Sabahattin Ali

Last night he’d said to me, ‘We never got the chance to sit down and talk.’ But now I knew differently. Last night we’d spoken for many long hours.
That same night, he’d left his life behind and entered mine. And there he would remain, truly alive – more so than anyone I’d ever known. Wherever I went, he’d be there at my side.
When I got to the office, I sat down at Raif Efendi’s empty desk. Placing his black notebook before me, I turned back to the first page.

Send a hero into a dragon’s den, and his task is clear. It is a hero of another order who can summon up the courage to lower himself into a well of which we have no knowledge.

And here was the strangest thing: the more my situation worsened, the less I could be sure of surviving from one day to the next, the greater my shame and my reluctance to ask for help.

The more I needed my friends, the more I longed to run away.

He seemed so confident, so pleased with himself.

For nothing terrified me more than the prospect of correcting a false impression.

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

There was, I told myself, everything to live for.

Some things we never know we need until we find them.

I felt the sadness of a conversation left unfinished.