I am a Reader Episode 28 - Tutunamayanlar (duration: 55.11) Hello, I am Deniz Yüce Başarır. Welcome to the podcast of those who love talking about books, listening to them and of course reading them. “I am a Reader” is starting. One night, when the summer of 2010 turned into fall, I was sitting in the garden reading a new novel file. It hit me from the very first page. It has such an effective beginning… As the novel progresses, the effect increases, and tears start to flow from my eyes. I cannot stop my tears. I accept it because of a bit of publisher passion, I have a very good, very effective novel in my hands. Moreover, this file belongs to an author I have known since his first novel. I feel that this book will expand his readership even more. I get excited, I write a message to his agency, 'I really liked it'… We correspond to see how many copies we will print, we are both excited. The novel impresses me with its story and language, but there is something else that I am struck by. This novel is dedicated by a novelist to another novelist. Like a shouted answer to the question of the departed novelist, “I am here, my dear reader, where are you?” Like a scream, an embrace, a dedication… “I am here Oğuz Atay, we are here,” says the novel, “we have not forgotten you, we cannot forget you, look, in the words, sentences, signs, among the characters in this novel, you are standing. You are a pure hero of our literature.” The author of the new dossier is Hakan Günday, and the name of the dossier was Az. Of course, let’s also mention the name of his agency. Nermin Mollaoğlu. We both talk about that night from time to time. Az was truly loved and read a lot. It has been 10 years since it was published. Well, you get the idea, we will talk about my dear Oğuz Atay with my beloved Hakan Günday. In this section of I am a Reader, we have one of the most important names in Turkish literature, Oğuz Atay, and his cult novel Tutunamayanlar. “The incident began one night in Turgut’s house in the second half of the 20th century. Olric didn’t exist then; Turgut’s mind wasn’t this confused then. He was sitting at home at midnight thinking, Selim had left this world a few days ago of his own volition, leaving behind something resembling a letter, as everyone does in these situations. Turgut had placed this letter on his desk and was sitting across from him. The lines that Selim had scribbled with shaky handwriting were flying before his eyes. He could almost make out his friend’s long fingers among the letters, and he thought he could hear his thick and husky voice along with the words he was reading. Olric didn’t exist back then; weather reports weren’t read after the daily bulletins. The situation wasn’t as clear-cut as it is today, and in a way, it wasn’t vague yet. ‘Why did this letter come and find me?’ he was saying softly. So the habit of saying it softly went back to that time. So talking to himself had started that midnight. He was overwhelmed by the inexpressible distress of his anger at the objects around him. Selim could perhaps describe this life as a living room-salamanje in the front, two bedrooms in the back, a kitchen-storage room-bathroom on the right side of the corridor, his wife and children sleeping inside, the petty bourgeois blessings he enjoyed in proportion to his money had brought him to a state where he could not breathe. Turgut was still looking around with meaningless gazes.