When I return, be home Elchin Safarli
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Title: When I return, be home
About the book “When I return, be at home” Elchin Safarli
Have you ever thought that men write best about love? Everything seems different in life. A man is more restrained, less emotional. But if he is a writer, then these “laws” do not apply here. Elchin Safarli confirms this. It’s not for nothing that some fans of his work believe that he is a philosopher who knows a little more than you and I. He talks about simple topics, but it’s as if we are looking at all this under different angles. With his works he makes you see something special in this life, appreciate every moment, love, love...
The book “When I Return, Be Home” tells it all. This is a story about Hans, Maria and their daughter Dosta. It seems usual life which many of us live. But here the father shares his thoughts with his daughter through letters... Paper letters, which the modern generation most likely does not even know about.
This book is about the bitterness of loss - the loss of a close and very beloved person. Hans and Maria lost their daughter, but each of them copes with grief in their own way. A man writes letters to his daughter that never reach the recipient. If you decide to read this work, be prepared for the fact that you will not be able to control your emotions. It’s simply impossible not to cry at how subtly and emotionally Elchin Safarli perceives the world, and what kind of talent a person must have to put it all on paper. You are amazed, but immediately inspiration appears to live, create, appreciate, love... With all your heart!
In his letters, the hero talks about what happened in the past, his memories, which are firmly ingrained in his memory. After all, it is from these grains that our whole life consists.
Perhaps we begin to realize this when we lose something - something that will never return to us. But we still have memories.
And in the book “When I Return, Be Home” there is beautiful music and the smell of the ocean. Simply indescribable sensations. It’s as if you’re flying into another world, where everything stopped with the tragedy of one family, but still continues to hit the shore like waves...
It is difficult to find an author who could touch the strings of your soul, find those points that would finally make you wake up and understand that your priorities are largely set incorrectly. This is not what we value in life - material wealth will not make a person happy. Love is the force that drives all processes on the planet.
Everyone should read Elchin Safarli's book. This is a story about love, about pain, about the sea, about the smell of fresh baked goods. There is life in every word here. Perhaps the book will even force you to change something in your life, so that one day you won’t be left with only letters with never-said thoughts...
On our website about books, you can download for free the book “When I return, be at home” by Elchin Safarli in epub, fb2, txt, rtf formats. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and real pleasure from reading. Buy full version you can from our partner. Also, here you will find last news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers there is a separate section with useful tips and recommendations, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary crafts.
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Elchin Safarli
When I return, be home
My family
Sometimes it seems to me that the whole world, the whole life, everything in the world has settled in me and demands: be our voice. I feel - oh, I don’t know how to explain... I feel how huge it is, but when I start talking, it comes out as baby talk. What a difficult task: to convey a feeling, a sensation in such words, on paper or out loud, so that the one who reads or listens feels or feels the same as you.
We all once crawled out into the light of day from a salty font, for life began at sea.
And now we can't live without her. Only now we eat salt separately and drink separately fresh water. Our lymph has the same salt composition as sea water. The sea lives in each of us, although we separated from it a long time ago.
And the most land-dwelling man carries the sea in his blood without knowing it.
This is probably why people are so drawn to look at the surf, at the endless series of waves and listen to their eternal roar.
Victor Konetsky
Don't invent hell for yourself
here all year round winter. The sharp northern wind - it often grumbles in a low voice, but sometimes it turns into a scream - does not release the whitish land and its inhabitants from captivity. Many of them have not left these lands since birth, proud of their devotion. There are also those who run away from here to the other side of the ocean from year to year. Mostly brown-haired women with bright nails.
In the last five days of November, when the ocean humbly retreats, bowing its head, they - with a suitcase in one hand, with children in the other - rush to the pier, wrapped in brown cloaks. The ladies - one of those who are devoted to their homeland - through the cracks of the closed shutters look at the fugitives, grinning - either out of envy, or out of wisdom. “We invented hell for ourselves. They devalued their land, believing that it was better where they had not yet reached.”
Your mom and I have a good time here. In the evenings she reads books about winds aloud. In a solemn voice, with a proud air of being involved in magic. At such moments, Maria resembles weather forecasters.
“...The speed reaches twenty to forty meters per second. It blows constantly, covering a wide strip of coastline. As the updrafts move, the wind is observed over an increasingly large part of the lower troposphere, rising up several kilometers.”
On the table in front of her is a stack of library books and a pot of linden tea brewed with dried orange peel. “Why do you love this restless wind?” - I ask. Returns the cup to the saucer and turns the page. “He reminds me of a young me.”
When it gets dark, I hardly go outside. Holing up in our house, which smells of rooibos, softened clay and cookies with raspberry jam, your favorite. We always have it, mom puts your portion in the cupboard: suddenly, like in childhood, you run from a hot day into the kitchen for basil lemonade and cookies.
I don't like the dark and dark water oceans - they oppress you with longing for you, Dost. At home, next to Maria, I feel better, I become closer to you.
I won’t upset you, I’ll tell you about something else.
In the mornings, until lunch, my mother works in the library. Books here are the only entertainment; everything else is almost inaccessible due to the wind, dampness and the character of the local residents. There is a dance club, but few people go there.
I work in a bakery near my house, kneading dough. Manually. Amir, my companion, and I bake bread - white, rye, with olives, dried vegetables and figs. Delicious, you would like it. We do not use yeast, only natural sourdough.
Yes, baking bread is a feat of hard work and patience. It's not as simple as it seems from the outside. I can’t imagine myself without this business, it’s as if I wasn’t a man of numbers.
I miss. Dad
We have been given so much and we don't appreciate it.
I want to introduce you to those who here, sometimes without knowing it, make us better. Does it really matter that we are nearly seventy! Life - Full time job over yourself, which you cannot entrust to anyone, and sometimes you get tired of it. But do you know what the secret is? On the road everyone meets those who kind words, silent support, a set table helps to go through part of the journey easily, without losses.
At Mars in the morning good mood. Today is Sunday, Maria and I are at home, we all went for a morning walk together. We dressed warmly, grabbed a thermos of tea, and headed to an abandoned pier, where seagulls rest in calm weather. Mars does not scare away the birds, lies down nearby and looks at them dreamily. They sewed warm clothes for him so that his belly wouldn’t get cold.
I asked Maria why Mars, just like humans, loves to watch birds. “They are absolutely free, at least it seems so to us. And birds can be there for a long time, where it doesn’t matter what happened to you on earth.”
Sorry, Dostu, I started talking, I almost forgot to introduce you to Mars. Our dog is a cross between a dachshund and a mongrel; we adopted him from the shelter distrustful and intimidated. Warmed it up, loved it.
He has a sad story. Mars spent several years in a dark closet, his non-human owner performed cruel experiments on him. The psychopath died, and neighbors found the barely alive dog and handed it over to volunteers.
Mars cannot remain alone, especially in the dark, and whines. There should be as many people around him as possible. I take it with me to work. There, and not only, they love Mars, even though he is a gloomy fellow.
Why did we call it Mars? Because of the fiery brown fur and a character as harsh as the nature of this planet. In addition, he feels good in the cold and enjoys wallowing in the snowdrifts. And the planet Mars is rich in water ice deposits. Do you get the connection?
When we returned from our walk, the snow became heavier and the wires were covered with white growths. Some passers-by rejoiced at the snowfall, others cursed.
I can see how important it is not to stop each other from creating magic, no matter how small. Everyone has their own - on a piece of paper, in the kitchen preparing red lentil soup, in a provincial hospital or on the stage of a silent hall.
There are also many who create magic to themselves, without words, for fear of letting it out.
You cannot question your neighbor’s talents; You shouldn’t draw the curtains, preventing someone from watching how nature works its magic, carefully covering the roofs with snow.
People are given so much for free, but we don’t appreciate it, we think about payment, we demand checks, we save for a rainy day, missing the beauty of the present.
I miss. Dad
Don't forget where your ship is sailing
our White House stands thirty-four steps from the ocean. It has been empty for many years, the paths to it are covered with a thick layer of ice; the chimney was clogged with sand, seagull feathers, and mouse droppings; the stove and walls yearned for warmth; Through the frosty window panes the ocean was not visible at all.
Local residents are afraid of the house, calling it “meches,” which translates as “infecting with pain.” “Those who settled in it fell into the prison of their own fears and went crazy.” Stupid arguments didn’t stop us from moving into the house we fell in love with as soon as we set foot on the threshold. Perhaps for some it became a prison, for us it became liberation.
Having moved in, the first thing we did was light the stove, make tea, and the next morning we repainted the walls that had warmed up during the night. Mom chose the color “starry night,” something between lavender and violet. We liked it, we didn’t even bother hanging pictures on the walls.
But the shelves in the living room are filled with children's books that we read with you, Dostu.
Do you remember your mother telling you: “If everything goes wrong, pick yourself up? good book, she will help."
From a distance, our house merges with the snow. In the morning, from the top of the hill, only the endless white, greenish water of the ocean and the brown marks of the rusty sides of Ozgur are visible. This is our friend, meet me, I put his photo in the envelope.
To an outsider, it is an aged fishing boat. For us, he is the one who reminded us how important it is to accept change with dignity. Once Ozgur shone on the mighty waves, scattering nets, now, tired and humble, he lives on land. He is glad that he is alive and can, at least from a distance, see the ocean.
In Ozgur's cabin I found an old logbook, covered with interesting thoughts in the local dialect. It is unknown who owns the recordings, but I decided that Ozgur was talking to us like this.
Yesterday I asked Ozgur if he believes in predestination. On the third page of the magazine I received the answer: “We are not given the will to manage time, but only we decide what and how to fill it.”
Last year, municipal staff wanted to send Ozgur to scrap metal. If not for Maria, the longboat would have died. She dragged him to our site.
Dostu, the past and future are not as important as the present. This world is like the ritual dance of the Sufi sema: one hand is turned with the palm towards the sky, receives the blessing, the other - towards the earth, shares what is received.
Cover photo: Alena Motovilova
https://www.instagram.com/alen_fancy/
http://darianorkina.com/
© Safarli E., 2017
© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017
Any use of the material in this book, in whole or in part, without the permission of the copyright holder is prohibited.
The publishing house thanks the literary agency “Amapola Book” for its assistance in acquiring the rights.
Elchin Safarli is a volunteer at the Strong Lara Foundation for Helping Homeless Animals. In the photo he is with Reina. This once stray dog, paralyzed by an unknown gunman, now lives at the foundation. We believe that very soon the day will come when our pet will find a home.
Now I feel more clearly the eternity of life. No one will die, and those who loved each other in one life will certainly meet again after. Body, name, nationality - everything will be different, but we will be attracted by a magnet: love binds us forever. In the meantime, I live my life - I love and sometimes I get tired of love. I remember moments, I carefully preserve this memory in myself, so that tomorrow or in the next life I can write about everything.
My family
Sometimes it seems to me that the whole world, the whole life, everything in the world has settled in me and demands: be our voice. I feel - oh, I don’t know how to explain... I feel how huge it is, but when I start talking, it sounds like baby talk. What a difficult task: to convey a feeling, a sensation in such words, on paper or out loud, so that the one who reads or listens feels or feels the same as you.
Jack London
We all once crawled out into the light of day from a salty font, for life began at sea.
And now we can't live without her. Only now we eat salt separately and drink fresh water separately. Our lymph has the same salt composition as sea water. The sea lives in each of us, although we separated from it a long time ago.
And the most land-dwelling man carries the sea in his blood without knowing it.
This is probably why people are so drawn to look at the surf, at the endless series of waves and listen to their eternal roar.
It's winter here all year round. The sharp northern wind - it often grumbles in a low voice, but sometimes it turns into a scream - does not release the whitish land and its inhabitants from captivity. Many of them have not left these lands since birth, proud of their devotion. There are also those who run away from here to the other side of the ocean from year to year. Mostly brown-haired women with bright nails.
In the last five days of November, when the ocean humbly retreats, bowing its head, they - with a suitcase in one hand, with children in the other - rush to the pier, wrapped in brown cloaks. The ladies—one of those who are devoted to their homeland—look at the fugitives through the cracks of the closed shutters, grinning—either out of envy, or out of wisdom. “We invented hell for ourselves. They devalued their land, believing that it was better where they had not yet reached.”
Your mom and I have a good time here. In the evenings she reads books about winds aloud. In a solemn voice, with a proud air of being involved in magic. At such moments, Maria resembles weather forecasters.
“...The speed reaches twenty to forty meters per second. It blows constantly, covering a wide strip of coastline. As the updrafts move, the wind is observed over an increasingly large part of the lower troposphere, rising up several kilometers.”
On the table in front of her is a stack of library books and a pot of linden tea brewed with dried orange peel. “Why do you love this restless wind?” - I ask. Returns the cup to the saucer and turns the page. “He reminds me of a young me.”
When it gets dark, I hardly go outside. Holing up in our house, which smells of rooibos, softened clay and cookies with raspberry jam, your favorite. We always have it, mom puts your portion in the cupboard: suddenly, like in childhood, you run from a hot day into the kitchen for basil lemonade and cookies.
I don’t like the dark time of day and the dark water of the ocean - they oppress me with longing for you, Dost. At home, next to Maria, I feel better, I become closer to you.
I won’t upset you, I’ll tell you about something else.
In the mornings, until lunch, my mother works in the library. Books here are the only entertainment; everything else is almost inaccessible due to the wind, dampness and the character of the local residents. There is a dance club, but few people go there.
I work in a bakery near my house, kneading dough. Manually. Amir, my companion, and I bake bread - white, rye, with olives, dried vegetables and figs. Delicious, you would like it. We do not use yeast, only natural sourdough.
Yes, baking bread is a feat of hard work and patience. It's not as simple as it seems from the outside. I can’t imagine myself without this business, it’s as if I wasn’t a man of numbers.
I want to introduce you to those who here, sometimes without knowing it, make us better. Does it really matter that we are nearly seventy! Life is constant work on yourself, which you cannot entrust to anyone, and sometimes you get tired of it. But do you know what the secret is? On the road, everyone meets those who, with a kind word, silent support, and a set table, help to pass part of the journey easily, without loss.
Mars is in a good mood in the morning. Today is Sunday, Maria and I are at home, we all went for a morning walk together. We dressed warmly, grabbed a thermos of tea, and headed to an abandoned pier, where seagulls rest in calm weather. Mars does not scare away the birds, lies down nearby and looks at them dreamily. They sewed warm clothes for him so that his belly wouldn’t get cold.
I asked Maria why Mars, just like humans, loves to watch birds. “They are absolutely free, at least it seems so to us. And birds can be there for a long time, where it doesn’t matter what happened to you on earth.”
Sorry, Dostu, I started talking, I almost forgot to introduce you to Mars. Our dog is a cross between a dachshund and a mongrel; we adopted him from the shelter distrustful and intimidated. Warmed it up, loved it.
He has a sad story. Mars spent several years in a dark closet, his non-human owner performed cruel experiments on him. The psychopath died, and neighbors found the barely alive dog and handed it over to volunteers.
Mars cannot remain alone, especially in the dark, and whines. There should be as many people around him as possible. I take it with me to work. There, and not only, they love Mars, even though he is a gloomy fellow.
Why did we call it Mars? Because of the fiery brown fur and a character as harsh as the nature of this planet. In addition, he feels good in the cold and enjoys wallowing in the snowdrifts. And the planet Mars is rich in water ice deposits. Do you get the connection?
Elchin Safarli is a popular Azerbaijani writer, author of such novels as “There Without Back” and “They Promised You to Me.”
In his new book, written in the epistolary genre, Safarli tells the story of a man who became a victim of evil fate and the blatant injustice of life. Having lost his own daughter, he carries the pain of loss on his shoulders like a cross until his mind overtakes eternal oblivion. Unable to suppress the bitterness and melancholy growing in his heart with every new moment, he writes letters in which he addresses deceased daughter. In them he shares everything that is gnawing; in them he stores everything that is not said. And these words will never be spoken again...
To begin with, it is worth saying that the book turned out to be very “lively”, heartfelt, and emotional in its own way. Its atmosphere gives the reader’s mood a special vector, thanks to which he is immersed in inner world the protagonist, becomes a conductor of his thoughts and emotional experiences. In the manner of a musical mode, this story carries a predominantly minor key.
These letters, in which main character addresses his daughter, they make us think about what happens to us throughout our lives, what surrounds us day after day, but remains, as if behind a screen of the subconscious. There are things that we don’t think about for a variety of reasons, whether it’s the speed with which our already busy everyday life rushes by or whether everything is shrouded in a veil recreated by the ideology of philistine views. And sometimes we deliberately build intrapersonal barriers in order to distance ourselves from subtexts, and then life seems a little simpler. Living is easy with eyes closed. This is what it talks about new novel famous Azerbaijani writer.
Reading this book, let's be honest, I wasn't very apt name, the reader will quite possibly draw some conclusions for himself, rethink some life positions, and think about what is important. Four cubes of mild blues intravenously, so that life does not seem like vanilla cream on a birthday cake. But in fairness, this blues has a more constructive, creative character, no matter how paradoxical it may sound.
Safarli did not write a pop novel, surrounded by the suicidal aura of a repentant sinner. This is rather a story about a man who lived a rather long, difficult life, full of both ups and painful downs. His monologues in discussions about the structure of the world do not get boring, which is important a priori. Through the prism of the theories and views of a character burdened with life experience, they enhance our brain activity, which is important between reading literature of a purely entertaining nature.
And, yes, “When I Return, Be Home” is not highly intellectual prose, not a bottomless pool of philosophical sayings, but some quotes are quite worthy of attention. And this, of course, must be noted as positive side works.
The almost complete absence of a plot does not negatively affect Safarli’s book. By by and large it is not required here. In view of this, the short length of the novel comes at a very opportune time, because the norm here has a special meaning. It’s easy to get tired of a continuous flow of thoughts in large volumes, whatever their image and semantic load. A simple form of presentation and a pleasant syllable are also more than appropriate in this regard.
Regarding the work on the protagonists, it must be said that the central figure - the author of the above-mentioned letters, being in fact the only character who received the lion's share of attention (excluding Dost's daughter), was worked out very well. Within the framework of the entire narrative, he not only lives, he forces the reader to live his life, to be in his place and to feel all the anxieties and sorrows of a parent who has lost his child. In this sense, Safarli felt his character very subtly, time after time hitting the raw nerves of those who decided to get acquainted with this story.
Summarizing all of the above, it is worth saying that “When I Return, Be Home” is the story of one person, amazing in its emotional depth, exposing the delicate relationship between a parent and his child.
