style。
I wandered through the Chicken…Sellers Market in Bayazid； through the
empty square of the slave market； amid the pleasant aromas of soup and
pudding shops； as if searching。 I passed the closed doors of barbershops；
clothes pressers； an old bread baker who was counting his money and looking
at me in surprise； I passed a grocer’s shop smelling of pickles and salted fish；
and since my eyes were taken only by colors； I walked into a herbs and notions
shop where something was being weighed； and in the light of a lamp； stared
passionately； the way one looks at one’s beloved； at the sacks of coffee； ginger；
saffron and cinnamon； the colorful cans of gum mastic； the aniseed whose
scent wafted from the counter； and at mounds of brown and black cumin。
304
Sometimes I want to put everything into my mouth； sometimes I want to fill a
page with a picture of all creation。
I walked into the place where I’d filled my stomach twice before in the last
week； which I’d personally named the “soup kitchen of the downtrodden”—
actually； of the “miserable” would’ve been more appropriate。 It was open until
midnight to those who knew about it。 Inside were a few unfortunates dressed
like horse thieves or like men who’d escaped the gallows； a couple of pathetic
characters whose sorrow and hopelessness caused their sights to slip from this
world to distant paradises； as happens with opium addicts； two beggars who
were at pains to follow even basic guild etiquette； and a young gentleman
who’d seated himself in a corner at a distance from this crowd。 I gave th