My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

Before my birth there was infinite time, and after my death, inexhaustible time. I never thought of it before: I’d been living luminously between two eternities of darkness.

“Who cares what you earned when you were alive? Tell us what you see. Is there life after death? Where’s your soul? What about Heaven and Hell? What’s death like? Are you in pain?”

With growing panic, I tried desperately to remember her, only to realize that despite love, a face long not seen finally fades.

For if a lover’s face survives emblazoned on your heart, the world is still your home.

Perhaps one day someone from a distant land will listen to this story of mine. Isn’t this what lies behind the desire to be inscribed in the pages of a book? Isn’t it just for the sake of this delight that sultans and viziers proffer bags of gold to have their histories written?