The last four paragraphs of the Horgeneral:

I said I changed, I really became civilized, I adopted logic, I rooted my spirituality, I became informed. In the past, I was angry at the carelessness, ignorance, ingratitude, clumsiness, and lack of culture of the intellectuals in Turkey, I used to curse, I used to get nervous for no reason, but now I have broken my bond of belonging, I make fun of them. When objective literary people learn about my rejection and the indifferent attitude of the fickle publishers, they laugh until tears flow from their eyes, and sometimes they even cross themselves. At that moment, my heart is in tears, I cannot hide my embarrassment and the blush on my face. Even Coni, who has Turkish blood, cannot stand being made fun of, becomes surly and pecks the English, who laugh heartily at our pitiful emptiness; he has already reached the age of maturity, suffers from indigestion and gets angry easily; because of his small size, they consider his attacks as tickling, but I would not be surprised if one day he puts out the eye of a bookish person. Only Rose is understanding, does not make fun of my fossilized fellow countrymen and does not anger the fearless Coni. I attribute her insensitivity to her doghood, am I right? You may think that I feel imprisoned and miss my homeland, based on the classic saying, “They put a nightingale in a golden cage, and it said, ‘Ah my homeland!’” Let me write for the Atatürkists and orientalists who like to tinker and are curious about the past. Which homeland? If there are warriors who die for it and modernize it, it is a homeland, if traitors who flee from war become rich, if theorists without medals are charred, if those who currently smile pleasantly on those lands are miserable; if the children of martyrs and veterans are cursed ungratefully and sob with a sorrowful face, the rest is a lie. He who has not suffered cannot know the value of pleasure. Do I miss the blizzard of Ankara when Coni is with me? I have distanced myself from the Middle East, I have closed the book of Turkey forever, I know neither chargé d'affaires nor ambassadors; I have forgotten the limitations, the spiritism, the sluggishness, the timetable, the feudalism, the favoritism, the ambition, the missionary, the exploitation, the partisanship, the swindle, the trickery, the hesitation, the damnation, the indifference, the irritability, the swindling, the deceitfulness, the restlessness, the sorrow, the veiling, the lack of freedom, the resentment, the hardness, I enjoy the British air. Life is nice, the rest is useless! The serious impudence or original puppet-hood of privileged skullduggers does not bother me. Of course I will not drive a stake into the world, I will grow old, and sooner or later I will rest in the cemetery. I did not want to curse the suspicious Turkish diaspora, I am sorry; I came into the world as a slave Turk, I will go out as a mighty Englishman, that is why I am proud, I have become a humanist and have reached spiritual fulfillment. There is another change in England that I find strange and have difficulty adapting to. In Turkey, I never went out with an umbrella, I used to supplement it with a hood. At first I did this stupidity, but I gradually got wiser and started to take two umbrellas with me on days when the meteorologists warned of heavy rain. With one I protected myself from the rain that was falling in drops, and with the other, which I used as a shield, I protected myself from a greater disaster, namely vehicles splashing muddy water on me; however, in orderly London, one umbrella is more than enough. Oh, those stoic and dignified Anglo-Saxons! Let alone getting wet, they don’t even know how to be a bravado. Water finds its bed. Ekrem Cesur, who became alienated from his own country while serving as a captain in the ranks of the Turkish Armed Forces, accepted defeat, sadly took his bundle to his seat, was later promoted to the rank of Horgeneral, could not succeed despite his long efforts within the Turkish Unarmed Forces and changed his residence, offers his respects to his literary compatriots, his concerns to the mischief-makers who make the spider-like Turkey uninhabitable for enlightened Turks, who cause them to emigrate, who encourage them to travel around the world, to become refugees, to be outcasts and to be homeless. Let our existence be a gift to the torturers who sing the song “How happy I am a Turk!” and the arrogant show-offs, may our hearts be filled with joy, may tragicomic writers live long!