I Don't Want To Be A Tree;

To Savour Istanbul's Back Streets, To Appreciate The Vines And Trees That Endow Its Ruins With Accidental Grace, You Must, First And Foremost, Be A Stranger To Them.

Any Intelligent Person Knows That Life Is A Beautiful Thing And That The Purpose Of Life Is To Be Happy," Said My Father As He Watched The Three Beauties. "but It Seems Only Idiots Are Ever Happy. How Can We Explain This?

I Think A Lot About The Poems I Wasn't Able To Write...i Masturbrated...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 Poverty Can Only Coexist For The Briefest Time. Afterword Either Happiness Coarsens The Poet Or The Poem Is So True It Destroys His Happiness.

In Europe The Rich Are Refined Enough To Act As If They're Not Wealthy. That Is How Civilized People Behave. If You Ask Me, Being Cultured And Civilized Is Not About Everyone Being Free And Equal; It's About Everyone Being Refined Enough To Act As If They Were. Then No One Has To Feel Guilty.

For The Traveler We See Leaning On His Neighbor Is An Honest And Well-meaning Man And Full Of Melancholy, Like Those Chekhov Characters So Laden With Virtues That They Never Know Success In Life.