I’ve been lying in bed and reading a lot. Orhan Pamuk has been one of the lucky authors.
How many of you agree with this?
It may not happen in the first instant, but within ten minutes of meeting a man, a woman has a clear idea of who he is, or at least who he might be for her, and her heart of hearts has already told her whether or not she’s going to fall in love with him.
Also by Orhan, tell me if you agree…
Solitude is essentially a matter of pride; you bury yourself in your own scent. The issue is the same for all real poets. If you’ve been happy for too long, you become banal. By the same token, if you’ve been unhappy for a long time, you lose your poetic power…Happiness and poetry can only coexist for the briefest time. Afterward either happiness coarsens the poet or the poem is so true it destroys his happiness.
And oh, dedicating yet another song to myself. Specifically uljhe nahi toh kaise suljhoge part.