ENGLISH

Omer Sevincgul's path has had many twists and turns but a deep passion for writing has always accompanied him on the journey. Sevincgul decided to become a writer at the age of 15 but went on to study engineering in university. During his years in University he started a magazine called Fidanlik. After graduating with his Degree in Engineering he realized his true passion for writing was calling and he locked his Diploma in a drawer and never looked back. Sevincgul dedicated himself to the world of literature and wrote stories, essays and novels and worked as an editor. Youth issues are very important to Sevincgul and he went on to produce television programs for youth on art, literature and philosophy. He established the Modern Culture Centre in 1996 and took on many art and culture projects for young people and established youth seminars and conferences. The publication of the Adi Yok Workshop helped develop the talent of many young writers. Currently Sevincgul is the Consultant for the Adi Yok Youth Literary Magazine and consultant and founder of the Carpe Diem Book Publishing House.

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Mervin is a story of the development of a young german officer during World War II. We are taken in this life from his rose-colored years of naivete and innocence through his experience first hand with the destruction and atrocities of war. We live his life with him as he grows up as a young man in Nazi Germany going to university in the midst of the rise of the Third Reich. We are with him when he falls in love for the first time and when he holds a weapon for the first time. We are captured and taken to a prison camp along with him, and likewise we too are able to make our escape when he does.
We are next to him the first time he meets an American soldier. All of these events and images together make up the portrait of Mervin, a young man who is seeking himself and finding meaning in a world which has been left in smoldering ruins around him. From those ruins, like his country and his world, he begins to rebuild himself.




A book that relieves you from the fear of death.....
....
You are an intelligent person..... One who reads, thinks, and wants to understand the meaning of life.... Your mind just won’t settle down..... You have questions, interrogations.... You don’t want to be just anyone. You ask “Who am I? Why am I in this world, where am I heading, What will happen after death?” You can’t live without thinking... You can’t stop the voice of your heart... I know, sometimes you can’t even fit into this world.... The wings of your heart touch the skies..... You believe with all your heart that an eternal life awaits you... 
You need a book which talks in your language, that has answers for all your questions, a book that “is as free as you”.... What do you say, it seems to me that we could be good friends...

WHERE ARE YOU? 
“Some nights I wake up from my deep sleep. My room is pitch black. I start to think. My death comes to my mind. I get up and turn the lights on. I don’t feel like sleeping. I don’t want to lie but I am very scared of death. Thinking about it gives me so much pain…
Oh just how I would have wanted to be prepared for death! I’m scared, it’s not like I can help it. I guess my faith is not enough. Sometimes I face death but this takes only a little while. After a while I forget everything. My fears start once again.
Even thinking about the concept of non-existence gives me deep pains. Just think about it, my mother, father, siblings are all going to perish away. I too am going to be wiped away from existence. How can I not exist! Yes, I want to believe! What do I have to lose if I believe anyway. If only I didn’t have these doubts which eat away at me.
Man dies, it is the inevitable end. It is so difficult to accept this. There’s nothing to do about it, it will happen, I know… How does man die, what does he see, where does he go, who does he come across, I always think about these. A man with a scythe in his hand, a hood on his head and a black cloak over him… This is what the word death means for me…
Sometimes I see old people and say ‘she’s better off dead’ deep down. Why do they live… But then I regret it and say ‘I am so evil!’, and feel so guilty about it. Sometimes, in my opinion,  death seems like a way out. I don’t know if I would want to die if they said, ‘Come on die then’. My mind is so confused…
A girl from our neighbourhood died. She was the same age as me. She just went at the most unexpected time. You know how there’s the assumption that only old people die or people age then die, I thought like this too. Of course, if you call this thinking. However, this sudden death hit me out of nowhere.
I have heard so many things about it that even remembering it scares me to death. I tried not to think about these things for a long while. I ignored conversations about it. I just don’t understand how you can be so comfortable. If only you could give me the formula to it and comfort me too…
Had I told you, I have a crazy passion for reading. I have an old photograph collection. And I also write poetry, essays, and stories on the side. I also need your advice on this topic too, meaning on the topic of writing. Can you help me? I can sometimes send you my writings. Criticise it… I trust you…”




Read Me!
Man is the essence, conscious and mind of the universe. He is the one who can want without any limits and choose freely. Since he has become the most mature fruit of this eternal universe, he does not stop at anything and has been searching ever since for the reason of his existence.
There are paths before the mind and every single thinker opened a new path in his own way for those who followed him. And each has said, “Mine is the truth!”.
The shadows of their lifestyles, emotions and dispositions have reflected onto their philosophies. Each of them called their audiences to their own path and way.

And when some would agree with the words of the philosopher then alas, they would all sing “we” instead of “I” in chorus…

I am a book which loves to speak succinctly…
I am telling you about the essence, summary, foundations of philosophy… I am introducing the philosophers according to their chronological order and talking about their lives. In short, I am explaining their fundamental thoughts…
However, there is a very important detail in this explanation… I keep in mind that they too are a “human being”… Of course, these mortal beings were not just an abstract name or a thought machine. They were born, they were babies, they grew up, they loved, they were loved, sometimes they were happy and sometimes they experienced pain… And finally, they all met their death and passed away…
You may also call me “a succinct history of philosophy” too… I am talking about mankind’s two thousand and five hundred year thought adventure in the style of a story. I have a simple, quick explanation, a simple language and have the atmosphere of a part of aphorism…
Read Me… My name is there before you, and I am a fun book. And trust me… I am based on authentic resources…
Signature: Simple, Short, Fun Philosophy





Then one day she meets a guy on the internet. He is an intelligent, writer, who has similar interests, whose lifestyle is actually based on these interests.
Then there comes a strong connection, chemistry between them... This book is a door to a journey that they started together... a story of searching for the truth.

...
“To come across and meet in a virtual world… Weird but nice… I read your writing, it made me think. Your words touched some place inside of me…

You do not know who I am. It’s not like I know myself either.
Of course, you will get to know me in time. It would be wrong to say I am like this. One cannot look at one’s self objectively. I have tried it, it just doesn’t work that way.

Defining myself is also another problem. I’m just a human being. School, exams, friends. I just drift away with it all. I read one of your essays. It made me think. Your words touched some place inside of me. 
You know there’s a legend where a man looks for the water of life. I felt so close to that. I too am looking for the water of life. Is it for immortality? No! At times, I miss death. I ask, I question it.  
You know, I always read books since I was a little child. My interest in reading became even more intense during my high school years. I had had an accident, and I was bedridden for months. I had read tonnes of books during that time. It was at that time that I tasted the beauty of a book, of reading and literature. 
It was great… But it was also bad in a sense! Because one of the reasons for my questioning is because of my readings. I could have also just lived a normal life too… But now everything is just philosophy for me. And literature… Mine is a kind of obsessional reading.
Lately, I have also been interested on the topics about believing. I do not know if I believe. At times, it feels like I do believe. Generally, though, I am stuck in a tight situation. 
Maybe I don’t reject it but I don’t completely believe either. Is this even harder, what do you think? Right at that moment, I feel a great emptiness appear inside of me. And everything suddenly loses it’s meaning.
Let’s discuss this with you. Could you be able to put up with me? If a person’s soul is close to my soul, then there is no problem. I can even get along with someone from the other end of the world. If there is no connection with one who is right there beside you, one becomes a complete stranger…
Becoming a stranger… Yes, this really defines who I am. I am all alone in the middle of crowds. This must be the hardest loneliness. Don’t you think so?
Write to me, please! It can be short, as long as you write something. I don’t have any patience for long words anyway. Now I am only looking for the shortest of words and the core of all issues. The shortest of writings are the most beautiful, if of course, it is meaningful… Let its language be simple. So that I may understand…
Look at me, I’m putting boundaries on you without any shame! How impertinent of me! But how else can we communicate. Please understand…”

Ok…




If you are the type who enjoys small details, curious about the colourful, inspiring lives of others, and if you want to read a book with a true Mediterranean soul, then this is for you!

ALIZARIN
I was in year ten. All I had was two shirts. One was old and I would wear it at home. The other was pretty new and I used to wear that when I would go to school.
Our relative, who was working in Germany, had given it to my mum. “Look, it’s brand new… Let the kid wear it” he had said.  
Well, actually it was pretty big for me but who cares, it was new. And it’s size wasn’t obvious under a jacket. 
I hadn’t even cared as it was a summer shirt, I used to even wear it in the middle of winter. The shirt was green, one of those “greens” which grabbed everyone’s attention.
We were in our English class. Our teacher, Mr. Seref, had gone to England for the summer holidays. And, at every chance he got, he would talk about the English people to us.
We couldn’t learn English but we had learnt how gentleman-like the English were, how they dressed up, and how they ate, all off by heart.
The first time he had come to class, he had introduced himself and then said, “We will only study this lesson in English”. How was this possible? He explained it to us.
Throughout the lesson, no one was to speak a word of Turkish, and if anyone had anything to say, they would have to say it in English. And we were all going to address each other as either “Mr.” or “Miss”. 
Our English was really weak. Because we hadn’t had a proper English teacher before.
The teacher started to apply his method. We understood nothing. So he would get angry with us and blast us.
We used to understand all of his insults because they were in Turkish. It’s not like we could have understood the English words of such civil words (!) like “Fools!” “Idiots!” “Imbeciles!” “Morons!”.
We only had one friend in our class who was able to speak to him: Belgin. She was the daughter of an army officer. She had studied in big cities. When her father was appointed to our city for work, she also found herself amongst us. Only them two would discuss the lessons and we would just listen.
Then, the teacher also had enough of this situation, so he started to explain everything in Turkish instead but I think he had lost all his motivation.
At the start of each lesson, he would make us write something down, then tell us to “Study!” or “Memorise!”, and he would stare out from the window or watch us.
At one stage, he caught my eye and with the middle finger of his left hand signalled to me. I figured that “he was calling me next to him” with this signal.
So I went.
He bended down to my ear and pointing to my shirt said, “That is such a fussy green!”
I kept my silence.
“Boys don’t wear such a colour as this!” he said.
I kept my silence again.
“You’re like a walking grave!” he said.
 I kept my silence again.
I was looking at my shirt like I had seen it for the first time.
There was some kind of humming in my ears.
Where am I?
My perception is weak…
I should go back to my seat… 
Everyone was looking at me…
Where is my desk?
Let the kid wear it!
Well, how did I end up sitting down?
I was droning…
Look, it’s brand new!..
The humming ceased…
After this incident, I couldn’t sleep properly. The speaking was still going on inside of me. I was imagining that I was speaking with Mr. Seref. 
I had probably played that scene a hundred times. I was trying to tell him why I had to wear this shirt, I was saying, “This is the only shirt which I can wear at school!”.
Then, I wouldn’t find that good enough so I would say, “Sir! Do you think that I love wearing this shirt? And by the way, what’s it to you? Your job is to teach English, not to criticise what I wear!”.
I would make him feel ashamed, make him regret what he had said, and each time would make him apologise.
By the way, why had he said this in a mocking way. It was like he was kind of making fun of me.
Each time I would imagine it, I would add new details to the scene. I would drift away somewhere far, and never was able to concentrate on the lessons.
Finally, it was the weekend and I went to my village. And of course, I took this incident along with me there, too.
My mother quickly realised the change in me and asked. I said “There’s nothing wrong!”. She didn’t insist. We were sitting next to the stove with grapevine stumps and dried cow dung burning inside it.
She had a tray in front of her, putting worsteds which she had spinned with a spindle and was trying to dye them with a homemade alizarin.
She was going to weave small rugs with these colourful threads.
My mother wasn’t one of those women from the cities with soft white hands. She wasn’t like those well-kept women who would sit by the window and watch passers by behind a tulle curtain. She was a woman with a sunburnt face, with a deep voice and was very strong. Her love was veiled. She would speak only when necessary.
Apparently, she was full of life at one stage, but I never saw it. In summer, she worked in the fields, and in winter, at home. She liked to stick her feet into the river under the heat of August and also love to take a nap under the shadows of willows.
She would mostly cook wheat pilaf with butter and make a salad generous with peppers aside it. And in winter, she would spin wool, dye threads, and weave rugs. And when she’d get drifted away with her work, she would start singing some folk songs.
My father apparently loved her voice.    
My father was a black and white photograph on the wall.
I could no longer hold myself, so I said, “Mother!”.
My voice was cracked.
She looked at my face in complete astonishment.
I quickly blurted out what was on the tip of my tongue, “I don’t want to wear the green shirt again!”.
At first, she couldn’t understand what I was talking about. With a bit of curiosity and worry she said, “What green shirt?”.
“How many green shirts do I have!” I said.
Then, she understood. “Why?” she asked.
“I didn’t like its colour” I said.
“What’s wrong with its colour?”
I was getting even more furious now. And, all of a sudden, I started to cry.
“I just don’t like it!” I said with my teary voice, “Why are you constantly asking!”.
Whatever it was that was accummulating inside of me for days was now all pouring out from my eyes.
She didn’t tell me to stop crying, nor did she come and hug me, and she also didn’t say that she would buy a new one. She stared at her tray and drifted far away.
After a while, she said, “I’ll dye it”.
I looked at her face to see if she was serious.
With a serious voice she said, “Take your shirt off and I’ll dip it into the tub”.
“Will it work?” I asked.
“Of course it will” she said.
I took off the green shirt. And she dipped it into the tub.
“Let it wait for the night, it will absorb the dye until morning.”
In the morning, she took it out of the tub. “Don’t be fooled by its colour now, it’s still wet” she said.
She rinsed it in water and hanged it on the line.
“Let it dry, then the colour will come out” she said.
I had gone back in the afternoon, it had dried. The dye hadn’t spread evenly, but it didn’t matter, the colour had changed. Now it had a reddish-yellow colour.
Of course, I never knew if it would match my jacket. I went to school with that shirt. I went into my final exams with that shirt on. I got a low mark for English.
The other name of this colour apparently was ‘alizarin’, my art teacher whispered this into my ear, enlightening me!