Madonna in a Fur Coat

by Sabahattin Ali

And perhaps not without reason, for there was nothing about the man to suggest he might know one. No foreign word ever crossed his lips. He never spoke about knowing other languages, never carried with him foreign magazines or newspapers. In sum, he bore no resemblance to the sort of man who makes it his life’s main business to let the whole world know that he understands French.

Can there be any sweeter intoxication than exerting power and authority over one of your own kind? It is, nevertheless, a rare pleasure, to be calculated with care, and enjoyed only with a particular sort of person.

I had yet to learn that nothing in this world can ever match the marvels that we conjure up in our own minds.

Nothing grieves me more than seeing someone who has given up on the world being forced to smile.

I’d lived more during the past two weeks than in all the years of my life put together. Every day, every hour, was full, even when I was asleep. It was not just my tired limbs that were coming to life. It was also my soul, revealing to me the sublime vista it had kept buried for so long.

It wasn’t natural for happiness to arrive so suddenly.

It should not have mattered so much where we were born, whose child we were. All that mattered was that two people had found each other and achieved a rare happiness. The rest was incidental.

Those few months were worth a few lifetimes, don’t you think?