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Elchin Safarli
When I'm without you... (collection)
I'll come back…
Novel
With gratitude to my mother, sisters Ramziye Dzhilgamli and Diana Zenyuk, as well as Masha Kushnir
In this book, the words “hope”, “faith”, “happiness” and their derivatives are used 678 times
– I heard you read a book, and what did you find in it?
- New life.
- Do you believe this?
– Listen to me, I, too, once believed the book. And I decided that I would find this world. (...) Believe me: in the end there is nothing but death...
- That world exists! (...)
- There’s nothing! These are all beautiful fairy tales! Think of it as something like a game that old idiot played with his kids. And then one day he decided to write the same book, but for adults. It is unlikely that he himself understands the meaning of what he wrote. It’s funny to read, but if you believe in it, your life is lost...
Orhan Pamuk. "New life"
...You look at me, look at me from close, closer and closer, we play Cyclops, look at each other, bringing our faces together, and the eyes grow, grow and get closer, screw into each other: the Cyclops look eye to eye, the breath is ragged, and our mouths meet, poke, bite each other's lips, slightly resting our tongues on our teeth and tickling each other with heavy, intermittent breathing, smelling of an ancient, familiar smell and silence. My hands search for your hair, plunge into its depths and caress it, and we kiss as if our mouths were full of flowers emitting a vague, dull aroma, or living, trembling fish. And if you happen to bite, then the pain is sweet, and if you happen to suffocate in a kiss, suddenly swallowing at the same time and taking the air away from each other, then this moment of death is beautiful. And we have one saliva for two, and one for two this taste of a ripe fruit, and I feel how you tremble in me, like the moon trembling in the night waters...
Julio Cortazar. "Game of Hopscotch"
...the course of events is not determined by me. Instead of controlling my characters, I let them live their own lives and express their opinions without interference. And I just listen and write down.
Paradise Bradbury
I wanted to write about everything, everything that was happening around me.
About your flowers when you bring them.
About this towel, about the smell; about how it feels to the touch.
About all our feelings - yours, mine...
About history: what we were like.
About everything in the world, about everything together, honey!
Because everything in life is mixed...
Film "The Clock"
Part I
About them
We have the right to fly where we want and be who we are created to be.
Richard Bach
1
...She squeezed tangerine juice for me and left. Forever. Under a glass of citrus juice there is a napkin damp around the edges. There are painful words on it in uneven handwriting. "I have left. Don't look for me." She left on the first day of summer. He didn't run to look for her. Didn't start calling her mobile. I didn’t smoke with nervous puffs. I took a glass of juice and brought it to my nose. He started sniffing. Had the tangerine scent taken over the violet scent of her skin? Wasn't it preserved on the glass of a tall glass? I need you. I want to leave too. For you or to you. Doesn't matter. The important thing is you...
...Women leave magical nights for men to say goodbye. Women's traces on men's hearts. The night before the separation, she kissed differently than usual. Her kisses froze on my body, like snowflakes on an icy window. For some reason it was getting cold. Now I understand. Farewell kisses lose their warmth. They contain the cooled tenderness of parting... On the last night she looked at me differently than usual. There is alienation in the gaze. Alienation in opposition to love. She understood that it was time for her, but in every possible way she delayed the hour of leaving. The struggle of soul and mind. Reason won. Gone. Now I understand. There is no melancholy in the look before separation. There is a silent protest in it. A protest against yourself. Feelings lose to reason. More often…
...I open the refrigerator. There is nothing in it except green apples. Large, juicy green, with a waxy skin. She remembered. Once he told her that in childhood he was cured of sadness by eating green apples. He hid in the thickets of his grandfather’s garden, devoured juicy apples, looked at the sky, and counted the passing planes. So the sadness was forgotten. She gradually disappeared, like airplanes disappearing in the sky... For the next week I ate apples from the refrigerator. Memories lived in each of them. He ate the memories, leaving them with him forever. No self-torture. I was sad, ate apples, and remembered. Somewhere in the depths of my soul, I childishly hoped that the day the apples in the refrigerator ran out, she would return. The apples are gone. She didn't return...
...Everything is born from small things. Our love was born from one unexpected touch. Queue at the currency exchange office. Evening bustle on Istiklal Caddesi 1
Independence Street in the center of Istanbul.
Fine spring rain, like powder. Fake songs from street musicians. An ice cream seller is inviting customers. Sleepy pigeons on the roof of a newsstand. Pistachio aroma of baklava 2
Turkish sweet pastries.
In the fresh air. She hits me with her bag and I drop my wallet. Kurushi 3
Turkish small change.
They rolled on the tiled floor. I say "sorry" in Turkish. She “oh, sorry for God’s sake” in Russian. At the same time we bend down to collect the coins. Touch. Her hands are cold. The first thing I noticed about her. Then he looked into her eyes. Green-blue. With sincere concern, enveloping tenderness. I wanted to kiss her on the lips. I couldn't resist. Kissed.
She was surprised, and I fell in love. “Let's have some ice cream...” He said the first thing that came to mind. She answered in Turkish. "Okie 4
"Can" (Turkish).
..." Then she slapped me in the face. “You are definitely a ginger chocolate ice cream lover...” She laughed, but I didn’t apologize...
...True love is woven from contradictions. Stitched with threads of different characters, tastes, aspirations. Our love settled between heaven and earth. The sky, airy and windy, she was. The earth, stably grounded, was me. Love between us... I am a Muslim, she is Orthodox. I love blueberry pie, she loves cherry pie. I find myself in autumn, she comprehends harmony in summer. I believe in the fleeting nature of happiness, she believes in the possibility of its extension. We were and remained different. Difference strengthened feelings and embellished everyday life with colorful shades. Individuality in love must be preserved. Otherwise, over time, feelings will also perish... Then which of us has unraveled the knots of feelings?..
2...Appetizing scoops of ice cream melted in a mother-of-pearl glass vase. They lost their individuality and merged into a common pale brown mass. She licked the teaspoon, holding it between her cranberry lips from time to time. I mentally left this cafe with a view of the Bosphorus. Carried away to where her freedom is free. Purely women's freedom. “...I dream of turning into a seagull. Soar over the Golden Horn, peck at fish, let yourself be fed crunchy simit 5
Turkish bagels strewn with sesame seeds.
Decide for yourself where and with whom to fly...” She spoke to herself, but out loud. Velvety voice, sparse eyelashes, dimpled smile. Smoldering cigarette in fingers. “Hey, seagull, your ice cream is melting...” She shudders and looks from the Golden Horn to me. Penetrates into the depths of my eyes. Goosebumps. I have. And there is a smile on her face.
Presses the cigarette into the ashtray. “Can I ask you something?” The waiter brings hot tea with kunefe 6
A sweet cheese pie that is eaten exclusively hot.
The warm sugar-saffron aroma drives away the vanilla shades of ice cream. One of my bad habits is hot after cold. “Ask...” She returns her gaze to the Golden Horn again. “Give me...” He doesn’t finish speaking, lights a cigarette. "What to gift?" Signs of jewelry stores and expensive boutiques flashed before my eyes. In the first 48 hours of falling in love, a man doubts a woman. On a subconscious level. Fear of being disappointed. “Give me hope...” I drop my cigarette in surprise. She laughed. She stood up and leaned over the table. She kissed her nose. “Will you give it to me? Come on, don’t be greedy...” “I’ll give it...” At that moment, her mobile phone rang. He called all the time while we were with her. They often wait for us exactly where we don’t want to return... Why didn’t her mobile drown in the Bosphorus? Telephone handsets interfere with actions. Just like in the song...
...Her name is Mirumir. This is how she introduced herself. “Is there really such a Russian name?” He purses his lips in displeasure. “If I introduced myself as Natasha, would it make you feel better?” - “Okay, then my name is Svetusvet...” - “Are you kidding me?” She's so damn sexyly angry. She throws a bitten roasted chestnut at me. There are traces of her lipstick on it. Oops, she manages to catch it in her mouth. “Okay, okay, have it your way, Mirumir. And who do you wish peace for?” Thinking: “Your inner world... Are you satisfied, Svetusvet?” I laugh. “Satisfied...”
She stops at the entrance to the Galata Tower 7
One of the symbols of Istanbul, located in the European part of the city on a high hill in the Galata district.
Putting his palm to his forehead, Mirumir raises his head. Looking at the sixty-meter "Tower of Jesus" 8
The Genoese, who built the Galata Tower in 1348–1349, called it the “Tower of Jesus.”
I carefully sneak up behind her and kiss her on the neck. Slightly damp, tanned. Second kiss on the first day of dating. Insolence or courage? She turns around. There is sadness in the eyes. “I’m afraid to love you...” I hold her close to me. “Don’t be afraid... After all, I already love you.” Mirumir moves away in embarrassment. “Better help me climb the 143 steps of Galata... I won’t get into the elevator.” - “I can take you in my arms. Only for this there is a payment: one kiss...” He gets angry. Again incredibly sexy. “All of you in the East are bargaining so charmingly? No kissing. Forward and with a song..."
...She wears sea green and rich yellow clothes. This is how her anticipation of the sea and sun is expressed. “When I want to hide from everyone, I mentally immerse myself in the Bosphorus. Warm sea, warmed by the summer sun... That's why I come here every year. I don't have to dive here. Here I can float on the surface.” In his way, Mirumir complements the dazzling palette of summer Istanbul...
He doesn't live his own life. “I say “I love” to someone I don’t love. Isn’t this the greatest misfortune?” Does not talk about life outside the present time. A few words, then changes the topic of conversation. "It's cold in Moscow. Always... Listen, how much does it cost to get a haircut in a decent salon?” We don't discuss tomorrow. No plans, ideas, ideas. We fell in love with each other today.
Love rarely deals with the future tense. Often it remains in the past or persists in the present. If love continues in the future, then its bearers are infinitely lucky... I listen to the wind. He, driving the clouds, brings news from parallel time. For the wind, the distance between Istanbul and Moscow is nothing. So why don’t you talk about her, wind?..
3...Having become acquainted with my kitchen, I fell in love with me more. “Women recognize a man’s character silently. We don’t ask questions, we don’t pry into the soul. We look closely, listen, feel. We act without words...” Mirumir convinces that a man’s kitchen speaks about his character. “If the kitchen is clean and untouched, it means that a man needs the warmth of home, although he is ready to deny it in every possible way. Such a stubborn man needs to be pampered with delicious food, but not tired of him with attention... If the kitchen is a mess, there are ashtrays with cigarette butts everywhere, it means the man has a complex character. You need to adapt to this, and very carefully... Your kitchen is “living.” There is life in it. This means it’s interesting to be with you, but not at all easy. You defend your personal space.”
I say that I do not believe in such generalizations. She falls silent and gets out of bed. Puts on a bra. She has small breasts with soft peach nipples. Insanely beautiful. Graceful sexuality. Proud posture, fragile shoulders, sensually protruding vertebrae. Scar on right elbow. Short cut nails...
I get out of bed, pick her up, and return her to bed. He kicks, hits his back, is indignant. I bite into her dry lips, reminiscent of violet leaves. Exciting naturalness. Almost does not use decorative cosmetics or perfume. As she is. Without stereotyped beauty, feigned femininity. She doesn't read Kundera - she loves Hyoga, Sagan, Capote. Often repeats a phrase from Breakfast at Tiffany's: “This cat and I are very similar. We are both poor, nameless disheveled..."
She kisses my chin and rubs her face against my stubble. “Tell me that you don’t love me... Drive me away... Say that you need sex from me and nothing else... Don’t drag me into love...” I go deeper into her, whispering in her ear. “I love you... Hey, I love you... You won’t leave...” She closes her eyes. Tears are flowing. Love with a bound heart. Have you ever had this happen? When there is no way back or forward. There is only a place where you stand and cannot move...
Sits on the windowsill. In panties. Wrapping your arms around your knees. Wavy brown hair. Banana nail polish sparkles in the sun. I'll bring you coffee. Stepping on "Bonjour tristesse" 9
“Hello, sadness!” (French).
Paperback, takes a cup. “Is she so close to you in spirit?” I'm leafing through the book. Pale gray paper, poor adhesion. The book smells like her. “A little... The more I read Sagan, the better I begin to understand what a complex character she had... She put her pleasure first... always... Forgivable selfishness... but that’s not important...”
He takes a sip of coffee. “Great... Ellerine sağlık 10
Health to your hands (Turkish).
...What kind of coffee?” - “Fig.” - "Which?!" I put the book aside and take a cigarette out of the pack. The lighter is acting up - the flame is intermittent. “Yes, yes, dear, fig. It was prepared during the Ottoman Empire. And my grandmother taught me. Grandma Lale..."
Mirumir opens the window and draws in sea air. “Hey, Bosfoor, hello!..” He waves his hand at the great strait, attracting the attention of people passing below. A naked girl in a sixth floor window in broad daylight. I laugh, surprising myself. With all the acquisitions of modernity, there is a lot of conservatism in me. But next to her, for some reason, I change, like the direction of the wind. Strong influence or great love?
“Let's get back to coffee... Tell me how to make it? I will enjoy it in Moscow... In short, it doesn’t matter where.” “Add small pieces of dried figs and a pinch of cinnamon to the coffee grinder along with the beans. Cook it your favorite way. The taste, as you can see, has not changed much. But what an aroma... Just don’t forget to pour the finished coffee into cups through a sieve, without grounds.”
Finishes his coffee. Thinking about it. Turns his gaze to the wall clock. “Get the tape. I want to tape the arrows so they don't move. Or remove the batteries from the watch. Do anything, stop time...” - “Why, Mirumir?” Silent. “Explain why.” He lowers his eyes. “Come on...” She suddenly swings her hand and smashes the coffee cup against the wall clock. Crying. “Stop time... Stop...” I hug her. “Okay, okay... Don't cry...” Before separation, time speeds up, and with the onset of separation, it slows down. There are many errors in the “Love is...” program. But it is impossible to reinstall it. Unfortunately…
4...The roads of night Istanbul are all covered in fragments of broken hearts. They crunch underfoot, crumble, digging into the shoes of passers-by. Passersby are the lucky ones today. A little more than others. However, each of these passers-by realizes that tomorrow night his heart may also break. The law of the metropolis: everyone cannot be lucky. The film “Istanbul Gold 400” contains more than 20 million frames of human destinies. Sensitivity is increased, color balance is the best in the East...
The clock says 03:12. Beyoğlu. Bohemian district of Istanbul. The older generation of Turks calls it a “hotbed of immorality,” the younger generation calls it “heavenly hell.” The bohemian flower of Istanbul first grew and blossomed here. Since then, it blooms every day after midnight...
Empty bus stop. There was no one around except us and two drunken transvestites who had fallen asleep by one of the lightboxes. We sit at a distance from each other. We smoke in unison. I am “Kent 1”, she is “Kent 4”. She gathered her hair into two buns. She put on large glasses - yellow glasses with green frames. “Why are you laughing? A reflection of the state of the soul...” In silence we look at the road a few meters away from us. There are few cars. Only occasionally do taxis with glowing sabers pass by. Traffic lights change colors, the stopwatches on them uselessly inform the ghosts of the night city about the green light.
The Bosphorus has fallen silent, my cigarette is smoking under my nose, and the music is blasting away a block away. I listen to the words of the song. “Istanbul seni kaybetmiş... Eski bir banda kaydetmiş...” 11
“Istanbul lost you... Recorded it on an old tape...” (Turkish).
Right in the heart. “I’m afraid of losing you... You... Mirumir... Do you hear?” Somewhere a police siren wailed. A woman's cry. “And I’m already lost...” She blows on the traffic light, and, obeying her, it changes color. “Look, I’m a fairy... A fairy with a bad head... Svetusvet, I ask you, lose me...” Her mobile phone rang. Doesn't answer. “It’s late, baby. “I’ve already found you.” Throws away the cigarette butt and crushes it with the toe of his sandal. He grins. "So what's the problem? You'll lose again..."
I look at the sky. There, someone spilled liquid dark chocolate with pieces of almonds. Almonds are stars. Suddenly one of them flies out of the sky. Falls right into the heart of the Bosphorus. The mind instantly formulates a desire. The Turks say that if a star with a wish falls and dissolves in the Bosphorus, then “your wish and the wish of your soulmate” will come true. There is no time: the star is approaching the mirror-like surface of the strait. I make one wish for two. "Love beyond separation." Oof, I made it...
While I was watching the star, I didn’t notice how Mirumir moved towards me. “A star fell into the Bosphorus... He made a wish for us...” She smiled. For the first time that night. “I noticed her at the same time as you...” - “Yes? And what wish did you make?” He takes off his glasses. Listens to the Bosphorus. “It’s not even a desire... I just said: “Don’t let me go...” I told the star, but I thought about you.” I put my glasses back on. She turned to the traffic light: with the breath of her heart she changed the signals. I squeeze her hand in my palm and remain silent. Beyoglu continued to thunder and debauch. It's already 04:16. It is time…
* * *
...I multiply cigarette butts in the flashes of dawn. She fell asleep with her head on my legs. Plunging into sleep, it seems to decrease in size. The body shrinks, facial features become smaller. I want to wrap her in myself. Save from hurricanes of memories, rains of despair. But I can't move. Mirumir limits my movements. It’s a pity to wake her up... Even within the walls of Morpheus’s kingdom, she proudly refuses help, locking herself in loneliness. “Everyone must bear his own cross. Why bother your neighbor? He has his own cross...” Mirumir is afraid to wait. Maybe this is right? When you wait a long time and in the end don’t get what you expected, you stop believing, and therefore stopping hoping. Maybe it’s better not to peer into the horizons with the hope of seeing scarlet sails?.. We have plenty to choose from. Always. I choose her. I choose love. I make a choice for two. After all, in despair there is often no strength left to make a choice. In desperation, you want someone to make a choice for you at least once... I make a choice for the world.
5...Doesn't talk about himself. He gets burned by his own words. I don't feel any mystery or insincerity. Mirumir does not want to return to where her mind is dragging her, despite the impulses of her soul. “Monroe once said: “When difficult days come, I think: it would be nice to become a cleaner to sweep away the inner pain...” On the contrary, I am drawn to become a cleaner in happy times. I want to cleanse myself of the disappointments of the past and the fears of the present. I’m afraid of the present because I don’t know what future it will lead to...”
She likes to look at me when I am not looking at her. When I shave in the morning, she leans against the bathroom door frame, watching me carefully. When I explain our order to the waiter, she covers her ears with her hands and reads my lips. When I go to the toilet, squeezing through the tables in the hall, she draws a heart on my back with her gaze. “So I find in you what I have been looking for for so long. No, you are not a prince on a white horse. You are my present. Real, close, dear. And it doesn’t matter whether you are a prince or a king, whether you have a horse or not. It's important that you are here. With me. And so your own... This is not pathos, Svetusvet. This is what I always wanted to say in the present. Every woman saves words for the hero of her present. Happy present. You just need to wait for him. I waited"...
Lying on the purple living room sofa, watching “Don't Bother to Knock” 12
"You don't have to knock" (English). Psychological drama, 1952. The main role was played by Marilyn Monroe.
She eats pumpkin seeds and I drink hot chocolate from Starbucks. She's wearing my blue and white checkered shirt, I'm wearing just boxer shorts. She threw her legs over the back of the sofa, I stretched mine out and put them on the blue ottoman. Mirumir calls Marilyn Monroe “a restless devil.” “A delightful girl... They saw her as sex first, then as talent... It’s somehow unfair...” I’ve never been a fan of Norma Jeane. “In my opinion, she doesn’t have much talent. But he has a great butt...” He pinches my stomach. “You are all men from the same garden...”
Mirumir gets up from the sofa and twists his hair into a knot. Lights a cigarette. “You know, before “Don”t Bother to Knock” I considered Monroe an empty actress of stupid comedies. But after this work I looked at her differently... In fact, she was an unhappy actress, since she reluctantly played even in life... I read a lot about her. I found something in her that makes us related. I also understand that I need to run faster and faster through life. But I can’t do it either - my legs won’t move..." She breaks off the story as soon as it intersects with her life. As always...
Goes to the window. He puts his elbows on the windowsill and looks at the cars passing below. Freezes, becomes silent. For a moment I think she has disappeared from the present. Left Istanbul and returned to Moscow. I call Mirumir. Doesn't respond. Fear gets me off the couch. I approach quietly from behind so as not to scare her. My steps are drowned out by the sound of the TV. I hand her my chocolate. "Want? There’s still some left…” She shook her head negatively. The sea wind moves a strand of hair that has fallen on the forehead. The cigarette went out. Does not notice. “...I wander in all four directions... Hardened by frost... Strong, like a web in the wind... Hanging to the ground... I’m still somehow holding on...” - “Where is this from?” “Monroe wrote. It’s like it’s about me, to the point...”
Cars on the street honk hysterically, crowded in traffic. I hug Mirumir by the shoulders and press him to me. I close the window. “Hey, up your nose. You are not alone". - “I’m not sad, dear. This is different. More like normal fear. Fear of losing reality...” - “You won’t lose it.” - “Maybe I won’t lose it. But sooner or later it will break itself... We need to return to Moscow.” I look into her eyes. “You will leave to come back.” She turns her gaze to Monroe crying on the TV. “The hardest thing to decide is to go back. After all, all roads lead forward, not back..."
He puts his ear to my chest. “I’ll listen to your heart...” I smile. “Listen... I can give it to you.” - "No need. It’s the same with me..."
I'll come back…
Novel
With gratitude to my mother, sisters Ramziye Dzhilgamli and Diana Zenyuk, as well as Masha Kushnir
In this book, the words “hope”, “faith”, “happiness” and their derivatives are used 678 times
– I heard you read a book, and what did you find in it?
- New life.
- Do you believe this?
– Listen to me, I, too, once believed the book. And I decided that I would find this world. (...) Believe me: in the end there is nothing but death...
- That world exists! (...)
- There’s nothing! These are all beautiful fairy tales! Think of it as something like a game that old idiot played with his kids. And then one day he decided to write the same book, but for adults. It is unlikely that he himself understands the meaning of what he wrote. It’s funny to read, but if you believe in it, your life is lost...
Orhan Pamuk. "New life"
...You look at me, look at me from close, closer and closer, we play Cyclops, look at each other, bringing our faces together, and the eyes grow, grow and get closer, screw into each other: the Cyclops look eye to eye, the breath is ragged, and our mouths meet, poke, bite each other's lips, slightly resting our tongues on our teeth and tickling each other with heavy, intermittent breathing, smelling of an ancient, familiar smell and silence. My hands search for your hair, plunge into its depths and caress it, and we kiss as if our mouths were full of flowers emitting a vague, dull aroma, or living, trembling fish. And if you happen to bite, then the pain is sweet, and if you happen to suffocate in a kiss, suddenly swallowing at the same time and taking the air away from each other, then this moment of death is beautiful. And we have one saliva for two, and one for two this taste of a ripe fruit, and I feel how you tremble in me, like the moon trembling in the night waters...
Julio Cortazar. "Game of Hopscotch"
...the course of events is not determined by me. Instead of controlling my characters, I let them live their own lives and express their opinions without interference. And I just listen and write down.
Paradise Bradbury
I wanted to write about everything, everything that was happening around me.
About your flowers when you bring them.
About this towel, about the smell; about how it feels to the touch.
About all our feelings - yours, mine...
About history: what we were like.
About everything in the world, about everything together, honey!
Because everything in life is mixed...
Film "The Clock"
Part I
About them
We have the right to fly where we want and be who we are created to be.
Richard Bach
1
...She squeezed tangerine juice for me and left. Forever. Under a glass of citrus juice there is a napkin damp around the edges. There are painful words on it in uneven handwriting. "I have left. Don't look for me." She left on the first day of summer. He didn't run to look for her. Didn't start calling her mobile. I didn’t smoke with nervous puffs. I took a glass of juice and brought it to my nose. He started sniffing. Had the tangerine scent taken over the violet scent of her skin? Wasn't it preserved on the glass of a tall glass? I need you. I want to leave too. For you or to you. Doesn't matter. The important thing is you...
...Women leave magical nights for men to say goodbye. Women's traces on men's hearts. The night before the separation, she kissed differently than usual. Her kisses froze on my body, like snowflakes on an icy window. For some reason it was getting cold. Now I understand. Farewell kisses lose their warmth. They contain the cooled tenderness of parting... On the last night she looked at me differently than usual. There is alienation in the gaze. Alienation in opposition to love. She understood that it was time for her, but in every possible way she delayed the hour of leaving. The struggle of soul and mind. Reason won. Gone. Now I understand. There is no melancholy in the look before separation. There is a silent protest in it. A protest against yourself. Feelings lose to reason. More often…
...I open the refrigerator. There is nothing in it except green apples. Large, juicy green, with a waxy skin. She remembered. Once he told her that in childhood he was cured of sadness by eating green apples. He hid in the thickets of his grandfather’s garden, devoured juicy apples, looked at the sky, and counted the passing planes. So the sadness was forgotten. She gradually disappeared, like airplanes disappearing in the sky... For the next week I ate apples from the refrigerator. Memories lived in each of them. He ate the memories, leaving them with him forever. No self-torture. I was sad, ate apples, and remembered. Somewhere in the depths of my soul, I childishly hoped that the day the apples in the refrigerator ran out, she would return. The apples are gone. She didn't return...
...Everything is born from small things. Our love was born from one unexpected touch. Queue at the currency exchange office. Evening bustle at Istiklal Caddesi. Fine spring rain, like powder. Fake songs from street musicians. An ice cream seller is inviting customers. Sleepy pigeons on the roof of a newsstand. The pistachio aroma of baklava in the fresh air. She hits me with her bag and I drop my wallet. The kurushes rolled across the tiled floor. I say "sorry" in Turkish. She “oh, sorry for God’s sake” in Russian. At the same time we bend down to collect the coins. Touch. Her hands are cold. The first thing I noticed about her. Then he looked into her eyes. Green-blue. With sincere concern, enveloping tenderness. I wanted to kiss her on the lips. I couldn't resist. Kissed.
She was surprised, and I fell in love. “Let's have some ice cream...” He said the first thing that came to mind. She answered in Turkish. “Oki...” Then she slapped me in the face. “You are definitely a ginger chocolate ice cream lover...” She laughed, but I didn’t apologize...
...True love is woven from contradictions. Stitched with threads of different characters, tastes, aspirations. Our love settled between heaven and earth. The sky, airy and windy, she was. The earth, stably grounded, was me. Love between us... I am a Muslim, she is Orthodox. I love blueberry pie, she loves cherry pie. I find myself in autumn, she comprehends harmony in summer. I believe in the fleeting nature of happiness, she believes in the possibility of its extension. We were and remained different. Difference strengthened feelings and embellished everyday life with colorful shades. Individuality in love must be preserved. Otherwise, over time, feelings will also perish... Then which of us has unraveled the knots of feelings?..
When I'm without you... (collection) Elchin Safarli
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Title: When I'm without you... (collection)
About the book “When I’m without you... (collection)” Elchin Safarli
Elchin Safarli is a young writer and journalist. He began writing his first poems as a schoolboy. When he had a free minute, he could compose a short poem. E. Safarli writes in his books about love, oriental culture, traditions, and everyday life. His works are in great demand and are praised by critics. The author lived in Turkey for a long time, where he had a resounding success. E. Safarli has received many awards for his poetry. To draw attention to the young writer, director Sergei Sarakhanov made a documentary about him. Sergei himself was very inspired by Elchin’s work and re-reads his works with great pleasure. One of the director’s reference books is “When I’m Without You... (collection).” In his opinion, the author was able to put his whole soul into the poems. They turned out to be bright, personal, and therefore touch the heart from the first lines.
Elchin Safarli in the book “When I am without you... (collection)” reveals the essence of love. Many may not agree with his idea of this feeling, but his beautiful poetry and excellent style will convince anyone. After reading the collection, you are left with peace and pure thoughts, you want to live and give love to everyone. This is an extraordinary state when nothing is impossible, when the boundaries of consciousness are erased and you just want to love the whole world.
“When I’m without you... (collection)” will help you express your feelings, be filled with harmony and do many good deeds. The book is an inspiration to many because the author was able to convey the truth to people in simple words.
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Quotes from the book “When I’m without you... (collection)” by Elchin Safarli
I want you to know one thing: your name is always on my lips.
I will restrain myself from saying it out loud: let no one know how hard it is for me without you.
But I will repeat it to myself, hoping to someday meet you in the crowd. And when I see you, it will be the happiest day.
The longest and most amazing...
Will I ever be able to think about this without pain?
- Of course you can.
- But when?!
- When you bring melancholy to its highest point, and everything goes away, although it is unknown, with or without you. Or when you come back many times, letting go little by little. It is impossible to overcome the pain quickly, but it will be possible.
Be with me. It’s not for nothing that once upon a time, in one beautiful dream of youth, you were promised to me!
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Elchin Safarli
When I'm without you...
Collection
I'll come back…
With gratitude to my mother, sisters Ramziye Dzhilgamli and Diana Zenyuk, as well as Masha Kushnir
In this book, the words “hope”, “faith”, “happiness” and their derivatives are used 678 times
I heard you read the book, and what did you find in it?
New life.
Do you believe this?
Listen to me, I also once believed the book. And I decided that I would find this world. (...) Believe me: in the end there is nothing but death...
That world exists! (...)
Yes there is nothing! These are all beautiful fairy tales! Think of it as something like a game that old idiot played with his kids. And then one day he decided to write the same book, but for adults. It is unlikely that he himself understands the meaning of what he wrote. It's funny to read, but if you believe in it, your life is lost...
Orhan Pamuk. "New life"
...You look at me, look at me from close, closer and closer, we play Cyclops, look at each other, bringing our faces together, and the eyes grow, grow and get closer, screw into each other: the Cyclops look eye to eye, the breath is ragged, and our mouths meet, poke, bite each other's lips, slightly resting our tongues on our teeth and tickling each other with heavy, intermittent breathing, smelling of an ancient, familiar smell and silence. My hands search for your hair, plunge into its depths and caress it, and we kiss as if our mouths were full of flowers emitting a vague, dull aroma, or living, trembling fish. And if you happen to bite, then the pain is sweet, and if you happen to suffocate in a kiss, suddenly swallowing at the same time and taking the air away from each other, then this moment of death is beautiful. And we have one saliva for two, and one for two this taste of a ripe fruit, and I feel how you tremble in me, like the moon trembling in the night waters...
Julio Cortazar. "Game of Hopscotch"
...the course of events is not determined by me. Instead of controlling my characters, I let them live their own lives and express their opinions without interference. And I just listen and write down.
Paradise Bradbury
I wanted to write about everything, everything that was happening around me.
About your flowers when you bring them.
About this towel, about the smell; about how it feels to the touch.
About all our feelings - yours, mine...
About history: what we were like.
About everything in the world, about everything together, honey!
Because everything in life is mixed...
Film "The Clock"
We have the right to fly where we want and be who we are created to be.
Richard Bach
...She squeezed tangerine juice for me and left. Forever. Under a glass of citrus juice there is a napkin damp around the edges. There are painful words on it in uneven handwriting. "I have left. Don't look for me." She left on the first day of summer. He didn't run to look for her. Didn't start calling her mobile. I didn’t smoke with nervous puffs. I took a glass of juice and brought it to my nose. He started sniffing. Had the tangerine scent taken over the violet scent of her skin? Wasn't it preserved on the glass of a tall glass? I need you. I want to leave too. For you or to you. Doesn't matter. The important thing is you...
...Women leave magical nights for men to say goodbye. Women's traces on men's hearts. The night before the separation, she kissed differently than usual. Her kisses froze on my body, like snowflakes on an icy window. For some reason it was getting cold. Now I understand. Farewell kisses lose their warmth. They contain the cooled tenderness of parting... On the last night she looked at me differently than usual. There is alienation in the gaze. Alienation in opposition to love. She understood that it was time for her, but in every possible way she delayed the hour of leaving. The struggle of soul and mind. Reason won. Gone. Now I understand. There is no melancholy in the look before separation. There is a silent protest in it. A protest against yourself. Feelings lose to reason. More often…
...I open the refrigerator. There is nothing in it except green apples. Large, juicy green, with a waxy skin. She remembered. Once he told her that in childhood he was cured of sadness by eating green apples. He hid in the thickets of his grandfather’s garden, devoured juicy apples, looked at the sky, and counted the passing planes. So the sadness was forgotten. She gradually disappeared, like airplanes disappearing in the sky... For the next week I ate apples from the refrigerator. Memories lived in each of them. He ate the memories, leaving them with him forever. No self-torture. I was sad, ate apples, and remembered. Somewhere in the depths of my soul, I childishly hoped that the day the apples in the refrigerator ran out, she would return. The apples are gone. She didn't return...
...Everything is born from small things. Our love was born from one unexpected touch. Queue at the currency exchange office. Evening bustle on Istiklal Caddesi. Fine spring rain, like powder. Fake songs from street musicians. An ice cream seller is inviting customers. Sleepy pigeons on the roof of a newsstand. The pistachio aroma of baklava in the fresh air. She hits me with her bag and I drop my wallet. The kurushes rolled across the tiled floor. I say "sorry" in Turkish. She “oh, sorry for God’s sake” in Russian. At the same time we bend down to collect the coins. Touch. Her hands are cold. The first thing I noticed about her. Then he looked into her eyes. Green-blue. With sincere concern, enveloping tenderness. I wanted to kiss her on the lips. I couldn't resist. Kissed.
She was surprised, and I fell in love. “Let's have some ice cream...” He said the first thing that came to mind. She answered in Turkish. “Oki...” Then she slapped me in the face. “You are definitely a ginger chocolate ice cream lover...” She laughed, but I didn’t apologize...
...True love is woven from contradictions. Stitched with threads of different characters, tastes, aspirations. Our love settled between heaven and earth. The sky, airy and windy, she was. The earth, stably grounded, was me. Love between us... I am a Muslim, she is Orthodox. I love blueberry pie, she loves cherry pie. I find myself in autumn, she comprehends harmony in summer. I believe in the fleeting nature of happiness, she believes in the possibility of its extension. We were and remained different. Difference strengthened feelings and embellished everyday life with colorful shades. Individuality in love must be preserved. Otherwise, over time, feelings will also perish... Then which of us has unraveled the knots of feelings?..
...Appetizing scoops of ice cream melted in a mother-of-pearl glass vase. They lost their individuality and merged into a common pale brown mass. She licked the teaspoon, holding it between her cranberry lips from time to time. I mentally left this cafe with a view of the Bosphorus. Carried away to where her freedom is free. Purely women's freedom. “...I dream of turning into a seagull. Soar over the Golden Horn, peck at fish, let yourself be fed with crunchy simit. Decide for yourself where and with whom to fly...” She spoke to herself, but out loud. Velvety voice, sparse eyelashes, dimpled smile. Smoldering cigarette in fingers. “Hey, seagull, your ice cream is melting...” She shudders and looks from the Golden Horn to me. Penetrates into the depths of my eyes. Goosebumps. I have. And there is a smile on her face.
Presses the cigarette into the ashtray. “Can I ask you something?” The waiter brings hot tea with kunefe. The warm sugar-saffron aroma drives away the vanilla shades of ice cream. One of my bad habits is hot after cold. “Ask...” She returns her gaze to the Golden Horn again. “Give me...” He doesn’t finish speaking, lights a cigarette. "What to gift?" Signs of jewelry stores and expensive boutiques flashed before my eyes. In the first 48 hours of falling in love, a man doubts a woman. On a subconscious level. Fear of being disappointed. “Give me hope...” I drop my cigarette in surprise. She laughed. She stood up and leaned over the table. She kissed her nose. “Will you give it to me? Come on, don’t be greedy...” - “I’ll give...” At that moment her mobile phone rang. He called all the time while we were with her. They often wait for us exactly where we don’t want to return... Why didn’t her mobile drown in the Bosphorus? Telephone handsets interfere with actions. Just like in the song...
...Her name is Mirumir. This is how she introduced herself. “Is there really such a Russian name?” He purses his lips in displeasure. “If I introduced myself as Natasha, would it make you feel better?” - “Okay, then my name is Svetusvet...” - “Are you kidding me?” She's so damn sexyly angry. She throws a bitten roasted chestnut at me. There are traces of her lipstick on it. Oops, she manages to catch it in her mouth. “Okay, okay, have it your way, Mirumir. And who do you wish peace for?” Thinking: “Your inner world... Are you satisfied, Svetusvet?” I laugh. “Satisfied...”