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The suffering
(1) Tatvan-1971
 Once, in the dead of winter, I fell ill and was bed-ridden for several days. I had run out of food and money a week before this and hadn't paid my rent in months. As I lay in my bed of beaten earth, I saw Irfan's mother and my landlord's wife open the door to my tiny room bearing my daily bowl of steaming soup and, to help me through this difficult moment, a purse filled with coins that they had collected from their co-workers at the nearby shoe factory. I was deeply touched by this gesture of compassion by these women who were, themselves, poor.  
  The same night, the violinist, enraged apparently by what he considered an inappropriate incursion by his wife into my private life, came through the door in a drunken frenzy, his silhouette in high relief in the doorway, enormous and filled with menacing and drove me from my room and into the snow with blows from a hardwood bat.   
   He was determined to get rid of me, the "terrorist". A terrible brawl began and as usual, his wife came down in her night gown and there was soon blood everywhere. He insisted that I leave on the spot. It was 3 o'clock in the morning and not a soul was astir in "Devil's Street". A frigid wind blew in from the mountains and I fled into the cold in my pajamas and slippers, my frail frame hidden behind a tree 2 or 3 hundred meters from the house.I had to wait hours in freezing temperatures for him to finally loose interest in his border and fall into a heavy sleep at which time I regained my little room and warmed myself the best I could. I turned my rage that very night on the sleeping drunkard via my notebooks I began the first sketches for a painting that was to be entitled:  
"The Death of the Violinist"   
The Death of the Violinist
(2) K. Ereglisi-1971