konusmaktan da pek hoslanmazdi.”
“It was the eighth day of the storm. There had never been a storm like this one before. Not even in the memory of old Mustapha, the camel keeper, who was himself an old man when all the others in the caravan were boys.Holding his ghutra close to his face, he made his way laboriously toward the tent of Fouad, the caravan master, pausing every few moments to peer through the narrow cloth slits, to make sure he did not lose his bearings and wander away from the tiny shelter of the oasis out into the ripping, swirling sand of the open desert. Each time he stopped, the grains of sand tore into his face like so many shotgun pellets. He hawked and summoned up his spit to clear his throat before he entered the small tent. But there was no moisture, only the grainy dryness of the sand. Fouad looked up at the camel keeper from his chair next to the small table on which the oil lamp flickered, lending only shadows in the darkness. He did not speak. A giant of a man, he was not much given to words.”

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