My sons,

It’s night again,
harsh and cold.
Things go missing, relentlessly.
Its long since I heard my mother!
Is she fine?
Does she think of me?
Better not, if it makes her cry
She cries, the only defense at her disposal.
My father, I can see him walking and looking back
I don’t know how I got this image of him,
as someone who walks and looks back,
as if hearing a call back.
We didn’t get on well,
but he kisses my forehead when I leave
now I am miles away form his kiss.
What about your father?
Do you get on well?
Why didn’t he hear you when you cried on the cross?
Fathers and sons they forsake each other.
Luckily I will not have children,
I don’t want to see them crying
nor see me looking back.
I also believe what Pamuk said,
“Death of the son begins with the death of the father”
I don’t want to initiate their death.
I free my sons from all the curse of Oedipus
Yes, they are not there..



If I could catch hold of someone’s hand
and say “never let me go!”
If I could look deep into someone’s eyes
and see me there.
If I could say ‘I love you’ to someone
and make her fall in love with me.
If I could tell someone a story
and make her believe it.
If I could present someone with a teddybear
clasping which she may sleep everyday.
If I could be with the sky when
lightening cleaves her bosom.
If I could travel with Don Quixote
to rescue the world and fight
with windmills fearing, they are enemy soldiers.
If I could believe in tomorrow
even if it is not there.
If I could linger on to someone’s prayer.
If I could last for a while
to see the coming of Jesus.


She may be the most (Though I don’t like this superlative) beautiful girl in our faculty endowed with a special talent of hiding her presence. She keeps or pretends to writing during the lecture and off the lecture. It may be her way of attracting and repelling attention. She has a small face barely shown; her windswept hair flows over her face hiding its features. Once I saw her eyes, it is neither deep nor frank but small and acute. It was evident that the arrow of love darting through her eyes is for somebody else. She speaks English, one day I heard her speaking Italian, it sounded like a glass falling to ground and break. I could pick up glass pieces from her voice. Today she came with the windswept hair tied up, showing her face fully. She was speaking with a student from Africa. Her gestures reminded me of a child who has not yet come in terms with the world and its terms. And someone who is slowly waking to love.

Is it easy for her to be beautiful? Does not beauty make us egregiously conscious of ourselves? Those beautiful and handsome people, wherever they look they see only themselves. Even a smooth stone can make them to look and verify their faces. They think the world is a mirror.
Beauty is our vertigo. What you feel at the sight of beauty you is vertigo. Vertigo can be defined as the fear of falling; a psychological problem of reputation composure according to Freud. It was masterfully depicted by Hitchcock in his movie ‘Vertigo’. But, the French writer Milan Kundera says, “Vertigo is something other than the fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempt and lures us. It is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.”
Beauty itself is a vertigo. That is what the Story of Narcissus proves. How long he might have looked at his own image reflected on that deep pool? Long enough to slip and drown. His love for his own image was so forceful that it made his legs weak; “Brothers, sorrowful lilies, I languish in beauty,” writes Valery for Narcissus. The Ovid version mythology says that his life force was drained out. His soul became an empty vessel as it’s all love was flown to the image reflected on the water. The image and the water in turn did not give back to him anything. The water swept away all his images as soon as he fell. The water doesn’t keep the trace of anything because it’s memory is fluid. Narcissus belongs to the most unfortunate category of lovers because he fell into a fluid memory.

Icarus fell for what he did not have. He did not look at his own image reflected on the water rather he looked at stars and birds, those flying wonders. His vertigo was not the emptiness within himself but the inadequacy that his body had. The more he aimed high the more sky retreated and the emptiness beneath thirsted for him. He pasted waxed wings to his body and began to fly. But, the sun that cruel annihilator of dreams and ambitions melted away his wings. He fell deeply and abruptly. Brueghel was there to paint his falling. WH Auden, William Carlos Williams and many other poets wrote mournful poems. Among those my favorite is William Carlos Williams version;

Landscape with the fall of Icarus
According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring
a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry
of the year was
awake tingling
near the edge of the sea
concerned with itself
sweating in the sun
that melted the wings’ wax
insignificantly off the costs
there was
a splash quiet unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning
– Williams Carlos Williams

I like it’s delicately elegiac tone.

An Interview with Slavoj Zizek

Slavoj Zizek, 59, was born in Ljubljana, Slovenia. He is a professor at the European Graduate School, international director of the Birkbeck Institute for Humanities in London and a senior researcher at the University of Ljubljana’s institute of sociology. He has written more than 30 books on subjects as diverse as Hitchcock, Lenin and 9/11, and also presented the TV series The Pervert’s Guide To Cinema.
When were you happiest?
A few times when I looked forward to a happy moment or remembered it – never when it was happening.
What is your greatest fear?
To awaken after death – that’s why I want to be burned immediately.
What is your earliest memory?
My mother naked. Disgusting.
Which living person do you most admire, and why?
Jean-Bertrand Aristide, the twice-deposed president of Haiti. He is a model of what can be done for the people even in a desperate situation.
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Indifference to the plights of others.
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Their sleazy readiness to offer me help when I don’t need or want it.
What was your most embarrassing moment?
Standing naked in front of a woman before making love.
Aside from a property, what’s the most expensive thing you’ve bought?
The new German edition of the collected works of Hegel.
What is your most treasured possession?
See the previous answer.
What makes you depressed?
Seeing stupid people happy.
What do you most dislike about your appearance?
That it makes me appear the way I really am.
What is your most unappealing habit?
The ridiculously excessive tics of my hands while I talk.
What would be your fancy dress costume of choice?
A mask of myself on my face, so people would think I am not myself but someone pretending to be me.
What is your guiltiest pleasure?
Watching embarrassingly pathetic movies such as The Sound Of Music.
What do you owe your parents?
Nothing, I hope. I didn’t spend a minute bemoaning their death.
To whom would you most like to say sorry, and why?
To my sons, for not being a good enough father.
What does love feel like?
Like a great misfortune, a monstrous parasite, a permanent state of emergency that ruins all small pleasures.
What or who is the love of your life?
Philosophy. I secretly think reality exists so we can speculate about it.
What is your favourite smell?
Nature in decay, like rotten trees.
Have you ever said ‘I love you’ and not meant it?
All the time. When I really love someone, I can only show it by making aggressive and bad-taste remarks.
Which living person do you most despise, and why?
Medical doctors who assist torturers.
What is the worst job you’ve done?
Teaching. I hate students, they are (as all people) mostly stupid and boring.
What has been your biggest disappointment?
What Alain Badiou calls the ‘obscure disaster’ of the 20th century: the catastrophic failure of communism.
If you could edit your past, what would you change?
My birth. I agree with Sophocles: the greatest luck is not to have been born – but, as the joke goes on, very few people succeed in it.
If you could go back in time, where would you go?
To Germany in the early 19th century, to follow a university course by Hegel.
How do you relax?
Listening again and again to Wagner.
How often do you have sex?
It depends what one means by sex. If it’s the usual masturbation with a living partner, I try not to have it at all.
What is the closest you’ve come to death?
When I had a mild heart attack. I started to hate my body: it refused to do its duty to serve me blindly.
What single thing would improve the quality of your life?
To avoid senility.
What do you consider your greatest achievement?
The chapters where I develop what I think is a good interpretation of Hegel.
What is the most important lesson life has taught you?
That life is a stupid, meaningless thing that has nothing to teach you.
Tell us a secret.
Communism will win

In Certain Picture

In certain picture,
you would like to be alone.
It may be a winter or an autumn
or a day that calendar forgot.
Moon may be biting its nails.
Sun, drinking a cup of cold water.
You stand alone
suspended from all review mirrors.
In such a picture,
you would like to be alone.
You may be a man
with a five o’clock shadow
or a woman
who has seen God naked.
You can look back or ahead,
you may wonder:
“why the whole sky is lost in clouds!”
In such a picture you
would like to be alone which
a girl may keep in her diary
a mother may keep in her Bible
a boy may send to her girlfriend:
“cover me be with your eyelids
I am  soaked in sorrow.”