[Xmca-l] Re: Best possible theoretical approach on learning from life experiences

[Ulvi İçil]

Thank you Martin.

Does anyone know any study on a person's life, learning, formation in the
light of the concept of perezhivanie in the centre?

4 Kas 2017 22:01 tarihinde "Martin John Packer" <mpacker@uniandes.edu.co>
yazdı:

> I would suggest Sartre’s (existential Marxist) analysis of Flaubert…
>
> <https://www.amazon.com/001-Family-Gustave-Flaubert-1821-
> 1857/dp/0226735095/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=
> 1509821640&sr=1-1&keywords=sartre+Flaubert+book+1&dpID=
> 41CeMqdxQnL&preST=_SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_&dpSrc=srch>
>
> <http://www.nybooks.com/articles/1982/02/04/sartres-last-case/>
>
> <https://www.lrb.co.uk/v04/n10/julian-barnes/double-bind>
>
> Martin
>
>
>
>
> On Nov 4, 2017, at 6:41 AM, Ulvi İçil <ulvi.icil@gmail.com<mailto:ul
> vi.icil@gmail.com>> wrote:
>
> Dear all,
>
> For a study on Turkish poet, also a painter and playwright, Nazim Hikmet,
> whom learning seems to be heavily determined from life experiences at each
> stage of his life,
> I am looking for a best theoretical approach in general on learning from
> life experiences, then more specifically for such great poets, painters and
> play writers.
> Just to give a closer idea, please look at the section below from his
> novel, Life's good, brother.
>
> I appreciate highly any idea, proposal on such a theoretical approach.
>
> Thank you.
>
> Ulvi
>
> I sat down at the table in the Hôtel de France in Batum. A table with
> carved legs—not just the legs but the whole gilded oval table was covered
> with intricate carvings. Rococo . . . In the seaside house in Üsküdar, a
> rococo
> table sits in the guestroom. Ro-co-co . . . The journey I made from the
> Black
> Sea coast to Ankara, then from there to Bolu, the thirty-five-day,
> thirty-fiveyear
> journey on foot to the town where I taught school—in short, to make a
> long story short, the encounter of a pasha’s descendant—more precisely, a
> grandson—with Anatolia now rests on the rococo table in the Hôtel de
> France in Batum, spread out over the table like a tattered, dirty,
> blood-stained
> block-print cloth. I look, and I want to cry. I look, and my blood rushes
> to my
> head in rage. I look, and I’m ashamed again. Of the house by the sea in
> Üsküdar. Decide, son, I say to myself, decide. The decision was made: death
> before turning back. Wait, don’t rush, son. Let’s put the questions on this
> table, right next to Anatolia here. What can you sacrifice for this cause?
> What
> can you give? Everything. Everything I have. Your freedom? Yes! How
> many years can you rot in prison for this cause? All my life, if necessary!
> Yes, but you like women, fine dining, nice clothes. You can’t wait to
> travel,
> to see Europe, Asia, America, Africa. If you just leave Anatolia here on
> this
> rococo table in Batum and go from Tbilisi to Kars and back to Ankara from
> there, in five or six years you’ll be a senator, a minister—women, wining
> and
> dining, art, the whole world. No! If necessary, I can spend my whole life
> in
> prison. Okay, but what about getting hanged, killed, or drowned like
> Mustafa
> Suphi and his friends if I become a Communist—didn’t you ask yourself these
> questions in Batum? I did. I asked myself, Are you afraid of being
> killed? I’m not afraid, I said. Just like that, without thinking? No. I
> first knew
> I was afraid, then I knew I wasn’t. Okay, are you ready to be disabled,
> crippled, or made deaf for this cause? I asked. And TB, heart disease,
> blindness? Blindness? Blindness . . . Wait a minute—I hadn’t thought about
> going blind for this cause. I got up. I shut my eyes tight and walked
> around
> the room. Feeling the furniture with my hands, I walked around the room in
> the darkness of my closed eyes. Twice I stumbled, but I didn’t open my
> eyes.
> Then I stopped at the table. I opened my eyes. Yes, I can accept blindness.
> Maybe I was a bit childish, a little comical. But this is the truth. Not
> books or
> word-of-mouth propaganda or my social condition brought me where I am.
> Anatolia brought me where I am. The Anatolia I had seen only on the
> surface, from the outside. My heart brought me where I am. That’s how it is
> .
>
>