[n]othing Is As Surprising As Life. Except

My Unhappiness Protects Me From Life.

I Think A Lot About The Poems I Wasn't Able To Write...i Masturbrated...solitude Is Essentially A Matter Of Pride; You Bury Yourself In Your Own Scent. The Issue Is The Same For All Real Poets. If You've Been Happy For Too Long, You Become Banal. By The Same Token, If You've Been Unhappy For A Long Time, You Lose Your Poetic Power...happiness And Poverty Can Only Coexist For The Briefest Time. Afterword Either Happiness Coarsens The Poet Or The Poem Is So True It Destroys His Happiness.

Istanbul Is Certainly In The Process Of Transforming Itself Into An Attractive Cultural, Tourist And Financial Center. But There Are Also Millions Of Sad Stories In This Giant Sea Of Immigration, Poverty, Misery And Contradictions. So Much Anger, Frustration And Fury.

As Much As I Live I Shall Not Imitate Them Or Hate Myself For Being Different To Them

Immersing Oneself In The Problems Of A Book Is A Good Way To Keep From Thinking Of Love.