Letter to a Girl from Antalya
By Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar
Translated by Aysel K. Basci
In autumn 1961, Mehmet Özkaynak, a literature teacher at a high school in Antalya, gave an assignment to his students. He asked them to write a letter to the prominent Turkish author and poet Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar, asking him to describe himself. Although Tanpınar died of a heart attack in January 1962, just a few months later, he did indeed respond to one of those letters and treated it as a testament to his legacy. In time, this letter, in which Tanpınar briefly introduces himself and describes his artistic approach in a rather compact manner, became one of the best-known letters in contemporary Turkish literature. It still continues to serve as a valuable reference illuminating Tanpınar’s artistic approach and his philosophy on life. An English translation of that letter follows.
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1. Regrettably, I do not have a secretary
I could not respond to your letter in a timely manner. Although I have a lot of work as a poet, author, and a university professor, regrettably, I do not have a secretary. I did not want to keep a young person waiting who is curious about me and studying at high school in Antalya like I did from 1918 to 1919, in an age so long ago that it may be called legendary.
2. Your hometown has an important place in my life
Do you really like literature? Are you familiar with my work? I do not know. In your letter, I did not find any indication of whether you had properly read my writing or not. I only know that you are in high school and you live in Antalya. In other words, you are more or less living the same life I lived between 1918 and 1919. This is why I am writing to you. The town where you live, perhaps where you were born, has an important place in my life. It was at your beaches, looking at that sea, watching those southwesterly winds, wandering in the fruit orchards which were a lot less fertile back then that I came up with the ideas for my first poem and realized literature was my destiny. Slowly, I became a man of dreams.
3. It was a very snowy day
You may find my life story in any anthology. I was born in 1901. My father was a judge. Because of this, I spent most of my childhood in Anatolia, and my life then was dictated by my father’s appointments. We were in Istanbul only between his appointments. One day, at the age of three, I met myself at the Ergani-Maden. It was a very snowy day. From a warm and steamy window, I was looking at a slope covered with snow. Then, suddenly, it began to snow again. I was left with a kind of spellbound fascination. I remember that special moment on every snowy day and wait for the snow to begin falling.
4. In Sinop, I became friends with the sea
After Ergani, we went to Sinop (1908-1910), where I became friends with the sea. The biggest pleasure of my childhood was playing at the beaches of this city, located on an isthmus with sea on both sides. On the Tophane side (the real port for commerce), there was a craftsman named Delibaş who owned a ship-building factory. When I was seven or eight years old, I often voluntarily spent time among the workers there. I also enjoyed sitting on the sandy beach behind the factory and watching the waves push in. Later, I found out that the beach near the factory looked a lot like Şile and Kilyos. Nothing is more beautiful than waves relentlessly and endlessly crashing onto a sandy beach.
5. It was as if I was enchanted by the starry nights
In Siirt, I got to know the loneliness that sets in at nighttime on the distant mountains and among the stars. There, because the summers are very hot, we slept on rooftops. It was as if I was enchanted by the starry nights. Wave after wave, eternity was filling my body and soul. Like a Sumerian monk, my imagination was constantly busy with the stars. I was floating in mystery. Add to this the dreadful loneliness of the distant mountains at nighttime, and the crushing purple color setting in. In Kerkük, too, we slept on the rooftops (1913-1914). Again, the night and the stars... We arrived in this city, which we have now lost, when I was 13 years old. We lived in three different houses, all with a large garden.
6. Two views of the sea blew my mind
We arrived in Antalya in autumn 1916. I had grown somewhat. In the evenings, I was allowed to wander by myself on the shore near Hastahanebaşı, where there were large rocks. I used to stay there until it became completely dark and the shadows of the rocks began to scare me. Two views of the sea used to blow my mind. The first, on the side facing the beach, was a view of the rocks and moss at the bottom of the sea during the morning and evening hours under the calm surface of the sea; the second was the view of the widening of the waters under the sunlight during the noon hours, during which the sea resembled a pool of diamonds. In my imagination, these views were very important and meaningful. They were not only beautiful but also revealed to me a truth or a secret I could not resolve on my own.
7. The calm sea where the sun rested in magnificent splendor
One day, as I was leaving for Istanbul for my education, I encountered that view once again at Hastahanebaşı. But this time, in an entirely different way. I was going to the homes of my friends, Ali Kemahlı and Nail. From the emptiness between two houses I saw the calm sea where the sun rested in magnificent splendor. Nothing could be closer to a human, and at the same time, so crushingly beautiful. The view was not new to me. I could see it from anywhere on the terrace of the house where I was going while I played checkers with Nail. But, at that moment, it was as if I was seeing something new. I remember looking at it for a few moments, totally mesmerized. Was this a lesson from the sea or the sunlight? Even if it were, in my intellect I had no evidence for it. I only knew that what I was witnessing was important. In any event, I did not have the skill to transfer what I was seeing to my intellect.
8. I was a man who only liked to read novels
This was the period during which I devoted myself completely to poetry. Almost at a childish level, my only pleasure was reading novels. Despite this, I realized I was facing a psychological mystery that needed to be resolved, and I sensed it could be resolved between what I was seeing and what was coalescing with it. I was convinced that if I resolved—could resolve—the mystery of this view I would satisfy my curiosity. However, I did not have the means and the opportunities yet. The only word to describe that feeling was “fascination.” But, this was not enough. The reality was that this mystery which I could not resolve was serving as a lesson for the future.
9. The view was simply magnificent
In 1921, I returned to Antalya for a vacation. One day, at Hastahanebaşı, in between two houses, I again encountered the water that had merged with the sun, becoming its pool and its castle. The view was simply magnificent. However, all this beauty appeared to me as part of a weird thought about death. Nothing could be so close to a human, and yet so crushing and remote. This was the year I dedicated myself completely to poetry. I had read many poets and I met both Yahya Kemal and Haşim. I think that day, for the first time, I saw a copy of my own poem outside me. Did I really understand that? We can only find ourselves after we shed all of our little personal issues, or shape them into concrete intellectual thoughts.
10. I could not focus on anything other than language
Our destiny is hidden deep inside us. But, to reach it, we must shed many things. This happened with me quite late. In 1921, I was not yet there. I could not focus on anything other than language. During those same days, in the area where you live, I encountered another view of the sea. I saw the sea cave named Güvercinlik. This cave, which lightened and darkened with the rushing in and receding of the waters, became an important place for me. As I stated before, I was not yet at a level to convert what I saw into a small discovery. However, the concept of dreams, which is the foundation of my poetic aesthetic is somewhat related to this cave. I talk about Antalya extensively in my novel, “A Mind at Peace.”
11. The sea continuously talks to us
The rocks near Hastahanebaşı, the Güvercinlik Cave, and the sea weave the inner world of Mümtaz (the main character of my novel, “A Mind at Peace”). But one must read it carefully and identify all the hidden connections in it. I encountered the shores of Istanbul and the Bosphorus during these same years. But my real dreams are those in which I describe one part of the world as the starry nights of my youth and the mountains which are symbols of our lonely selves and our helplessness, and the other part, as the sea. I can say that these are the “algebra” of my poems. I approach the starry night and the sea through the loneliness that the mountains evoke in us. The sea continuously talks to us. Despite this, my feelings of loneliness never abated.
12. Yahya Kemal opened the door of the language for us
Of course, to be able to weave these views in this manner, I had to look at life from a city like Istanbul by the sea. In poetry and philosophy, my first and last teacher was Yahya Kemal. I had read and enjoyed Haşim earlier. These two poets made me forget all the poets who preceded them. In addition, in Yahya Kemal’s classes—he was my university professor—I tasted the pleasure of old-style poems. I learned Gâlib, Nedîm, Bâkî, and Nâilî (poets writing in old style) from him and liked them a great deal. But Yahya Kemal’s most important influence on me was the perfectionism in his poems and the beauty of the language he used. He opened the door of the language for us.
13. I dedicated my novel, “Five Cities,” to Yahya Kemal
Some look at Yahya Kemal’s influence on me differently. In reality, our aesthetics are different. The influence of this great man is only on my thoughts pertaining to nationality and history. My book, “Five Cities,” follows the path he opened up. In fact, it is dedicated to him. Twice this book was published away from where I was and I wasn’t able to do the dedication until later. The most important influence on my poetry is from the French school of thought, and especially from the Baudelaire-Mallarme-Valery branch of that school. But this description is also incomplete. I must also mention the valuable influences of a very important French poet, Gerard de Nerval, Hoffman and Edgar Allan Poe, Goethe with his Faust, Dede Efendi, Mozart, Beethoven and Bach, my favorite Italian and French painters, the principals of the French “impressionists,” and some of the modernists. And finally, I must add to this list my favorite novelist, Marcel Proust.
14. My real literary aesthetic developed after I met Valery
My real literary aesthetic developed after meeting Valery between 1928-1930. It’s possible to associate this aesthetic or poetic approach with two ideas: dreams and conscious work. Alternatively, around music and dreams. If you change Valery’s words from “even the man who wants to write about his dreams must be highly alert” to “building a dream state using the language in the most lucid manner backed by conscious effort,” you arrive at my poetic principle.
15. The feelings that accompany some dreams are important
My poem, “Neither am I Inside Time” describes the poetic condition, the union of man and cosmos. It is a case of introspection or daydreaming, and turning inside oneself. Clearly, it has no relationship to a novel which typically features coincidences and peculiarities. In fact, in my approach to poetry, the feelings that accompany some dreams are more important than the dreams themselves. These feelings are the true feelings. At this point, music enters into the mix because these feelings, although not musical, are similar to the feelings music evokes in those who enjoy the art of music. I can describe this as traveling to a time outside of our lives. A time with a different rhythm, a time deeply consonant with places and objects.
16. A poem’s music changes constantly
Another one of my poems, “A Night on the Bosphorus,” describes the fabric of a poem. In this poem, the only reality is a cloud. By night, that cloud changes; it curves and dies, its death throes scorching the silence of the windows. But a little later, it reappears as a star and swims in the waters of the Bosphorus. This is similar to a cloud around an object, sort of a story describing how the atmosphere was formed. Here, there is a similarity to music. Music constantly changes. As it changes, it helps create new worlds within us. In addition to these aspects, the structure of a poem and the work required to get to the desired results are also important.
17. A small part of us is voice, and our voice changes with our pulse
In my opinion, a poem is a matter of shape. As poets, over time, we slowly develop our own personal techniques for using language, rhythm, rhyme, and other rules related to poetry. During this process, we first add our voice to the language. And along with it, we add a little of ourselves, our inner world experiences. I talked a lot about voice because a small part of us is voice, and our voice changes with our pulse. Even when we are saying something ordinary—unless we are talking about something mundane—our voice changes continuously. Our feelings, our excitements, our entire inner existence is in our voice. Screaming is in the fabric of a poem. The critical thing is to convert the language into voice. This happens step by step, verse by verse. Therefore, each verse is a shape.
18. In poetry, ear is one of the most important controls
Stéphane Mallarmé, one of my art teachers, whose poems I admire a great deal, defines a verse as “a long single word made up of many that oscillate and merge in a singular, wavelike pattern.” This is true. Valery, on the other hand, says that a poet’s ear must always be alert. These two things are the same, because in poetry, our ear is the most important control. In my opinion, the most difficult aspect of poetry is to be able to be fully attuned to the ear. The ear should be yours and it should also be outside of you enough to control you. In fact, the ear should be impartial. Only then does a poem become a melody.
19. Poetry is more a business of silence than a conversation
It is the attention of our ears that saves us from becoming slaves to our feelings and excitements. It slowly comes between the poet and the poem, and it saves the art (poem) from becoming an expression of the poet’s temporary feelings. It enables us to give the necessary shape to the dough of poetry. Now, you may ask me, “Why is a man who thinks this way about poetry writing novels?” Then, I would tell you that poetry is more a business of silence than a conversation. Those things I am silent about in my poems, I describe in my stories and novels. In them are the keys necessary to fully understand my poems, which I would like to keep as ‘closed worlds.’
20. I am just like everyone else
In my understanding of poetry and art, Bergson’s definition of time is very important. Although I read little of his works, he is an author to whom I am indebted. But I must point out that, around 1932, I read a great deal of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche too. The topic of dreams took me to Freud and to the psychoanalysts. There, you learned my thoughts about my art. What did you gain? I do not know. As far as I am concerned, individuals are not that important. I am just like everyone else.
21. It’s almost as if I am sending this letter to my childhood. I don’t know if your high school is still at the same location. Is it still in Ambarlı? As I wrote to you I imagined you there. You reminded me of the young man I once was. I relived the excitement and exuberance of those years. Give my wishes of success and warm regards to your friends and teachers.
I am grateful to you. Be happy and work hard, my dear.
Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar
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Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar (1901-1962) was a Turkish poet, novelist, literary scholar and essayist, widely regarded as one of the most important representatives of modernism in Turkish literature. He was a professor of aesthetics, mythology and literature at the University of Istanbul. Although he died 60 years ago, his writing and poetry remains very popular. His novel The Time Regulation Institute is considered one of the best novels in Turkish literature. With this novel, Tanpınar became one of the two Turkish novelists whose works became Penguin Classics.
Aysel K. Basci is a nonfiction writer and literary translator. She was born and raised in Cyprus and moved to the United States in 1975. Aysel is retired and resides in the Washington DC area. Her writing and translations have appeared, or are forthcoming, in the Columbia Journal, Los Angeles Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Critical Read, Aster(ix) Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Bosphorus Review of Books and elsewhere.