HÜZÜN

prehiteva me čas. zato na kratko nekaj o zimi, ker je sicer zunaj toplo in vedno vec sonca. hladno vreme vedno traja predolgo in nekako sem se tudi jaz na to odzvala s pocutjem, mogoce podobnim kot v Pamukovi knjigi Istanbul. obcutek imenuje hüzün in opise kot melanholijo, ki jo cuti celo mesto, ki v primerjavi z velicastno preteklostjo zdaj propada iz dneva v dan. mogoce je res nekaj na tem, mogoce se me je del tega brez vprasanja dotaknilo, mogoce je slo za druge stvari. kakorkoli, tukaj je odlomek... 

time is passing by fast. let me write shortly something about winter, because outside is getting warmer with more and more sunshine and i feel like i should hurry up to catch the spring. depressive weather always stays for too long and somehow i also found myself feeling according to it. maybe feeling is in a way similar to the one Orhan Pamuk is describing in his book Istanbul. he names it hüzün and describes melancholic feeling whole city feels as one, caused by glorious ottoman past replaced by deep nostalgia for it. maybe there is something about it, maybe it was unavoidable to get involved, maybe it was about other things. anyhow, here is a passage from it..

...but what i am trying to describe now is not the melancholy of istanbul, but the hüzün in which we see ourselves reflected, the hüzün we absorb with pride and share as community. to feel this hüzün is to see the scenes, evoke the memories, in which the city itself becomes the very illustration, the very essence of hüzün. i  am speaking of the evening when sun sets early, of the fathers under the street lamps in the back streets returning home carrying plastic bags..of the old booksellers who lurch from one financial crisis to the next and then wait shivering all day for a costumer to appear..of the children who play ball between cars on cobblestone streets, of the covered women who stand at remote bus stop..of the empty boat houses of the old bosphorus villas, of the teahouses packed to the rafters with unemployed men..the crowds rushing to catch ferry on winter evenings..of the women peeking through the curtains as they wait for husbands who never manage to come home until late at night, of the old men selling thin religious treatises in the courtyards of the mosques, of the tens of thousands of identical apartment house entrances, their facades discoloured by dirt, rust, soot and dust, of the city walls, ruins since the end of byzantine empire, of the markets that empty in the evening, of the seagulls perched on rusty barges caked with moss and mussels, of the crowds of men fishing from the sides of galata bridge..of the city cemeteries that seem like gateways to a second world and of their cypress trees, of the dim light that you see in the evening on the boats crossing from kadıköy to karaköy, of the little children in the streets who try to sell the same pocket of tissues to every passer-by, of the history books in which children read about the victories of the ottoman empire and of the beatings these same children receive at home..of the reddish-orange glint in the windows of uskudar in sunset..of the fruits and vegetables, garbage and plastic bags and wastepaper across abandonem street markets on a winter evening...
it is by seeing huzun, by paying our respect to its manifestations in the city's streets and views and people that we at last come to sense it everywhere..sometimes hüzün is so dense that you can almost touch it, almost see it spread like a film over its people and its landscapes...