A Mind at Peace Read Online Free PDF

what would transpire.
    Unexpectedly, he saw his father, an imago before him, and this vision reminded him that he would never lay eyes on him again, that he’d be separated from his presence in perpetuity, with the sharp and insurmountable pain of departure, of never again hearing his voice, of never again being a part of his existence.
    The village woman, perhaps realizing that Mümtaz verged on fainting, supported him from behind so he wouldn’t fall. The amazing sensuality of the night before united anew and inextricably with his father’s death. He felt deep inside that he’d sinned irrevocably; he felt guilty of unnamed transgressions. Had they interrogated him at that moment, he might have said, “I’m the one responsible for my father’s death.” It was a horrendous sensation that made him feel utterly deplorable. This paradox of mind would plague Mümtaz for years and trip him up at every step and turn. Even after he’d reached adolescence, Mümtaz wouldn’t be able to escape these feelings. The images that filled his dream-chambers, the confounding hesitations, anxieties, and the array of psychological states that comprised the agony and the ecstasy of his existence were all bound to this chance convergence.
    The woman parted company with them at B. The carriage stopped within a vast stain of sunlight on one of the city’s half-ruined streets. Without uttering a word or looking at anyone, she leaped from the carriage. She dashed swiftly in front of the horses to the other side of the street, from where she glanced at Mümtaz one last time. Then, running again, she turned down an alleyway. For the first and last time, Mümtaz saw her luminous face. A freshly healed knife wound ran from her right temple to her chin. The scar lent her face a queer harshness; yet, while gazing at Mümtaz, her expression softened and her eyes smiled.
    Two days later at twilight, Mümtaz and his mother arrived in A., at the house of a distant relative.

IV
    The Mediterranean: Mümtaz later learned through books how the White Sea embraced humanity with a life of leisure; how the sunlight, the crystalline weather, and the clarity – extending to the horizon and emblazoning each wave and crest into one’s vision – refined the self and filled the soul; in sum, how the quality of nature here permitted grapes and olives, mystical inspiration and rational thought, or the staunchest desire and the anxiety over individual satisfaction to coexist. Not having cognizance of these things at that age didn’t mean that Mümtaz failed to savor his experience of them. His sojourn here, despite life’s continuing misfortune, constituted a season of exception.
    The feverish state that had scorched a stretch of their lives in S. persisted here as well. Each day the city was shaken with news; today there would be fearful word of a great rebellion to the north; tomorrow news of a victory would fill the streets with a celebration to be forgotten by nightfall. On almost every street corner raged heated debates, and at night the clandestine transport of troops and matériel continued. Daily, the hotel opposite their house filled up and emptied out anew.
    Yet this all occurred beneath a sun as luminous as a diamond, within the intoxicating perfume of orange blossom, honeysuckle, and Arabian jasmine, and before a lapis lazuli sea that accepted him with his thousand frailties, transforming with him, a sea whose wrath, serenity, long bouts of listlessness, and delight always accompanied him.
    No matter how angst-ridden he might be, before long the luminance would find a crack in the misery, through which it slithered like a golden serpent. Sunlight released him from his inner confines and described an array of possibilites as if recounting a fable, as if to say, “Have faith in me, I am the source of all miracles, I can do anything, I can turn earth to gold. I grab the dead by the forelock to rouse them from sleep. I can easily soften thoughts and