III

I met a man on the train to Istanbul. I had put my hat on the rack above our heads and I looked down on the man in his rather outdated suit. Just to make conversation I asked him whether he had heard about the recent turmoil and rebellion in the Turkish capital. ‘No, Sir, I have not, and I do not care. I don’t want to hear about things connected with the now,’ the man said in a soft voice. ‘Tell me about the smell of the earth, and how the stars are slowly rising above the spruce forest… about human cruelty… about a long journey over the sea, the oars and wave action... Russian songs. There is just no value in what you try to tell me.’