Madonna in a Fur Coat (Penguin Modern Classics)

No matter what I had bottled up inside me, I was absurdly anxious about letting it out, and so my adventures in writing ended. I did, however, carry on painting. There was, I thought, no risk of revealing anything personal. If I took something from the outside world and brought it to life on paper, I was a catalyst and nothing more. With time, however, I came to understand that this was not the case, and so I gave up painting too … Always that fear …

In Istanbul, at the Academy of Fine Arts, I quickly – and without assistance – came to the conclusion that painting was a mode of expression, and, inevitably, of self-expression, and after that there seemed no point in continuing my studies. In any case my teachers didn’t see much in me. I only ever presented my most trivial efforts: if my works expressed anything personal, or exposed any personal particularity, I went to extreme lengths to hide them away, lest they ever see the light of day. If someone ever happened to find one, I would gasp like a naked woman caught in an intimate moment, and rush away blushing.

matter what I had bottled up inside me, I was absurdly anxious about letting it out, and so my adventures in writing ended. I did, however, carry on painting. There was, I thought, no risk of revealing anything personal. If I took something from the outside world and brought it to life on paper, I was a catalyst and nothing more. With time, however, I came to understand that this was not the case, and so I gave up painting too … Always that fear …

That said, I had always been one of those quiet boys who preferred dreams to the real world. I was, in addition, absurdly shy, and therefore often mistaken for a fool, which upset me deeply. For nothing terrified me more than the prospect of correcting a false impression.

For nothing terrified me more than the prospect of correcting a false impression.

live in the same places was not to live as he did.

It was almost as if he had withdrawn to another time – a place that was his and his alone – and nothing I could do would bring him back.

Though I did not know what I was learning from this silent man walking alongside me, I was certain that I was learning far more than I would have done from a teacher of many years.

When we walked side by side, did I not feel his humanity most profoundly?

For wasn’t there sufficient pleasure to be had in silent patience – in viewing others’ vices with compassion and enjoying their vulgarities?

It was the yawning void inside them that drove them to deride, scorn and ridicule others, for this was their only source of satisfaction, their only way of knowing who they were.