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368 pages, Hardcover
First published March 1, 2006
丨爻亘 乇賵丕賷丞 丕賱禺丕賱丞 亘丕賳賵 賮賯丿 丨丿孬鬲 噩賲賷毓 丕賱兀丨丿丕孬 丕賱賴丕賲丞 賮賷 鬲丕乇賷禺 丕賱毓丕賱賲 賮賷 賷賵賲 毓丕卮賵乇丕亍
賮賮賷 匕賱賰 丕賱賷賵賲 鬲賯亘賱 丕賱賱賴 鬲賵亘丞 丌丿賲
賵賮賷 匕賱賰 丕賱賷賵賲 禺乇噩 丕賱賳亘賷 賷賵賳爻 賲賳 亘胤賳 丕賱丨賵鬲
鈥� 賵 賮賷 匕賱賰 丕賱賷賵賲 丕賱鬲賯賷 丕賱乇賵賲賷 亘卮賲爻鈥�
賵氐毓丿 丕賱賲爻賷丨 廿賱賶 丕賱爻賲丕亍
賵兀賳夭賱 丕賱賱賴 丕賱賵氐丕賷丕 丕賱毓卮乇 毓賱賶 賲賵爻賶
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丕賱禺賷丕賱 爻丨乇賹 丌爻乇賹 禺胤賷乇 賱賱匕賷賳 賷乇睾賲賵賳 毓賱賶 兀賳 賷賰賵賳賵丕 賵丕賯毓賷賷賳 賮賷 丕賱丨賷丕丞
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廿賱丕 兀賳 丕賱乇睾亘丞 賮賷 賴丿賲 氐乇丨 賵噩賵丿賴丕 賰丕賳鬲 賯丕亘毓丞 賮賷 丿丕禺賱賴丕
鬲鬲賱兀賱兀 亘乇賯丞 賮賷 毓賷賳賷賴丕
爻丨乇 鬲丿賲賷乇 丕賱匕丕鬲 丕賱噩賲賷賱 丕賱匕賷 賱丕 賷氐賷亘 爻賵賶 丕賱賲丨賳賰賷賳 兀賵 丕賱賲氐丕亘賷賳 亘丕賱賰丌亘丞
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廿匕丕 賰丕賳 賷賵噩丿 亘賷賳 丕賱賲噩鬲賲毓 賵丕賱賳賮爻 賵丕丿 毓賲賷賯 賱丕 賷乇亘胤賴賲丕 廿賱丕 噩爻乇 賲鬲丨乇賰
鬲爻鬲胤賷毓賷賳 兀賳 鬲丨乇賯賷 匕賱賰 丕賱噩爻乇
賵兀賳 鬲賯賮賷 廿賱賶 噩丕賳亘 丕賱匕丕鬲 爻丕賱賲丞 賲爻賱賲丞
廿賱丕 廿匕丕 賰丕賳 丕賱賵丕丿賷 賴丿賮賰
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廿賳 丕賱兀睾賱亘賷丞 丕賱爻丕丨賯丞 賲賳 丕賱賳丕爻 賱丕 賷賮賰乇賵賳 賲胤賱賯丕賸
賵丕賱匕賷賳 賷賮賰乇賵賳 賱丕 賷氐亘丨賵賳 丕賱兀睾賱亘賷丞 丕賱爻丕丨賯丞 賲胤賱賯丕賸
賮丕禺鬲丕乇賷 賮賷 兀賷 賮卅丞 鬲乇賷丿賷賳 兀賳 鬲賰賵賳賷
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賵賱丕 鬲賳爻賷 兀賳 賰賱 賵丕丨丿丞 賲賳丕 賵丨賷丿丞 賮賷 丕賱賵噩賵丿鈥�
賵兀賳 丕賱毓夭賱丞 丕賱兀亘丿賷丞 爻鬲鬲噩丕賵夭 兀賷 氐丿丕賯丞 毓乇囟賷丞 廿賳 丌噩賱丕賸 兀賵 毓丕噩賱丕賸
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賯丿 鬲賰賵賳 丕賱賰賱賲丕鬲 爻丕賲丞 賱賱匕賷賳 賰鬲亘 毓賱賷賴賲 兀賳 賷賱賵匕賵丕 亘丕賱氐賲鬲 丿丕卅賲丕賸鈥�
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It is past dawn now. A short step away from that uncanny threshold between nighttime and daylight. The only time of the day when it is early enough to harbor hopes of realising one's dreams but far too late to actually dream, the land of Morpheus now flung far away.
Allah's eye is omnipotent and omniscient; it is the eye that never closes, or even blinks. But still no one can tell for sure if the earth is equally omniobservable. If this is a stage wherein spectacle after spectacle is displayed for the Celestial Gaze, there might be times in between when the curtains are down and a gauzy head scarf covers the surface of a silver bowl.
Istanbul is the hodgepodge of ten million lives. It is an open book of ten million scrambled stories. Istanbul is waking up from its perturbed sleep, ready for the chaos of the rush hour. From now on there are too many prayers to answer, too many profanities to note, and too many sinners, as well as too many innocents, to keep an eye on.
Already it is morning in Istanbul.
The mordant gap between the children of those who managed to stay and the children of those who had to leave.If there's one story the media in the United States should be having conniptions over right now, it's that of Mike Brown. Not Ebola, not Ukraine, not even Robin Williams, for if that man was half of the good things I've heard since depression killed him, he wouldn't want the tears of those who believe yet another black person deserved to die at the hands of white law enforcement. There's no nation quite like the US when it comes to handling the genocide card; it makes for a much messier state of things than this book's portrayal of the cosmopolitan memory of the Armenian genocide committed by the Turkish, but the indoctrination is there, the view of abroad versus the focus of at home is there, and the compromise, oh, the compromise. The compromise is there, with no answers to tuck you in at night.
Am I responsible for my father's crime? A Girl Named Turk asked.I will admit, I wish she had gone further, rather than bring forward another age old incarnation of patriarchal violation that I am far more comfortable in my stance towards. I wish she had continued her wonderfully modern take on American-centric stereotypes, her portrayal of today's Istanbul with all its novelties all the more intriguing for their familiarity and feminism, her discussions of existentialism and Eastern European literature that never felt the need to wrap themselves in esoteric pomposity. I wish she had continued that Internet chat quoted above, just one example of the many I have had online regarding oppression, social justice, what I as a white inheritor of protection what must do with such skin-deep privilege. Futile wishes, for her heritage is not mine, and yet how wonderful it is to encounter a modern author refusing to be silent, taking on the technological inundation in a world founded on millenia of might makes right.
You are responsible for recognizing your father's crime, Anti-Khavurma replied.
"I admire philosophy," Asya conceded. "But that doesn't necessarily mean I agree with the philosophers."I have hope for contemporary literature, and indeed the literature for the future, because of books such as these. Pretty prose has its perks, but I'll chose an unflinchingly progressive state of story over dehumanizing jargon any day.