Peris And Demons By Aziz Nesin

[nairi]

August 6, 2003. Exactly 8 years and one month ago that Aziz Nesin, one of Turkey's most controversial contemporary authors, passed away.

 

He was born on December 20, 1915.

 

Out of respect, I wanted to share this first chapter from his autobiography "That's how it was but not how it's going to be". You can read a short biography and the rest of Part I "Istanbul Boy" here:

 

http://inic.utexas.edu/menic/cmes/pub/iboy/iboy.html

 

 

Peris and Demons

 

 

They often ask me, "How can you write so much?"

 

They say that some artists have peris which blow art on their souls. When peris are mentioned, I see an airmaid--something like a mermaid, whose upper part is girl and the bottom fish--she is bird below, and above, a ravishing beauty with golden hair. This half-bird, half-girl peri whispers inspiration into the ear of the artist on whose shoulder she perches. She gives him the copy.

 

I have no peri, but I have inspirational demons, witches and fiends. Mine are not half-bird, half-girl; they are, at the best, one-tenth human and the balance, monster. They don't perch on my shoulder, they climb on my back; I double up under them in blood and tears, tired and exhausted. I don't have just one demon or witch, I have herds and herds. If two of them get off, three more climb on my back.

 

Peris are of matchless beauty; witches, demons, of matchless ugliness.

 

Peris caress; demons strike, pinch, bite.

 

The inspirational fairy breathes into the ear of the artist on whose shoulder she perches; she inspires him.

 

The witches, demons and monsters who are on my back, who hurl themselves on me, ceaselessly command, force, and rebuke me.

 

"Write! Write, you! Don't stop; write! Why do you stop? Do you have the right to sleep, you? Wake up! Don't sit down--get up, quick! You can't get sick--pssst, come on, get up--write!"

 

My demons, witches and monsters are the ones who demand the rent, those who ask for money, my creditors, my inexhaustible necessities.

 

If I didn't write, what would I do?

 

In all this world, there is nothing which will inspire and force an artist to work as much as holes in the soles of his shoes.

 

If it had been in my hands, I would have had the Universal Society for the Propagation of Human Rights add the following article:

 

"The right to get sick is man's most indisputable, irrefutable, natural, and social right; every human may get sick."

 

I have always envied the happy people who can lie down on their backs in bed when they get sick. In my life, which has extended half a century, I haven't used my right to get sick for even one small day; my inspirational witches and monsters won't leave me alone. They are in my dream at night, my daytime fancies, in my whole world.

 

"Write!"

 

I write.

 

"Write more."

 

I write more.

 

If I look at the emerald green meadows in the morning dew with longing in my heart, I want to stretch out at full length on the grass. If only I could stroll there in my bare feet, the fifty years of weariness would quickly flow from my feet through and under the skin of the earth.

 

Someday, somehow, I will take the final rest--but what a pity--then, I won't be able to know I am at rest.

 

When someone asks me, "How can you write so much?" really, I feel an anger that can't be shown.

 

''After all, do I write for pleasure? I am forced to, for I am in dire straits.''

 

But if I were to be born again (something I don't believe in at all), if again I came to this world, I would choose no other path; I would like to be exhausted and go in the same way, in the same happy fatigue of such work.

 

If I write in very different genres, novel forms, and treat varied subjects, I think it is because of my living together with mixed people of different levels of our society and from different circles. Well, here are a few of the jobs I've done up to now: peddler, shepherd, soldier, accountant, painter, newsboy, bookstore, private teacher, photographer, writer, newspaperman, groceryman, convict (that's a job too, and one of the most difficult), unemployed (that's the hardest job of all), shoeshine boy, barber and other jobs.

 

My memories are not great; I know that they don't ever have the smallest importance in themselves. But from the view of the lives of all of you, as a reflection of our society and the period in which we have lived, with the hope that this may attract your interest, I will relate my recollections to you, without falsehood or deceit.