in case you don’t know, that’s a quote from William Wallace. I read it a lot during my “happy hours” while I hear bagpipes chant and sometime violins cry endlessly, like the wind itself begins to moan because it feels sympathy for the ever – oppressed highlanders. The islanders really got what it takes to be musicians. And their music is filled with air, sad air, sweet wind, violent desires.
There is a detail which my memories always come back to, in a book full of amazing details of Orhan Pamuk, “The white castle.” There were two men inside a house, which I imagine is a white – grey bricks house with green olive trees outside, mediterranean style. They live a peaceful, slow, much – ordinary life, nothing glamorous, but no suffering either. It’s hard to say whether they are in their 30s or 40s. They are also not gay. In fact, they are two identities but one individual, that’s the theme of the novel and I don’t want to dive too much into its. What makes me remember about, it’s how they solve their boredom. In a winter, much like the winter I am living in right now – I imagine, when the cold wind beats the street and inside their house the warm makes cats sleepy, they are left alone with themselves to endure the passing of days, much like me. They choose to write, and I imagine they use feather pens, thick wood papers and expensive black ink. They carefully carve an intangible thing – their pasts, their memories, their lives into something tangible. I imagine in the bright yellow light of candles, that’s how they endure their winter, in a gentle, river – like, never – ending hours of writing. They live their pasts again, or more precise, they discover them again, and in turn they discover themselves. There weren’t any despair in any moments, which is a certain thing when one faces his winter. There were so much light and warm, and should I dare say, happiness, not common but intelligent happiness, the kind which warms souls. They smile and talk to each other : “So, it seems that there were times I was actually happy”.
When writing this, I feel again the novel’s atmosphere. What was that I wanted to say ? About the celtic folk songs ? In connection to my happy hours, when I, with a hot cup of tea, review the historical warfare of Britannia ? It’s the same as their writings. But, to be honest, one can not ease himself by thinking about his past alone, regardless of how positive he does its. Doing whatever alone is not enough. One needs another person at least, to comfort him. Winter is a terrible thing. These days, I faced too many simplicities. It’s a good thing that I, for long, has been forgetting loneliness. We always just try to do this survival thing. And in the end, there is no different between me and idiots that I hate and suffer. In the end, it is for me, a warm locked room and a dream of freedom. A dream of Albion. And a warm cup of tea. Really, people don’t change.