English
In the preface to his strange book of poems the liveliest surprise, the firmness of my character, which offeres different possibilities of reading, none of which you have the feeling that the poem ends or can be understood in its entirety, as a sort a gloss to the book by Georges Perec Species of spaces, the Samoan writer Albert Hanover makes us partakers of the feeling of dread, helplessness and confusion, as well as his rare attraction for the confines of things, the city limits.
There, he quickly realized, always a place, actually many places where cities ended. Naturally he was aware that for the same reason, could be said of them as being points where the city began, but the fact is that he always had the feeling that things were not exactly true, that the places where the city ended up rarely coincided with those where they started.
Perhaps because of this obsession, he had recorded as a high flame in memory, that it was a space inhabited by the imagination and therefore constantly moving image maker, things like the evening stroll by Leonard Bast in Howards End, who tried to follow the stars and, as described in a book, before he knew it he had come out of London and ended up lost in a forest, or the testimony of the actor, theater director, writer and Spanish filmmaker Fernando Fernan-Gomez, on his own particular way of celebrating the end of the war (buying a bottle of cheap cognac and exhilarating to walk and walk out of the city and come to some neighboring village).
He was particularly concerned of the immutability that somehow, he perceived in what he sensed in the confines of the cities, where the cities ended abruptly, without any transition, and this seemed not only monstrous but inconceivable-with every point space that opened ominously with only a few steps to had to be a fictitious force because the cities did not stop growing, or shrink over time, were somewhat in transformation and change, therefore these enclaves as resounding and decisive reality should be perfectly contingent self-worth is not nothing.
Something similar seem to experienced Orhan Pamuk, when he read the book by Gérard de Nerval Journey to the East, the description by the French writer about the Taksim Square, for Pamuk, born in 1952, as for all people from istambul (where there is also an important modern building called Ataturk Cultural Center, home to, among other things, several theaters and the Istanbul Symphony Orchestra) and lfor living in the district of Beyo?lu, the center of his personal world since childhood.
Paul Oilzum
Nerval called exclamatory, a meadow shaded by pines and infinite walnut to that square, which is the Pamuk that after years was covered with some of the oldest apartments in Istanbul old buildings, noble and venerable.
