Well, I can't write a short review.
Sinan, who just graduated from college, announced to friends and family his plans for the future: becoming a teacher or serving in the military. In fact, the heart is more resistant to such a life path than anyone else. Practical goals like getting a teacher's post and serving in the military were to see the wall, and he could only stand behind it and peer into the distance.
Based on the moment, I want to find someone to fund my book, but the reality is as hypocritical and utilitarian as the mayor's non-existent door and the contractor's empty bookshelf. Living in the vacuum of literary ideals, arguing passionately about the profound meaning of literature, the truth and truth of religion, taking literature and thinking as a habit, turning around and discovering how trivial life is, the 300 lire that was stolen and the blackout of the apartment. Ground chicken feathers.
All the arguments and quarrels reflect the resistance to the life in front of him. Does he really have a pure heart to write? Not necessarily, but because writing, a mental placebo, helped him escape the siege of the status quo. The father, who was obsessed with betting on horses, was hometown, a symbol of decay and depravity. I am not willing to bury my life in this remote place, but I have to face the fact that the book has been on the shelf for four or five months and no one cares, just like facing my most resentful father but my only reader. If fighting can't change reality, then use compromise to change yourself. In exchange for the reconciliation with the vulgar, cordial, and down-to-earth reality by killing the ambitious and lofty self. Accept the fate in front of you, inherit the incomprehension and loneliness in your blood, go down, and continue to dig that well that does not produce water. This is going down and going forward.
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