Deadly Romance in Passengers and Titanic

By Atemi Kayaky

We are faced with an industrialization phenomenon that makes itself felt in literature as well as in every other subject. The reshaping of literature according to the conditions of market capitalism turns literary products into simple consumables. Newly released literary novels, stories, poems, essays, etc. literary products no longer have an artistic quality, they are consumed quickly and resemble Hollywood movies…

 

Identical, fabricated books adorn the shelves of the bookstore. We are faced with books that appeal to the eye, not to the pleasure of reading. Every day, we are showered with novels whose content resembles a movie script, and the most popular ones are immediately adapted to the cinema. Their styles, plots and even the subjects themselves are extremely superficial, identical books are everywhere.

 

There are quite a few pages in such works, but it is possible to read and finish them in a short time. We would like to say that the reason for this is that it is written in a successful language. However, if we consider that the majority of the people who read these books find it boring and they find it boring, this is not the main reason. The main reason is that in such industrial novels, whether it is character analysis, description of environment and events, a very superficial work is done. Writers don't think about these things. Because – a group of authors should be excluded from this – what is important for authors now is the sales figures and the amounts they will earn, rather than the literary and aesthetic characteristics of their works.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atemi Kayaky
• Release date: Sep 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201088781

Book preview

*****one*****

Seeing Forgiveness - Gupse Nur Aydın - Kirpi Literature and Think Magazine

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I will dare if you forgive in advance. For what? It doesn't matter to me. As long as we have a common denominator before I open my mouth. We draw our borders with a thin thread. A thin white thread, otherwise how do we mingle? There are people waiting in line for a while. Those who always listen to the side rooms in his thin-walled house, those who come down the broken stairs. I miss traveling long distances, dear, to open my eyes every now and then to see everyone asleep, while my father drives us. How he sees from his father and from his mother. And his dead brother... How sweet it hurts the betrayal of your loved one. The departure of someone you call dear. Maybe after one night of writhing in pain. Maybe it's so piecemeal that it's inside ... I can't blame it. A piece of my love has been lost. I feel very cold on one side, like a hot bread whose end is cut off while returning from the oven, that's why a table full of people is in a hurry. One hand cannot hold the other for fear of falling. In the body of a pregnant woman whose pain has just begun, my pain gives birth to itself countless times, to the hands that do not hold it.

If we turn to you, tell me why you turned your head the other way. Am I that bad? Hide! They are coming. Written old poems are coming, they will pass over us like an army. The penalty for being so weak is to be crushed. It's like your coming and going in me. Foreign! Was I a coffee house? I made you drink countless waters. One night I smelled your hair, one night I hugged you alone. I don't forget you. Don't burn without me. Find the remaining pieces of me and put them together. Hide, if I don't live as you live inside me, it is not living inside. This is a sheer rudder. This life is a big joke to people who believe. There are no ships in any sea, only because they have all sunk. There is no route except the lost ones. When one does not believe, one falls, when one believes, it is scorched by the wind.

I missed you again. I have an old story pulling my hair, I don't know, you know? I have a few names in mind. I'm already thinking about who I'm cursing in this post. However, it is not the anger that has accumulated in me, it has never happened.

*****2nd*****

Burnt Streets - Hüseyin AKCAN - Kirpi Literature and Think Magazine

"Is this death? Is death being swept away from one life to another?

Or not to experience time at all?"

Scorpion's Journey

He reached out and kissed her belly. It was snowing softly and intermittently. He reached out and kissed the snow. His kisses are always crooked and acrid. The samovar had been suffocating all the bottom of the walls with smoke since yesterday. He would no longer sleep. He had made up his mind, but he couldn't forget the floating caves and corpses. One long eyelash was pitch black. They always filled their glasses. He did not know where to put the moon and the sky. He took it and put it in his pocket. Toenails are elongated. Dirty. He hasn't cut his beard for ten years. He looked at the mountain and became a carnation. The wall was filtered every night. He could not fit in the sandals for a long time.

Dersim could not forget its ravines. One night he saw her washing her house. What he saw was that he had destroyed his house. He cut off his thumb. When he cuts off what he sees. Rooster blood shed under a sooty nightlight.

This city has a street. One night on that street. He didn't like these walls then. The mountain suffered. Paddy field on the outskirts. Salt. He felt his body with an emptiness unfamiliar to the seas. He would look out at the house with the curtains lined up in rows. This end of the street always faces the fire. There will be a shout in flames. Street. It was the time when there was no outside. That is, when the inside and the outside are not destined for an ambiguous sharpness. One night they woke him up too. He didn't say who you are. He couldn't say. Because they took your tongue first. They asked for his identity in an inn room in Izbe. He couldn't speak. Their hands are angular, they are stripped down to the elbows. They fed the wife. They laughed blackly. ( THEY SMILE SLEEP IN THE MOUNTAINS. ANT WAS WALKED IN WITH PRAYERS IN THE POCKETS. THREE SUMMERS. HE RENEWED THE HOURS AND SHIPPED THE MATTRESS. THEY FEARED IN THEIR BUTTERS. TREES. URYAN FINISHES ON THE COVERS. He stopped spitting. They didn't beat that night. And the night after that. For three nights there were eyes on the plastered walls. He wondered behind the walls. Where was it outside? Was he outside? They came back three nights later while I was sleeping again. He didn't hear them. They found him slumped in front of his door, trembling until morning. It left the world poor. They stole the moon and the sky.  

He's private in his sleep when he lies down and enters his house. Every morning the sound of spinning tops, the screeching cries, the dust-shaken carpet beatings were humiliated. If he could, his chest broke apart. They had learned too. The hinges of the door tightened. The turn of a tongue is a jingle. Chandeliers lit up. A silk handkerchief on the sofa. It's bleeding from yesterday.

Will you come? he said. Purple wasn't a color at that moment. It was dark. It was snow. It was silence. The pus poured out from your heels. The display cases were as thin as if they had been taken from another story. A crystal riot in sugar bowls. Women and children kept turning for years. An ugly silhouette in a country painting. It's pale yellow. He didn't go out for four days. Snow tired. The uncanny lights of the street turned blue. He grabbed the tip of the sirens he had forgotten and started running. These nightmares are his. What if it wasn't a big city?

He was just as distracted when he was at the coffee shop. He was snuggled up next to her. eyelashes. A land. A bushy. Rosebud on his palm. A book of seventy editions. He said read. It's good for your distraction. He inquired. It's a bookstore. So scared. The book is like a flurry of glue in his hand as he holds it. Whatever they packed their hands with, the smell of ink did not come out.

A thousand and one nights he thought. It was a steel affliction . Didn't read before. The book's pages pimples pimples staggered