[N]othing is as surprising as life. Except for writing. Except for writing. Yes, of course, except for writing, the only consolation.

I believe strongly in an author's moral responsibility. But his first obligation is to write good books.

Sometimes I would see them not as mementos of the blissful hours but as the tangible precious debris of the storm raging in my soul.

When something explosive is kept hidden away, a tension builds within that must ultimately be released.

What is love?” “I don’t know.” “Love is the name given to the bond Kemal feels with Füsun whenever they travel along highways or sidewalks; visit houses, gardens, or rooms; or whenever he watches her sitting in tea gardens and restaurants, and at dinner tables.” “Hmmm … that’s a lovely answer,~ But isn’t love what you feel when you can’t see me?” “Under those circumstances, it becomes a terrible obsession, an illness.

I very much enjoy reading other writers' diaries, mainly because it makes me ask myself: Are they like you? How do they think?

And before long , the msuic , the views rushing past the window , my fathers voice and the narrow cobblestone streets all merged into one , and it seemed to me that while we would never find answers to these fundamental questions , it was good for us to ask them anyway . pg. 284