BY ORHAN PAMUK
Conrad, Nabokov, Naipaul–these are writers known for having managed to migrate between languages, cultures, countries, continents, even civilizations.
Their imaginations were fed by exile, a nourishment drawn not through roots but through rootlessness.
My imagination, however, requires that I stay in the same city, on the same street, in the same house, gazing at the same view.
Istanbul’s fate is my fate.
I am attached to this city because it has made me who I am.
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