'my name is red', Baghdad

Three hundred fifty years ago, when Baghdad fell to the Mongols and was mercilessly plundered on a cold day in the month of Safar, Ibn Shakir was the most renowned and proficient calligrapher and scribe not only of the whole Arab world but of all Islamdom; despite his youth, he had transcribed twentytwo volumes, most of which were Korans and could be found in the worldfamous libraries of Baghdad. Ibn Shakir believed these books would last until the end of the world, and, therefore, lived with a deep and infinite notion of time. He’d toiled heroically all through the night by flickering candlelight on the last of those legendary books, which are unknown to us today because in the span of a few days, they were one by one torn up, shredded, burned and tossed into the Tigris River by the soldiers of the Mongol Khan Hulagu. Just as 78 the master Arab calligraphers, commited to the notion of the endless persistence of tradition and books, had for five centuries been in the habit of resting their eyes as a precaution against blindness by turning their backs to the rising sun and looking toward the western horizon, Ibn Shakir ascended the minaret of the Caliphet Mosque in the coolness of morning, and from the balcony where the muezzin called the faithful to prayer, witnessed all that would end a five-centuries-long tradition of scribal art. First, he saw Hulagu’s pitiless soldiers enter Baghdad, and yet he remained where he was atop the minaret. He watched the plunder and destruction of the entire city, the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of people, the killing of the last of the Caliphs of Islam who’d ruled Baghdad for half a millennium, the rape of women, the burning of libraries and the destruction of tens of thousands of volumes as they were thrown into the Tigris. Two days later, amid the stench of corpses and cries of death, he watched the flowing waters of the Tigris, turned red from the ink bleeding out of the books, and he thought about how all those volumes he’d transcribed in beautiful script, those books that were now gone, hadn’t in the least served to stop this horrifying massacre and devastation, and in turn, he swore never to write again. Furthermore, he was struck with the desire to express his pain and the disaster he’d witnessed through painting, which until that day, he’d belittled and deemed an affront to Allah; and so, making use of the paper he always carried with him, he depicted what he saw from the top of the minaret. We owe the happy miracle of the three-hundred-year renaissance in Islamic illustration following the Mongol invasion to that element which distinguished it from the artistry of pagans and Christians; that is, to the truly agonizing depiction of the world from an elevated Godlike position attained by drawing none other than a horizon line. We owe this renaissance to the horizon line, and also to Ibn Shakir’s going north after the massacre he witnessed—in the direction the Mongol armies had come from—carrying with him his paintings and the ambition for illustration in his heart; in brief, we owe much to his learning the painting techniques of the Chinese masters. Thereby, it is evident that the notion of endless time that had rested in the hearts of Arab calligrapherscribes for five hundred years would finally manifest itself not in writing, but in painting. The proof of this resides in the fact that the illustrations in manuscripts and volumes that had been torn apart and vanished have passed into other books and other volumes to survive forever in their revelation of Allah’s worldly realm.

icelandic

 missed an entire avalanche of icelandic thrillers, which began in Reykjavik in the summer of 2019 and, for a long time, extending till today, the only narrative I was able to read. 

- -

The snow,

mother soft,

enfolds me,

for a moment

I am saved.

I hear

a loud whisper

- are you here?

It’s so cold,

hold me tight.

Fill, 

fair snowdrift,

so gentle,

the emptiness

inside me,

but not quite yet…

… let me live 

just a little while longer -

- -

at the beginning of Outside, Ragnar Jonasson

beauty

 

This is from Istanbul, Istanbul by Burhan Sönmez.

Which community

Having 12096 posts, I wonder which two have been unpublished.

Freedom is no longer a thing. Algorithms are surely a strange addition to life. When books are written that way, we should go back to paper and secret paper memos that one could swallow.

 

barba

 “E, afinal, nos nossos tempos, a barba é a única coisa que uma mulher não pode fazer melhor do que um homem, ou, se pode, o seu êxito está assegurado apenas num circo.”

Steinbeck, Viagens com o Charlie

this

 “This is Anatolia; no mystery has remained hidden under this earth for long!”

Buket Uzuner, Earth (Toprak)

life is so short

if and when we’re through this, I’m going to Mardin.

soru ve cevap

How many days do I need to visit Istanbul?
A lifetime.
And some more.

book list

no review time, just touching base

A. Christie, The Hollow
A. Christie, The End House
Arnaldur Indridason, Reikyavik Nights
Ahmet Ümit, The Flock
Arnaldur Indridasun, The Shadow Killer
Sjón, The Whispering Muse
Icelandic Folk and Fairy Tales

latest film: Parasites

land of ice (and fire)

Iceland is officially the coolest country I’ve ever been to.
(Also, the information that it’s not as cold as Chicago in the winter has quieted my heart quite a bit.)

Her şey zaman var

Ah! Çok doğru.

it's been said before, really

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace.

tales of a dying blogger #2

tales of a dying blog #10

na literatura como na culinária como em... o vazio é sempre maior do que o não-vazio, o que não está maior do que o que está. porque lá cabe o que podia ter sido e tudo o que não foi.

tales of a dying blogger #1

"Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange."

tales of longing #1

takes of a dying blog #9

que saudades de mim própria

Tales of a dying blog #8

Feel the steel. When some words sum up loads of poetry and all of the oceans' breeze.

tales of a dying blog #7 iced

tales of a dying blog #6

"I dare you to deny me that Istanbul is the greatest city in the world after crossing the Bosphorus by ferry. Or having an amazing breakfast anywhere. Or witnessing a jaw-dropping sunset. You know pretty well the rest of the long, long list."

tales of a dying blog #5

Ena! a quantidade de Malta que tinha o meu contacto. vai ser cá uma limpeza.

ah

Parabéns a mim.

tales of a dying blog #4

"This is Wild River Expeditions out of Bluff. Pros. (...) Take great pride in cleaning after themselves. The drill now is they urinate right beside the river, so it dillutes fast. Everything else they carry out. Portable toilets. Build their camp fires in fireboxes so you don't get all that carbon in the sand. Even carry out the ashes. in The Thief of Time. Hillerman has carried me before and is still carrying me now. such an author. The Beauty Way.

tales of a dying blog #3

olho para cima e daqui as andorinhas são maiores do que os aviões.

tales of a dying blog #2

Brautigan's book covers in Cigarettes After Sex Sunsetz. it's a gift.