Nov 13, 2017

When I return, be home Elchin Safarli

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Title: When I return, be home

About the book “When I return, be at home” Elchin Safarli

Have you ever thought that men write best about love? In life everything seems different. A man is more restrained, less emotional. But if he is a writer, then these “laws” do not apply here. Elchin Safarli confirms this. It’s not for nothing that some fans of his work believe that he is a philosopher who knows a little more than you and I. He talks about simple themes, but it’s as if we are looking at all this from different angles. With his works he makes you see something special in this life, appreciate every moment, love, love...

The book “When I Return, Be Home” tells it all. This is a story about Hans, Maria and their daughter Dosta. It seems usual life which many of us live. But here the father shares his thoughts with his daughter through letters... Paper letters, about which modern generation Most likely he doesn't even suspect it.

This book is about the bitterness of loss - the loss of a close and very beloved person. Hans and Maria lost their daughter, but each of them copes with grief in their own way. A man writes letters to his daughter that never reach the recipient. If you decide to read this work, be prepared for the fact that you will not be able to control your emotions. It’s simply impossible not to cry at how subtly and emotionally Elchin Safarli perceives the world, and what kind of talent a person must have to put it all on paper. You are amazed, but immediately inspiration appears to live, create, appreciate, love... With all your heart!

In his letters, the hero talks about what happened in the past, his memories, which are firmly ingrained in his memory. After all, it is from these grains that our whole life consists.

Perhaps we begin to realize this when we lose something - something that will never return to us. But we still have memories.

And in the book “When I Return, Be Home” there is Beautiful music and the smell of the ocean. Simply indescribable sensations. It’s as if you’re flying into another world, where everything stopped with the tragedy of one family, but still continues to hit the shore like waves...

It is difficult to find an author who could touch the strings of your soul, to find those points that would finally make you perk up and understand that priorities are in to a greater extent placed incorrectly. This is not what we value in life - material goods will not make a person happy. Love is the force that drives all processes on the planet.

Everyone should read Elchin Safarli's book. This is a story about love, about pain, about the sea, about the smell of fresh baked goods. There is life in every word here. Perhaps the book will even force you to change something in your life, so that one day you won’t be left with only letters with never-said thoughts...

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The books of this writer tell about human experiences, comprehensive and deep. Readers call him “the doctor” women's souls" Elchin Safarli is the most sincere writer of the East. In his books you can find yourself, your feelings and experiences that every person faces every day. This article talks about one of the author’s latest books, “When I Return, Be Home”: reader reviews, plot and main characters.

A little about the author

Elchin was born in Baku in March 1984. He began publishing at the age of twelve in youth newspapers, writing stories right in school during lessons. Four years later he began working in various media. He studied at the International University of Azerbaijan at the Faculty of Journalism. He managed to try his hand at television, collaborated with Azerbaijani and Turkish channels. For a long time Elchin lived in Istanbul, which could not but affect his work. In the first books that made it famous author, the action took place in this city. Elchin is called the “second Orhan Pamuk.” Pamuk himself says that “Safarli’s books make him confident that eastern literature has a future.”

Debut novel

Safarli is the first writer of the East to write in Russian. The debut book “Sweet Salt of the Bosphorus” was published in 2008, and in 2010 it was included in the hundred most popular books in Moscow. The writer says that he created his book when he worked in construction company. The only joyful experience at that time was meeting with the pages of my book. Colleagues left for lunch, and Elchin, having snacked on an apple, continued to write his Istanbul history. He writes in different places. For example, he can draft an essay right on the ferry across the Bosphorus. But more often he writes at home, in silence. Muse is a changeable and fickle substance. You can’t rely on it, so Elchin believes that there are only two paths that will lead to success - skill and work. The book “When I Return, Be Home,” whose characters endear the reader to themselves, makes you want to read it non-stop.

Writer's creativity

In the same 2008 it comes out A new book, “There without going back.” A year later, Safarli presented his new work - “I will return.” In 2010, three books were published at once: “One Thousand and Two Nights”, “They Promised You to Me”, “No Memories Without You”. In 2012, Elchin delighted fans with new works: “If You Knew,” “Legends of the Bosphorus” and “When I’m Without You.” In 2013, the acclaimed book “Recipes for Happiness” was published. In this book, the writer told not only wonderful story about love, but also shared with readers wonderful recipes of oriental cuisine. In the book “When I Return, Be Home,” the reader is also greeted by the smells of fragrant baked goods and the atmosphere of the winter ocean. In the very first lines, the reader will find himself in a house that “smells of rooibos” and “cookies with raspberry jam.” And one of the characters in the book works in a bakery where they bake bread “with dried vegetables, olives and figs.”

Last works

In 2015, the book “I Want to Go Home” was published, the warm and romantic “Tell Me About the Sea” - in 2016. From Safarli’s books you understand how sincerely he loves Istanbul and the sea. He describes both the city and the water beautifully. When you read his books, it seems that you see the friendly lights of the city or hear the waves splashing. The author describes them so skillfully that you feel a light breeze, feel how the air is filled with the aroma of coffee, fruit and pastries. But it’s not just the smell of sweets that attracts readers to Safarli’s books. They contain a lot of love and kindness, wise advice and quotes. “When I Return, Be Home,” published in 2017, is also filled with the wisdom of a man who lived great life and has seen a lot in his lifetime. The author himself says that he likes the ideas embedded in the stories of the last two books.

What are his books about?

It is not surprising that in books by Safarli Behind every story there is a real truth hidden. In one interview he was asked what he likes to write about. He replied that about people, oh simple things, which surround and disturb everyone. Wants to talk about things that inspire, not depress. About the beauty of life. About the fact that waiting for “the perfect time is pointless.” We need to enjoy life right now. Safarli says that he is devastated by injustice and when a person does not live his own life. When the main thing for him becomes - to be correct in the eyes of neighbors, relatives, colleagues. And this absurdity is to depend on public opinion- is acquiring catastrophic proportions. It is not right.

“You need to let happiness into your life,” says the writer. “Happiness is gratitude for what you already have. Happiness is giving. But this does not mean that you should deprive yourself of something. No. You just need to share. Share what you have - understanding, love, a delicious dinner, happiness, skill.” And Safrali shares. Readers write in reviews: “When I return, be at home” - this is a story with which Elchin touches the very heart, penetrating into the most remote corners of the soul and revealing kindness and love in a person. And I also want to get up and run to the kitchen to bake sun buns, because the book is full delicious recipes.

As he writes

The writer says that in his books he is sincere and conveys the feelings and impressions that he experienced in certain moment own life. I wrote what I felt. It's not difficult because Elchin lives life ordinary person- goes to the market, walks along the embankment, communicates with people, rides the subway and even bakes pies.

“They say my stories inspire people. There can be no better praise for a writer,” he says. “We are given the opportunity to live life with or without love. There are such states and moments that you don’t want to see anyone, let alone love. But one day you wake up and realize that you have burned out. Everything is over. This is life."

That’s what he writes about in last book Elchin Safarli.

"When I return, be home"

Briefly about this book we can say this:

“This is the story of a father and daughter. They bake bread together, clear the ship’s deck of snow, read books, walk the dog, listen to Dylan and, despite the snowstorm outside, learn to live.”

What is actually told about in the book, published about four months ago, but has already collected several thousand reader reviews and, according to Google surveys, liked by 91% of users? Of course, Google is silent about exactly how many users left their reviews. But one thing is important: more than ninety percent of the readers who shared their opinions came to one conclusion: the book is worth reading. Therefore, let's look at it in more detail.

How the book was written

The narration is told from the perspective of the main character - he writes letters only daughter. Authors often resort to this genre. “When I Return, Be Home” is written in the form of letters. For a better perception by readers of the heroes of the work, for a deeper psychological characteristics Character writers often use this technique. IN in this case letters - compositional basis the entire work. They paint portraits of the heroes, and here the narrator writes about his own observations, feelings, conversations and arguments with friends, which allows the reader to perceive the hero from different sides. And perhaps the most important thing for which this method of writing was chosen is to allow the reader to understand the depth of the main character’s feelings, fatherly love and the pain of loss - the person will not be a hypocrite to himself, and own statements most often closer to the truth and more accurate.

In every line, his daughter is next to him - he shares recipes with her, talks about new acquaintances and friends, about a house on the ocean in the City of Eternal Winter. It would be too simple to say that in his letters he talks to her about life, shares his thoughts and experiences. In fact, his letters, contained in the small book “When I Return, Be Home,” are deep and bottomless in their content. They talk about limitless parental love, about the bitterness of loss, about finding ways and strength to overcome grief. Unable to accept the death of his beloved daughter and come to terms with her absence, he writes letters to her.

Life is happiness

Hans - main character works, the story is told on his behalf. He cannot come to terms with the death of his only daughter and writes letters to her. The first begins with a description of the new city he and his wife moved to after losing Dosta - the City of Eternal Winter. He reports that it is winter here all year round, during these November days“the ocean is retreating”, “the biting cold wind does not let you out of captivity.” The hero of Elchin Safarli’s book “When I return, be at home” tells his daughter that he hardly goes outside, he sits in the house where it smells of linden tea brewed with dried orange peel and cookies with raspberry jam, which their daughter loved so much. They put her portion away in the cupboard in case Dostu, like in childhood, runs into the kitchen for lemonade and cookies.

Hans works in a bakery not far from home; he and his partner bake bread. He writes to his daughter that baking bread is “a feat of hard work and patience.” But he cannot imagine himself without this business. Hans shares in a letter the recipes they use to bake bread. She and her companion Amir have long wanted to bake simits - a favorite treat for coffee. Hans goes to Istanbul, where he lives for several days and learns how to bake simita. But the value of his letters lies not in the wonderful recipes, but in the wisdom that he shares with his daughter. Telling her: “Life is a journey. Enjoy,” he forces himself to live. The whole plot is based on this. “When I return, be home” is a story about happiness, it is in your favorite city, where you live, in the eyes of your loved one, in your favorite business, and even in the cry of seagulls.

Life is love

Maria is Dost's mother. Hans, the protagonist of the book When I Return, Be Home, remembers how he met her. Maria is five years older than him. She worked in a library and was married. But he knew at first sight that the girl with brown hair would certainly become his wife. For four years he came to the library every day because the “deep confidence” that they would be together “swept away all doubts.” Maria often cries over a photograph of her daughter; this loss was very difficult for her. She left home and lived alone for almost a year and a half to be alone with her grief and get over her illness.

The pain did not go away, the attitude towards it changed. It’s just that she now occupies less space, making room for what Mary has never left - the desire to love. Maria will love the son of family friends, Leon, with all her heart. After the death of his parents, he and Hans will take the boy in with them. There is even a chapter entitled “It’s wonderful to love a living person” in the table of contents. “When I Return, Be Home” is a story about love, about how important it is for a person to be loved, to live brightly and enjoy those around him.

Life is about those who are nearby

From Hans's letters, the reader not only learns about his feelings or finds new recipes, but also meets his new friends: Amir, Umid, Jean, Daria, Leon.

Amir is Hans's partner, they work together in a bakery. Amir younger than Hans twenty-six years old, an amazingly calm and balanced person. In his homeland the seventh year there's a war going on. From her he took his family to the City of Eternal Winter. Amir wakes up at half past four in the morning, brews coffee - always with cardamom, prepares breakfast for his family and goes to the bakery. He plays the guitar at lunchtime, and in the evening, returning home, he has dinner - the first course must be red lentil soup. Reads books to the children and goes to bed. The next day everything repeats itself. Hans finds this predictability boring. But Amir is happy - he lives in harmony with himself, enjoys the love for what he has built.

The work “When I Return, Be Home” introduces another interesting hero- Umid - a rebel boy. Born and raised in the City of Eternal Winter, he worked in the same bakery with Hans - delivering baked goods to homes. He studied at a Catholic school and wanted to become a priest. The guy's parents are philologists, he reads a lot. Left the City of Eternal Winter. Now he lives in Istanbul and works in a bakery where they bake amazing simits. Married to an Idaho farmer's daughter. They often argue with his wife, an impulsive and jealous American, because Umid grew up in a slightly different environment, where his parents speak in a half-whisper and listen to Tchaikovsky in the evenings. But they don't last long. The young people immediately make peace. Umid is a sympathetic guy. When Hans is gone, he will take care of Maria and Leon and help them move to Istanbul.

“The reason for disappointment,” Hans writes in a letter, “lies in the fact that a person is not in the present. He is busy waiting or remembering. People drive themselves into loneliness at the very moment when they stop sharing warmth.”

Many readers write in their reviews: “When I return, be home” is a story about losses and gains that accompany a person throughout his life.

Life is about caring for the happiness of others

Jean is a family friend, a psychologist. Maria and Hans met him at the shelter when they took away the dog, Mars, and Jean, the cat. When he was little, his parents died in a car accident, Jean was raised by his grandmother, from whom he learned to cook a wonderful onion soup. On the days when he brews it, Jean invites friends and remembers his grandmother. He introduced them to his fiancée Daria, whose son Leon is growing up. His father left the family immediately after the birth of his son, learning that Leon was autistic. One day, leaving Leon with Maria and Hans, Jean and Daria will go on a trip from where they will not return.

Hans and Maria will keep the boy and call him son. This moment will touch the hearts of many readers, which they will write about in their reviews. “When I Return, Be Home” is a book that teaches you to share your warmth with others. Hans writes touchingly about the boy Leon and his illness. He tells his daughter that the boy loves to tinker with dough and helps them in the bakery. He admits to Dost that he is reliving his father's feelings.

“Those who we need and whom we will soon love will definitely knock on our door. Let’s open the curtains to the sun, bake apple raisin cookies, talk to each other and tell new stories - this will be our salvation.”

The annotation to “When I Return, Be Home” says that no one dies, those who loved each other during life will definitely meet. And neither name nor nationality matters - love binds forever.

Elchin Safarli

When I return, be home

Cover photo: Alena Motovilova

https://www.instagram.com/alen_fancy/

http://darianorkina.com/

© Safarli E., 2017

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017

Any use of the material in this book, in whole or in part, without the permission of the copyright holder is prohibited.

The publishing house thanks the literary agency “Amapola Book” for its assistance in acquiring the rights.

http://amapolabook.com/

***

Elchin Safarli is a volunteer at the Strong Lara Foundation for Helping Homeless Animals. In the photo he is with Reina. This once stray dog, paralyzed by an unknown gunman, now lives at the foundation. We believe that very soon the day will come when our pet will find a home.

***

Now I feel more clearly the eternity of life. No one will die, and those who loved each other in one life will certainly meet again after. Body, name, nationality - everything will be different, but we will be attracted by a magnet: love binds us forever. In the meantime, I live my life - I love and sometimes I get tired of love. I remember moments, I carefully preserve this memory in myself, so that tomorrow or in the next life I can write about everything.

My family

Sometimes it seems to me that the whole world, the whole life, everything in the world has settled in me and demands: be our voice. I feel - oh, I don’t know how to explain... I feel how huge it is, but when I start talking, it sounds like baby talk. What a difficult task: to convey a feeling, a sensation in such words, on paper or out loud, so that the one who reads or listens feels or feels the same as you.

Jack London

We all once crawled out into the light of day from a salty font, for life began at sea.

And now we can't live without her. Only now we eat salt separately and drink separately fresh water. Our lymph has the same salt composition as sea ​​water. The sea lives in each of us, although we separated from it a long time ago.

And the most land-dwelling man carries the sea in his blood, without knowing it.

This is probably why people are so drawn to look at the surf, at the endless series of waves and listen to their eternal roar.

Victor Konetsky

Don't invent hell for yourself

It's winter here all year round. The sharp northern wind - it often grumbles in a low voice, but sometimes it turns into a scream - does not release the whitish land and its inhabitants from captivity. Many of them have not left these lands since birth, proud of their devotion. There are also those who run away from here to the other side of the ocean from year to year. Mostly brown-haired women with bright nails.

In the last five days of November, when the ocean humbly retreats, bowing its head, they - with a suitcase in one hand, with children in the other - rush to the pier, wrapped in brown cloaks. The ladies—one of those who are devoted to their homeland—look at the fugitives through the cracks of the closed shutters, grinning—either out of envy, or out of wisdom. “We invented hell for ourselves. They devalued their land, believing that it was better where they had not yet reached.”

Your mom and I have a good time here. In the evenings she reads books about winds aloud. In a solemn voice, with a proud air of being involved in magic. At such moments, Maria resembles weather forecasters.

“...The speed reaches twenty to forty meters per second. It blows constantly, covering a wide strip of coastline. As the updrafts move, the wind is observed over an increasingly large part of the lower troposphere, rising up several kilometers.”

On the table in front of her is a stack of library books and a pot of linden tea brewed with dried orange peel. “Why do you love this restless wind?” - I ask. Returns the cup to the saucer and turns the page. “He reminds me of a young me.”

When it gets dark, I hardly go outside. Holing up in our house, which smells of rooibos, softened clay and cookies with raspberry jam, your favorite. We always have it, mom puts your portion in the cupboard: suddenly, like in childhood, you run from a hot day into the kitchen for basil lemonade and cookies.

I do not like dark time days and the dark water of the ocean - they oppress you with longing for you, Dost. At home, next to Maria, I feel better, I become closer to you.

I won’t upset you, I’ll tell you about something else.

In the mornings, until lunch, my mother works in the library. Books are the only entertainment here; everything else is almost inaccessible due to the wind, dampness and the character of the local residents. Eat dance club, but few people go there.

I work in a bakery near my house, kneading dough. Manually. Amir, my companion, and I bake bread - white, rye, with olives, dried vegetables and figs. Delicious, you would like it. We do not use yeast, only natural sourdough.

Yes, baking bread is a feat of hard work and patience. It's not as simple as it seems from the outside. I can’t imagine myself without this business, it’s as if I wasn’t a man of numbers.

I miss. Dad

We have been given so much and we don't appreciate it.

I want to introduce you to those who here, sometimes without knowing it, make us better. Does it really matter that we are nearly seventy! Life is constant work on yourself, which you cannot entrust to anyone, and sometimes you get tired of it. But do you know what the secret is? On the road everyone meets those who kind words, silent support, a set table helps to go through part of the journey easily, without losses.

At Mars in the morning good mood. Today is Sunday, Maria and I are at home, we all went for a morning walk together. We dressed warmly, grabbed a thermos of tea, and headed to an abandoned pier, where seagulls rest in calm weather. Mars does not scare away the birds, lies down nearby and looks at them dreamily. They sewed him warm clothes so his belly wouldn’t get cold.

I asked Maria why Mars, just like humans, loves to watch birds. “They are absolutely free, at least it seems so to us. And birds can be there for a long time, where it doesn’t matter what happened to you on earth.”

Sorry, Dostu, I started talking, I almost forgot to introduce you to Mars. Our dog is a cross between a dachshund and a mongrel; we adopted him from the shelter distrustful and intimidated. Warmed it up, loved it.

Him sad story. Mars spent several years in a dark closet, his non-human owner performed cruel experiments on him. The psychopath died, and neighbors found the barely alive dog and handed it over to volunteers.

Mars cannot be left alone, especially in the dark, and whines. There should be as much space around him as possible more people. I take it with me to work. There, and not only, they love Mars, even though he is a gloomy fellow.

Why did we call it Mars? Because of the fiery brown fur and a character as harsh as the nature of this planet. In addition, he feels good in the cold and enjoys wallowing in the snowdrifts. And the planet Mars is rich in water ice deposits. Do you get the connection?

When we returned from our walk, the snow became heavier and the wires were covered with white growths. Some passersby rejoiced at the snowfall, others scolded.

I can see how important it is not to stop each other from creating magic, no matter how small. Everyone has their own - on a piece of paper, in the kitchen preparing red lentil soup, in a provincial hospital or on the stage of a silent hall.

There are also many who create magic to themselves, without words, for fear of letting it out.

You cannot question your neighbor’s talents; You shouldn’t draw the curtains, preventing someone from watching how nature works its magic, carefully covering the roofs with snow.

People are given so much for free, but we don’t appreciate it, we think about payment, we demand checks, we save for a rainy day, missing the beauty of the present.

I miss. Dad

Don't forget where your ship is sailing

our White House stands thirty-four steps from the ocean. It has been empty for many years, the paths to it are covered with a thick layer of ice; the chimney was clogged with sand, seagull feathers, and mouse droppings; the stove and walls yearned for warmth; Through the frosty window panes the ocean was not visible at all.

Locals They are afraid of the house, calling it “meches,” which translates as “infecting with pain.” “Those who settled in it fell into the prison of their own fears and went crazy.” Stupid arguments didn’t stop us from moving into the house we fell in love with as soon as we set foot on the threshold. Perhaps for some it became a prison, for us it became liberation.

Having moved in, the first thing we did was light the stove, make tea, and the next morning we repainted the walls that had warmed up overnight. Mom chose the color " Starlight Night", something between lavender and violet. We liked it, we didn’t even bother hanging pictures on the walls.

Cover photo: Alena Motovilova

https://www.instagram.com/alen_fancy/

http://darianorkina.com/

© Safarli E., 2017

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017

Any use of the material in this book, in whole or in part, without the permission of the copyright holder is prohibited.

The publishing house thanks the literary agency “Amapola Book” for its assistance in acquiring the rights.

***

Elchin Safarli is a volunteer at the Strong Lara Foundation for Helping Homeless Animals. In the photo he is with Reina. This once stray dog, paralyzed by an unknown gunman, now lives at the foundation. We believe that very soon the day will come when our pet will find a home.

***

Now I feel more clearly the eternity of life. No one will die, and those who loved each other in one life will certainly meet again after. Body, name, nationality - everything will be different, but we will be attracted by a magnet: love binds us forever. In the meantime, I live my life - I love and sometimes I get tired of love. I remember moments, I carefully preserve this memory in myself, so that tomorrow or in the next life I can write about everything.

My family

Sometimes it seems to me that the whole world, the whole life, everything in the world has settled in me and demands: be our voice. I feel - oh, I don’t know how to explain... I feel how huge it is, but when I start talking, it sounds like baby talk. What a difficult task: to convey a feeling, a sensation in such words, on paper or out loud, so that the one who reads or listens feels or feels the same as you.

Jack London

Part I

We all once crawled out into the light of day from a salty font, for life began at sea.

And now we can't live without her. Only now we eat salt separately and drink fresh water separately. Our lymph has the same salt composition as sea water. The sea lives in each of us, although we separated from it a long time ago.

And the most land-dwelling man carries the sea in his blood, without knowing it.

This is probably why people are so drawn to look at the surf, at the endless series of waves and listen to their eternal roar.

Victor Konetsky

1
Don't invent hell for yourself

It's winter here all year round. The sharp northern wind - it often grumbles in a low voice, but sometimes it turns into a scream - does not release the whitish land and its inhabitants from captivity.

Many of them have not left these lands since birth, proud of their devotion. There are also those who run away from here to the other side of the ocean from year to year. Mostly brown-haired women with bright nails.

In the last five days of November, when the ocean humbly retreats, bowing its head, they - with a suitcase in one hand, with children in the other - rush to the pier, wrapped in brown cloaks. The ladies—one of those who are devoted to their homeland—look at the fugitives through the cracks of the closed shutters, grinning—either out of envy, or out of wisdom. “We invented hell for ourselves. They devalued their land, believing that it was better where they had not yet reached.”

Your mom and I have a good time here. In the evenings she reads books about winds aloud. In a solemn voice, with a proud air of being involved in magic. At such moments, Maria resembles weather forecasters.

“...The speed reaches twenty to forty meters per second. It blows constantly, covering a wide strip of coastline. As the updrafts move, the wind is observed over an increasingly large part of the lower troposphere, rising up several kilometers.”

On the table in front of her is a stack of library books and a pot of linden tea brewed with dried orange peel. “Why do you love this restless wind?” - I ask. Returns the cup to the saucer and turns the page. “He reminds me of a young me.”

When it gets dark, I hardly go outside. Holing up in our house, which smells of rooibos, softened clay and cookies with raspberry jam, your favorite. We always have it, mom puts your portion in the cupboard: suddenly, like in childhood, you run from a hot day into the kitchen for basil lemonade and cookies.

I don’t like the dark time of day and the dark water of the ocean - they oppress me with longing for you, Dost. At home, next to Maria, I feel better, I become closer to you.

I won’t upset you, I’ll tell you about something else.

In the mornings, until lunch, my mother works in the library. Books are the only entertainment here; everything else is almost inaccessible due to the wind, dampness and the character of the local residents. There is a dance club, but few people go there.

I work in a bakery near my house, kneading dough. Manually. Amir, my companion, and I bake bread - white, rye, with olives, dried vegetables and figs. Delicious, you would like it. We do not use yeast, only natural sourdough.

Yes, baking bread is a feat of hard work and patience. It's not as simple as it seems from the outside. I can’t imagine myself without this business, it’s as if I wasn’t a man of numbers.

I miss. Dad

2
We have been given so much and we don't appreciate it.

I want to introduce you to those who here, sometimes without knowing it, make us better. Does it really matter that we are nearly seventy! Life is constant work on yourself, which you cannot entrust to anyone, and sometimes you get tired of it. But do you know what the secret is? On the road, everyone meets those who, with a kind word, silent support, and a set table, help to pass part of the journey easily, without loss.

Mars is in a good mood in the morning. Today is Sunday, Maria and I are at home, we all went for a morning walk together. We dressed warmly, grabbed a thermos of tea, and headed to an abandoned pier, where seagulls rest in calm weather. Mars does not scare away the birds, lies down nearby and looks at them dreamily. They sewed him warm clothes so his belly wouldn’t get cold.

I asked Maria why Mars, just like humans, loves to watch birds. “They are absolutely free, at least it seems so to us. And birds can be there for a long time, where it doesn’t matter what happened to you on earth.”

Sorry, Dostu, I started talking, I almost forgot to introduce you to Mars. Our dog is a cross between a dachshund and a mongrel; we adopted him from the shelter distrustful and intimidated. Warmed it up, loved it.

He has a sad story. Mars spent several years in a dark closet, his non-human owner performed cruel experiments on him. The psychopath died, and neighbors found the barely alive dog and handed it over to volunteers.

Mars cannot be left alone, especially in the dark, and whines. There should be as many people around him as possible. I take it with me to work. There, and not only, they love Mars, even though he is a gloomy fellow.

Why did we call it Mars? Because of the fiery brown fur and a character as harsh as the nature of this planet. In addition, he feels good in the cold and enjoys wallowing in the snowdrifts. And the planet Mars is rich in water ice deposits. Do you get the connection?

When we returned from our walk, the snow became heavier and the wires were covered with white growths. Some passersby rejoiced at the snowfall, others scolded.

I can see how important it is not to stop each other from creating magic, no matter how small. Everyone has their own - on a piece of paper, in the kitchen preparing red lentil soup, in a provincial hospital or on the stage of a silent hall.

There are also many who create magic to themselves, without words, for fear of letting it out.

You cannot question your neighbor’s talents; You shouldn’t draw the curtains, preventing someone from watching how nature works its magic, carefully covering the roofs with snow.

People are given so much for free, but we don’t appreciate it, we think about payment, we demand checks, we save for a rainy day, missing the beauty of the present.

I miss. Dad

3
Don't forget where your ship is sailing

our white house stands thirty-four steps from the ocean. It has been empty for many years, the paths to it are covered with a thick layer of ice; the chimney was clogged with sand, seagull feathers, and mouse droppings; the stove and walls yearned for warmth; Through the frosty window panes the ocean was not visible at all.

Local residents are afraid of the house, calling it “meches,” which translates as “infecting with pain.” “Those who settled in it fell into the prison of their own fears and went crazy.” Stupid arguments didn’t stop us from moving into the house we fell in love with as soon as we set foot on the threshold. Perhaps for some it became a prison, for us it became liberation.

Having moved in, the first thing we did was light the stove, make tea, and the next morning we repainted the walls that had warmed up overnight. Mom chose the color “starry night,” something between lavender and violet. We liked it, we didn’t even bother hanging pictures on the walls.

But the shelves in the living room are filled with children's books that we read with you, Dostu.

Do you remember your mother telling you: “If everything goes wrong, pick yourself up? good book, she will help."

From a distance, our house merges with the snow. In the morning, from the top of the hill, only the endless whiteness, greenish water of the ocean and the brown marks of the rusty sides of Ozgur are visible. This is our friend, meet me, I put his photo in the envelope.

To a stranger, it is an aged fishing boat. For us, he is the one who reminded us how important it is to accept change with dignity. Once Ozgur shone on the mighty waves, scattering nets, now, tired and humble, he lives on land. He is glad that he is alive and can, at least from a distance, see the ocean.

In Ozgur's cabin I found a dilapidated logbook, covered with interesting thoughts in the local dialect. It is unknown who owns the recordings, but I decided that Ozgur was talking to us like this.

Yesterday I asked Ozgur if he believed in predestination. On the third page of the magazine I received the answer: “We are not given the will to manage time, but only we decide what and how to fill it.”

Last year, municipal staff wanted to send Ozgur to scrap metal. If not for Maria, the longboat would have died. She dragged him to our site.

Dostu, the past and future are not as important as the present. This world is like the ritual dance of the Sufi sema: one hand is turned with the palm towards the sky, receiving the blessing, the other - towards the earth, sharing what was received.

Remain silent when everyone is talking, speak when your words are about love, even through tears. Learn to forgive those around you - this is how you will find the way to forgiving yourself. Don't fuss, but don't forget where your ship is sailing. Maybe he lost his way?..

I miss. Dad

4
Life is just a journey. Enjoy

When we approached this city with our suitcases, a blizzard covered the only road to it. Fierce, blinding, thick white. I can not see anything. The pine trees standing on the side of the road in gusts of wind whipped the car, which was already rocking dangerously.

The day before the move, we looked at the weather report: no hints of a storm. It started as unexpectedly as it stopped. But in those moments it seemed that there would be no end to it.

Maria suggested returning. “This is a sign that now is not the time to go. Turn around!” Usually decisive and calm, my mother suddenly panicked.

I almost gave up, but I remembered what would be behind the obstacle: a beloved white house, an ocean with immense waves, the aroma warm bread on a linden board, “Tulip Field” by Van Gogh in a frame on the fireplace, the face of Mars waiting for us in the shelter, and many more beautiful things - and pressed the gas pedal. Forward.

If we had gone back to the past then, we would have missed a lot. There wouldn't be these letters. It is fear (and not evil, as is often believed) that prevents love from opening up. Just as a magical gift can become a curse, fear brings destruction if it is not learned to control.

Dost, how interesting it is to receive life lessons when the age is far from young. The great ignorance of man lies in his confidence that he has felt and experienced everything. This (and not wrinkles and gray hair) is the real old age and death.

We have a friend, psychologist Jean, we met at a shelter. We took Mars, and he took a tailless red cat. Recently Jean asked people whether they were satisfied with their lives. Most responded positively. Then Jean asked the following question: “Do you want to live as you are for another two hundred years?” The respondents' faces were contorted.

People get tired of themselves, even joyful ones. Do you know why? They always expect something in return - from circumstances, faith, actions, loved ones. “It's just a path. Enjoy,” Jean smiles and invites us to his place for onion soup. We agreed on next Sunday. Are you with us?

I miss. Dad

5
We all really need each other

The onion soup was a great success. It was interesting to watch the preparation, especially the moment when Jean put the garlic-rubbed croutons into pots of soup, sprinkled them with Gruyere and into the oven. After a couple of minutes we were enjoying the soupe? l "oignon. We washed it down with white wine.

We've been wanting to try onion soup for a long time, but somehow never got around to it. It was hard to believe that it was tasty: the memories of school broth with coarsely chopped boiled onions did not induce appetite.

“In my opinion, the French themselves have forgotten how to properly prepare a classic soup? l "oignon, and they constantly come up with new recipes, one tastier than the other. In fact, the main thing in it is the caramelization of onions, which you get if you take sweet varieties. Adding sugar is extreme! And, of course, it is important with whom you share the meal. The French don’t eat onion soup alone. “It’s too warm and cozy for that,” my Isabelle said.”

That was the name of Jean's grandmother. He was a boy when his parents died in a car accident, and he was raised by Isabelle. It was wise woman. On her birthday, Jean cooks onion soup, gathers friends, and remembers her childhood with a smile.

Jean is from Barbizon, a city in northern France where artists came from all over the world to paint landscapes, including Monet.

“Isabelle taught me to love people and help those who are different. Maybe because such people in our village at that time stood out among a thousand inhabitants, and it was too hard for them. Isabelle explained to me that “normal” is a fiction, beneficial to those in power, as they supposedly demonstrate our insignificance and inadequacy to the fictitious ideal. People who consider themselves flawed are easier to manage... Isabelle accompanied me to school with the words: “I hope today you will meet your unique self.”

...It was a magical evening, Dostu. The space around us was filled with wonderful stories, mouth-watering aromas, and new shades of taste. We sat at a set table, the radio sang “Life is beautiful” in the voice of Tony Bennett; the overfed Mars and the quiet, red-haired Mathis were snoring at their feet. We were filled with a bright peace - life goes on.

Jean remembered Isabelle, Maria and I remembered our grandparents. Mentally we thanked them and asked for forgiveness. Because, as they grew older, they needed their care less and less. But they still loved and waited.

Dostu, in this strange world we all really need each other.

I miss. Dad

6
Our only task is to love life

You probably have déjà vu. Jean explains these outbreaks by reincarnation: the immortal soul in a new incarnation remembers what it felt in the previous body. “So the Universe suggests that there is no need to be afraid of earthly death, life is eternal.” It's hard to believe.

Behind recent years Twenty déjà vu has never happened to me. But yesterday I felt how exactly a moment of my youth was repeated. In the evening, a storm broke out, and Amir and I finished things earlier than usual: he put out the dough for the morning bread, I stewed the apples with cinnamon for the puff pastries. A new product from our bakery that is loved by our customers. Puff pastry It cooks quickly, so we usually only make the filling the night before.

By seven the bakery was locked.

Thoughtfully, I walked home along the raging ocean. Suddenly a prickly blizzard hit my face. Defending myself, I closed my eyes and was suddenly transported into memories of fifty years ago.

I'm eighteen. War. Our battalion defends the border on a mountain with a ridge seventy kilometers long. Minus twenty. After the night offensive there were few of us left. Despite being wounded in the right shoulder, I cannot leave my post. The food is over, the water is running out, the order is to wait until morning. Reinforcements are on the way. At any moment the enemy can mow down the remnants of the battalion.

Cold and exhausted, at times almost losing consciousness from pain, I stood at my post. The storm raged without abating, lashing me from all sides.

Dostu, then I first knew despair. Slowly, inevitably, it takes hold of you from within, and you cannot resist it. At such moments you can’t even concentrate on prayer. You're waiting. Salvation or end.

Do you know what held me back then? A story from childhood. Hiding under the table at one of the adult gatherings, I heard it from Grandma Anna. Working as a nurse, she survived the siege of Leningrad.

My grandmother recalled how once, during a long shelling, a cook in a bomb shelter was cooking soup on a burner. From what they were able to collect: some gave a potato, some an onion, some a handful of cereals from pre-war reserves. When it was almost ready, she took off the lid, tasted it, added some salt, returned the lid to its place: “Another five minutes and it’s ready!” Exhausted people lined up for stew.

But they couldn’t eat that soup. It turned out that laundry soap got into it: the cook did not notice how it stuck to the lid when she put it on the table. The food was spoiled. The cook burst into tears. No one stuttered, reproached, or looked reproachfully. In the most difficult circumstances, people did not lose their humanity.

Then, while on duty, I remembered again and again this story, told in Anna’s voice. He survived. Morning came and help arrived. I was taken to the hospital.

Dost, a person is not given the opportunity to fully understand life, no matter how hard he tries. It seems to us that we understand what, how and why it works. But every new day its serpentines and junctions prove the opposite - we are always at our desks. And the only task is to love life.

I miss. Dad

7
I'll wait for you as long as you need

When I met your mother, she was married. She's twenty-seven, I'm thirty-two. He immediately confessed his feelings to her. “I’ll wait for you as long as necessary.” He continued to come to the library where she worked, borrowed books, but that was all. I waited for Maria for four years, although she did not promise that she would come.

Later I found out: she thought I would cool down and switch to another. But I was adamant. This is not love at first sight, but the minute when you see a person and understand: this is the one. At our first meeting, I decided that this girl with brown hair would be my wife. And so it happened.

I was waiting for her myself, but I didn’t expect anything from her. Not that she will give birth to children for me and fill my house with comfort; nor that will continue to follow the road that brought us together. The deep confidence that we would be together under any circumstances swept away all doubts.

Meeting with Maria is the absence of hesitation even when it seemed that there was no hope.

I knew that our lives would intersect, I never stopped believing in it, although there were plenty of reasons to doubt it.

Everyone deserves to meet their person, but not everyone gets it. Some do not allow their will to strengthen and lose faith, others, disappointed, notice only the unsuccessful experience of the past, and some do not wait at all, being content with what they have.

Your birth strengthened our connection with Mary. This was another gift from Fate. We were so passionate about each other and work (love is a wonderful combination of friendship and passion) that the thought of a child did not occur to us. And suddenly life sent us a miracle. You. Our souls and bodies united, merged into one, and the path became common. We tried our best to love and protect you, but we made some mistakes.

I remember how Maria, rocking you to sleep, worried: “Everything in her is changing so quickly that I dream of stopping time like never before.” Nothing gave us greater happiness than seeing you, a sleepy little one, open your eyes, look at us and smile at the fact that we are your dad and mom.

Dostu, barriers to happiness are an illusion of the subconscious, fears are empty worries, and dreams are our present. She is reality.

I miss. Dad

8
Madness is half wisdom, wisdom is half madness

Until recently, Umid, a good-natured rebel boy, worked in our bakery. He delivered baked goods to homes. His clients loved him, especially the older generation. He was helpful, although he rarely smiled. Umid reminded me of twenty years old - a volcano of internal protest that was about to burst out.

Umid was brought up in a Catholic school and dreamed of becoming a priest. When he was growing up, he dropped out of school and left home. “Many believers pretend to be someone they are not.”

The day before yesterday Umid announced that he was resigning. Moving.

“I don’t want to live in this damn city. I'm tired of calling its ugliness uniqueness, and the hypocrisy of society - a property of mentality. You visitors cannot see how rotten everything is here. And eternal winter is not a feature geographical location, but a curse. Look at our government, all they do is talk about love for their homeland. If they started talking about patriotism, it means they were stealing. But it’s our own fault: when they elected themselves, we were sitting in front of the TV with popcorn.”

Amir tried to persuade Umid to think carefully, but I remained silent. I remember being a teenager very well - nothing could stop me. Impulsive decisions helped get things moving.

Dostu, did you know that my grandfather Barish was a teacher at the theological seminary? He and I talked about God more than once. I felt above me higher power, but religious dogmas disgusted me.

One day, excited by Barysh’s calm reaction to another school injustice, I blurted out: “Grandfather, it’s nonsense that everything is always on time! Our will determines too much. There is no miracle or predestination. Everything is just will.”

Elchin Safarli

When I return, be home

My family

Sometimes it seems to me that the whole world, the whole life, everything in the world has settled in me and demands: be our voice. I feel - oh, I don’t know how to explain... I feel how huge it is, but when I start talking, it comes out as baby talk. What a difficult task: to convey a feeling, a sensation in such words, on paper or out loud, so that the one who reads or listens feels or feels the same as you.

We all once crawled out into the light of day from a salty font, for life began at sea.

And now we can't live without her. Only now we eat salt separately and drink fresh water separately. Our lymph has the same salt composition as sea water. The sea lives in each of us, although we separated from it a long time ago.

And the most land-dwelling man carries the sea in his blood, without knowing it.

This is probably why people are so drawn to look at the surf, at the endless series of waves and listen to their eternal roar.

Victor Konetsky

Don't invent hell for yourself

It's winter here all year round. The sharp northern wind - it often grumbles in a low voice, but sometimes it turns into a scream - does not release the whitish land and its inhabitants from captivity. Many of them have not left these lands since birth, proud of their devotion. There are also those who run away from here to the other side of the ocean from year to year. Mostly brown-haired women with bright nails.

In the last five days of November, when the ocean humbly retreats, bowing its head, they - with a suitcase in one hand, with children in the other - rush to the pier, wrapped in brown cloaks. The ladies - one of those who are devoted to their homeland - through the cracks of the closed shutters look at the fugitives, grinning - either out of envy, or out of wisdom. “We invented hell for ourselves. They devalued their land, believing that it was better where they had not yet reached.”

Your mom and I have a good time here. In the evenings she reads books about winds aloud. In a solemn voice, with a proud air of being involved in magic. At such moments, Maria resembles weather forecasters.

“...The speed reaches twenty to forty meters per second. It blows constantly, covering a wide strip of coastline. As the updrafts move, the wind is observed over an increasingly large part of the lower troposphere, rising up several kilometers.”

On the table in front of her is a stack of library books and a pot of linden tea brewed with dried orange peel. “Why do you love this restless wind?” - I ask. Returns the cup to the saucer and turns the page. “He reminds me of a young me.”

When it gets dark, I hardly go outside. Holing up in our house, which smells of rooibos, softened clay and cookies with raspberry jam, your favorite. We always have it, mom puts your portion in the cupboard: suddenly, like in childhood, you run from a hot day into the kitchen for basil lemonade and cookies.

I don’t like the dark time of day and the dark water of the ocean - they oppress me with longing for you, Dost. At home, next to Maria, I feel better, I become closer to you.

I won’t upset you, I’ll tell you about something else.

In the mornings, until lunch, my mother works in the library. Books are the only entertainment here; everything else is almost inaccessible due to the wind, dampness and the character of the local residents. There is a dance club, but few people go there.

I work in a bakery near my house, kneading dough. Manually. Amir, my companion, and I bake bread - white, rye, with olives, dried vegetables and figs. Delicious, you would like it. We do not use yeast, only natural sourdough.

Yes, baking bread is a feat of hard work and patience. It's not as simple as it seems from the outside. I can’t imagine myself without this business, it’s as if I wasn’t a man of numbers.

I miss. Dad

We have been given so much and we don't appreciate it.

I want to introduce you to those who here, sometimes without knowing it, make us better. Does it really matter that we are nearly seventy! Life is constant work on yourself, which you cannot entrust to anyone, and sometimes you get tired of it. But do you know what the secret is? On the road, everyone meets those who, with a kind word, silent support, and a set table, help to pass part of the journey easily, without loss.

Mars is in a good mood in the morning. Today is Sunday, Maria and I are at home, we all went for a morning walk together. We dressed warmly, grabbed a thermos of tea, and headed to an abandoned pier, where seagulls rest in calm weather. Mars does not scare away the birds, lies down nearby and looks at them dreamily. They sewed him warm clothes so his belly wouldn’t get cold.

I asked Maria why Mars, just like humans, loves to watch birds. “They are absolutely free, at least it seems so to us. And birds can be there for a long time, where it doesn’t matter what happened to you on earth.”

Sorry, Dostu, I started talking, I almost forgot to introduce you to Mars. Our dog is a cross between a dachshund and a mongrel; we adopted him from the shelter distrustful and intimidated. Warmed it up, loved it.

He has a sad story. Mars spent several years in a dark closet, his non-human owner performed cruel experiments on him. The psychopath died, and neighbors found the barely alive dog and handed it over to volunteers.

Mars cannot be left alone, especially in the dark, and whines. There should be as many people around him as possible. I take it with me to work. There, and not only, they love Mars, even though he is a gloomy fellow.

Why did we call it Mars? Because of the fiery brown fur and a character as harsh as the nature of this planet. In addition, he feels good in the cold and enjoys wallowing in the snowdrifts. And the planet Mars is rich in water ice deposits. Do you get the connection?

When we returned from our walk, the snow became heavier and the wires were covered with white growths. Some passersby rejoiced at the snowfall, others scolded.

I can see how important it is not to stop each other from creating magic, no matter how small. Everyone has their own - on a piece of paper, in the kitchen preparing red lentil soup, in a provincial hospital or on the stage of a silent hall.

There are also many who create magic to themselves, without words, for fear of letting it out.

You cannot question your neighbor’s talents; You shouldn’t draw the curtains, preventing someone from watching how nature works its magic, carefully covering the roofs with snow.

People are given so much for free, but we don’t appreciate it, we think about payment, we demand checks, we save for a rainy day, missing the beauty of the present.

I miss. Dad

Don't forget where your ship is sailing

our white house stands thirty-four steps from the ocean. It has been empty for many years, the paths to it are covered with a thick layer of ice; the chimney was clogged with sand, seagull feathers, and mouse droppings; the stove and walls yearned for warmth; Through the frosty window panes the ocean was not visible at all.

Local residents are afraid of the house, calling it “meches,” which translates as “infecting with pain.” “Those who settled in it fell into the prison of their own fears and went crazy.” Stupid arguments didn’t stop us from moving into the house we fell in love with as soon as we set foot on the threshold. Perhaps for some it became a prison, for us it became liberation.

Having moved in, the first thing we did was light the stove, make tea, and the next morning we repainted the walls that had warmed up overnight. Mom chose the color “starry night,” something between lavender and violet. We liked it, we didn’t even bother hanging pictures on the walls.

But the shelves in the living room are filled with children's books that we read with you, Dostu.

Do you remember your mother told you: “If everything goes wrong, pick up a good book, it will help.”

From a distance, our house merges with the snow. In the morning, from the top of the hill, only the endless whiteness, greenish water of the ocean and the brown marks of the rusty sides of Ozgur are visible. This is our friend, meet me, I put his photo in the envelope.

To a stranger, it is an aged fishing boat. For us, he is the one who reminded us how important it is to accept change with dignity. Once Ozgur shone on the mighty waves, scattering nets, now, tired and humble, he lives on land. He is glad that he is alive and can, at least from a distance, see the ocean.

In Ozgur's cabin I found an old logbook, covered with interesting thoughts in the local dialect. It is unknown who owns the recordings, but I decided that Ozgur was talking to us like this.

Yesterday I asked Ozgur if he believed in predestination. On the third page of the magazine I received the answer: “We are not given the will to manage time, but only we decide what and how to fill it.”

Last year, municipal staff wanted to send Ozgur to scrap metal. If not for Maria, the longboat would have died. She dragged him to our site.

Dostu, the past and future are not as important as the present. This world is like the ritual dance of the Sufi sema: one hand is turned with the palm towards the sky, receives the blessing, the other - towards the earth, shares what is received.