What Was Venerated As Style Was Nothing

...the Endless Repetition Of An Ordinary Miracle.

It Was In Cihangir That I First Learned Istanbul Was Not An Anonymous Multitude Of Walled-in Lives - A Jungle Of Apartments Where No One Knew Who Was Dead Or Who Was Celebrating What - But An Archipelago Of Neighbourhoods In Which Everyone Knew Each Other.

And Before Long , The Msuic , The Views Rushing Past The Window , My Fathers Voice And The Narrow Cobblestone Streets All Merged Into One , And It Seemed To Me That While We Would Never Find Answers To These Fundamental Questions , It Was Good For Us To Ask Them Anyway . Pg. 284

When Another Writer In Another House Is Not Free, No Writer Is Free.

I Do Not Believe In A Personal Connection To God; That's Where It Gets Transcendental.