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