«Had the garden of my memory not begun to wither, I would perhaps have no reason to complain, but every time I pick up my pen, I see you, my dear readers, and as I remember what you expect of me, as I survey my arid garden and struggle to reclaim the memories that have abandoned me, one by one, all I see are the traces they left in the dry soil. To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has left never to return: It is to grieve, dear reader, it is to weep.»
Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book
(original: Kara Kitap.
Tradução de Maureen Freely)
(original: Kara Kitap.
Tradução de Maureen Freely)
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