Copied from a student’s diary.
I wonder why I’m thinking about these things? What is it that makes me repeat these dark, bitter memories this evening?… Here I am in my room. My head hurts a little—more accurately, I drank a bit too much. A feeling, an incomprehensible reason always makes me think about my past.
“Oh, loneliness, loneliness…” I say. All the bitterness, all the emptiness of this life I’ve loved madly comes before my eyes: Ah, my family; who knows how happy they are now. They’ve probably just finished dinner. My father is reading his newspaper in a corner with a tired manner; my mother—ah, my dear mother—is busy sewing something in her hand; my brothers haven’t yet left the dining table; they’re chatting and making noise with the manner characteristic of those who’ve eaten more than they should. Elmas—our cat’s name—is stretching on an empty chair, arching her back, looking at them. What happiness, what happiness… Here I am trying to write my troubles with the slight headache given by beer, while they’re living a happy, comfortable life there… And me?… Ah, this life, this life of mine, this wretched, torn, painful life… Look at the past years… In the Istanbul direction, a despairing corner forgotten in silences and darknesses. A whole year spent there, then this Beyoğlu life. This man here, my heart excited with all the passions of twenty-two years… To love—ah, if only I could love, someone, just someone; perhaps I’d be happy, perhaps I’d forget all my troubles—alas!… Here’s Artemisya, here’s Melpomeni, even here’s Lusi, here’s Olimpiya… All of them, all forgotten, all dreams, all became stories. Who knows, perhaps now Artemisya is running breathlessly with her friends in that big house, while Melpomeni, that poor unfortunate one, that refuge of silences and mournings, is sewing a dress in her house, her new house.
Lusi’s piano is filling my ears with the melodies of a polka, wave upon wave. Olimpiya is laughing with guffaws in the middle of the street. And I’m writing, paying them no attention. Appearing not to know, not to hear, but crying, silently and soundlessly, from within, from my soul, crying as I write these things, these killing feelings.
Above me—on the third floor of the apartment—a pile of young children’s voices are rumbling; no doubt they’re playing, laughing… Ah, am I alone, am I alone in despair?…
Everything in my room seems despairing to me. Here are my books, here’s my diary, here are my newspapers—all thinking with a mourning, poor orphan-like quality…
Here’s my theater binocular, full of tears with the misfortune of not being used tonight either!
I can’t go anywhere—not to the theater, not to a café, not anywhere… Because I have no money… Ah, this illness, this wretchedness!
The streets are muddy, dirty… Galoshes need to be bought; my shoes are in need of repair; my hair has grown excessively long; the laundress hasn’t brought my collars yet; my socks are worn out… There are thousands more needs all related to money… However, I have only forty para, yes, forty para, and three more days until the beginning of the month—three days of life needed!…
This evening I saw no one, spoke with no one; I neglected my dear Ayda, didn’t care about the promise I gave; I came here early, to my room, thinking these thoughts, writing these things. Why, I wonder why?…
Because I have no money… And I understand that this is what makes me despairing, sick, kills me. Why can’t I be rich? Why can’t I too pass through the Grand Rue in carriages with rubber wheels before the envious gaze of all the Beyoğlu people? Why do I always remain indifferent to those pleasant, ornate tables at Tokatlıyan, at Yani’s every night, to those appetite-inducing meals, those exquisite wines? Ah, what is my fault?… Here’s a fellow without a single hair on his head; here’s a guy who resembles a barrel with his fat belly, two poor brains always talking about the sugar market, always calculating what cotton has risen to; here’s a young man who without working at all, without sweating, without seeing any wretchedness, without thinking for a single hour how he’ll live the next day, has obtained millions—an heir… What do these people have more than me?… Ah, money, again money, always money… But O valuable metal, why are you so afraid of me, why do you stay away? Be assured that the hands to which I’ll entrust you will be very soft, very delicate hands. Alas, here I’m searching my pockets again; the possibility of another ten-para coin appearing in a little corner makes me emotional… Not a chance—all of them, four, four ten-para coins, and one of them is worn… Oh, poor coins. My poor total wealth!…
Ömer Seyfettin
