{"id":33053,"date":"2024-05-03T07:37:24","date_gmt":"2024-05-03T05:37:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/?p=33053"},"modified":"2024-05-06T14:39:15","modified_gmt":"2024-05-06T12:39:15","slug":"the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/","title":{"rendered":"“The Forgotten”\u2014a short story by O\u011fuz Atay"},"content":{"rendered":"
Excerpted\u00a0from Waiting for the Fear<\/em>, a volume of collected stories by O\u011fuz Atay, published by the New York Review of Books<\/a>, and translated from the Turkish by Ralph Hubbell.<\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

O\u011fuz Atay<\/h4>\n

Translated from the Turkish by Ralph Hubbell<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m in the attic, dear!\u201d she called down through the scuttle hole. \u201cOld books are worth a lot of money these days, I wanted to take a look.\u201d Did he hear what I just said? \u201cIt\u2019s dark up there; wait, I\u2019ll get you a flashlight.\u201d Good then; it\u2019ll be a calm day. Someone used to tell me that I constantly needed attention. What I need now is a mirror that shows me smiling back; not to mention some light. \u201cYou\u2019re going to hurt yourself in the dark.\u201d A hand rose up through the hole, holding a flashlight. The beam strayed towards an empty corner and lit it up. She touched the hand; it disappeared. I wonder what he thinks. She smiled\u2014so, he\u2019s thinking again, is he?<\/p>\n

\"Waiting<\/a>
Waiting for the Fear<\/em> is published by the New York Review of Books<\/a>.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

It had been years since she\u2019d climbed into that dusty, spider-ridden darkness. The bugs were already scattering from the light. They scared her, but she was encouraged by the thought that there was something to gain. I shouldn\u2019t have told him what I was doing until I\u2019d finished the job; it isn\u2019t like he\u2019s expecting anything in return. Am I being helpful? I don\u2019t know, sometimes I get confused, especially when I have that humming noise in my head. I wish I knew how to think like him. He\u2019s trying not to let on that he\u2019s watching me, keeping his distance; I\u2019d better hurry.<\/p>\n

She pointed the flashlight at something \u2014 the portraits of her mother and father; between them an old shoe bag, a few broken lamps. Why had they disliked each other so much? The thought that they would die one day used to terrify me. She picked through the shoe bag. These are the ones I wore with a ballgown to my first dance. Every night, I went out with someone different, just to dance. Good God, how did I manage?<\/p>\n

She wiped her dusty hands on the front of her dress. She looked at her purple shoes, creased and spotted with mildew. She slipped the left one on. My size hasn\u2019t changed a bit. She blushed, but she couldn\u2019t bring herself to take it off. She hobbled towards the portraits, knelt down and brought them together. She wiped away the dust with her elbow.<\/p>\n

They didn\u2019t understand each other at all \u2014 nor me. How I used to cry. Maybe I could find a place for them downstairs, in the hallway or the storage room. I\u2019m being ridiculous; I haven\u2019t forgotten them, I haven\u2019t forgotten them. Her father\u2019s face had a proud, sullen look on it. I couldn\u2019t possibly hang them on the same wall. She closed her eyes, considering the layout of the house. They never liked being near one another; which went for the grave as well. She picked up one of the portraits. The flashlight lay on the floor, so she couldn\u2019t tell which one she held. She perched it up high.<\/p>\n

Then she grew flustered, struck her knee on something and fell to the floor\u2014a gentle fall. She didn\u2019t dare get up; instead she crawled over to the flashlight. Another bag. She dumped it out. Old photographs! She was getting sidetracked now. I refuse to let him rush me; even if I have to speak with him later, right now I won\u2019t consider it. She spread out the photographs, passing the light over their dusty figures. I might as well have moved and left all of this to someone I\u2019d never see again. She stirred through them. Good gracious, I liked to have my picture taken.<\/p>\n

Most of them had turned out bad. She smiled. The skirts certainly were long and homely back then. And the poses are laughable\u2014the films I must have had in mind! I have my back to the camera, like I\u2019m walking away, but then I suddenly turn my head. Who was I looking at? Here\u2019s another, with that same dress. Someone\u2019s with me. The picture was coated in a film of dust. We still recognize ourselves, even through the dust. She licked her finger, the dust turned to paste and she saw the smiling face of her first husband at the tip of her thumb.<\/p>\n

My God, I was married once, and then \u2014 and then I got married again. Oh well, you don\u2019t always get there on the first go, do you? How miserable we\u2019d turned out, thanks to those emotions I couldn\u2019t name, let alone describe. She bent over and took a handful of pictures from the floor. I remember, before this one was taken, I\u2019d made a fuss over absolutely nothing and stormed off. And then what happened? Well, here you are, in this house; which is to say that nothing happened with him; nothing bad, nothing good, just nothing at all.<\/p>\n

But that\u2019s not how I\u2019d felt; those turning points, they always seem to pivot on the sly. No, you\u2019ve jumbled your thoughts; your simple words \u2014 oh, what does that have to do with anything? But then how come I suddenly turned my head as I walked away and made him take this picture? Did I always pose that way? She sat up, brought her hands to her head and began to think. And who knows the look he must have had on his face. I suppose it\u2019s my fault; not when the picture was taken, maybe at that moment I was right, absolutely I was right; but before then, long before.<\/p>\n

She wanted to get to the books now, to be finished with this endless journey into the past. She pulled off the old ballroom shoe, but she couldn\u2019t find her soft, closed-back slippers. She shuffled towards the flashlight. The chest of books should have been in the corner, straight ahead. Instead, there were some shadowy protrusions lurking there, and they looked nothing like a storage chest. She pointed the flashlight at the strange pile of clutter, then stepped back in fear\u2014there was someone there, someone sitting. She wanted to turn around and escape down the scuttle hole, but she couldn\u2019t move. Despite her fear, she got closer; her entire life, whatever she did she did in spite of her fear, otherwise she\u2019d have just up and vanished a long time ago.<\/p>\n

She held up the flashlight. Oh!\u2014her old boyfriend was lying on the floor. She looked in his face. Like everything else in the attic, he was covered in dust and cobwebs, a statue tied to the chest and the painting easels. His left arm was propped up on the edge of one of them. His fingers curled downward, as if clutching a pen. Her knees shook, her teeth chattered; then she slipped and fell back to the floor, overturning one of the easels with her foot. His arm remained suspended in the air; the spiders had strung it from the rafters. What did he plan to do with that hand? Write something? What a shame, to think I\u2019ll never know. His left hand lay on the floor, holding a gun. Oh, God! I wonder if he\u2019d killed himself. But he couldn\u2019t have! If he\u2019d done such a thing, I would have known, he used to tell me everything. We\u2019d talked about this. He never would have left me all alone.<\/p>\n

Then she remembered: one day, after a vicious fight, a day when they both said they\u2019d had enough, he climbed up into the attic. She tried to recall the details. Maybe it hadn\u2019t been such a big argument after all. They could be a little quarrelsome, she supposed. She smiled; he used to hate that phrase, \u201ca little.\u201d She\u2019d left him in the attic and rushed out into the street, pursued by the feeling that she wanted to die. All right, but why? She didn\u2019t know; the only thing that had stayed with her was the violence of her emotions; that was when she saw \u2018him,\u2019 in the street.<\/p>\n

Even though she was miserable and lightheaded, nursing that death wish, she noted the concern in \u2018his\u2019 eyes, noted in them that peculiarity that always seems to sweep one off one\u2019s feet. Of course, she came back alone that day. And there were so many, many more days after that when I returned alone. If he could speak now, he\u2019d tell me that you can\u2019t say \u2018so many, many more.\u2019 She pulled herself up to her trembling knees and shined the flashlight in his face; his eyes were open, alive. She couldn\u2019t stare, though, and turned towards the dark.<\/p>\n

Then, drawing from the strength that always stayed with her in just such matters of life and death, she looked again. He hasn\u2019t decayed, not one bit. If I hadn\u2019t waited so long to come up, maybe he wouldn\u2019t have turned out like this. The thought saddened her. He hasn\u2019t changed at all; he\u2019s just the same as when I last saw him, even his eyes are open. Except there\u2019s something oddly different about their aliveness; like he knows everything but he\u2019s completely unaffected by it. It used to frighten me, the way he\u2019d say, Never mind how I look, I\u2019m already dead inside. I never believed him.<\/p>\n

For someone who was dead inside, he could come up with the strangest things. Maybe he\u2019s watching. She moved. I\u2019d been hard on him, telling him that he didn\u2019t pay enough attention to me. No, he isn\u2019t looking at me; but I\u2019m sure he\u2019s thinking. He used to just suddenly start speaking. When do you get the chance to think this stuff up? I used to ask him; I can\u2019t tell. No, he isn\u2019t really dead; if he was, I couldn\u2019t have gone on living. He knew that.<\/p>\n

But how was I to know you felt that <\/em>close to me? I\u2019d told you that if I at least knew you were all right, I could get along. You could do what you like, I said, it was enough to know that you were alive. I\u2019d said this long before that fight, but he knew our rows never changed anything. For a while I didn\u2019t want to see him, even though I knew he was in the attic; I couldn\u2019t get up there, but he was constantly on my mind. Why hadn\u2019t I called to him? I suppose I just never had the chance; something always came up. And he probably didn\u2019t come down because of the strange voices and noises he must have kept hearing.<\/p>\n

Then again, he knew that nothing could come between us; we\u2019d talked about these things. Maybe it was me waiting for him. At first, I wondered if he was staying there just to upset me. Then, later\u2014well, I just never managed to get up there. People were always com- ing and going, and there were the money problems, the meals to cook, the dishes to wash, the house-cleaning, and my having to look after him <\/em>(he was like a child, he couldn\u2019t even take care of himself); then my parents passed away, and there was the fuss of this and that, and all the other respon- sibilities began to pile up.<\/p>\n

Eventually, I just forgot that he was there. (I hadn\u2019t forgotten him, of course). Oh, what can I say, there were far unhappier people in my life to deal with. I didn\u2019t think that he\u2019d stay in the attic that long. I figured that he\u2019d found his way out at some point, maybe when I wasn\u2019t home. Yes, that\u2019s exactly what I thought, what else? He had to be in existence, at any given moment, in order for me to live. If I\u2019d felt otherwise, I\u2019d be dead by now. But how many times had I thought about going up to the attic? If I\u2019d heard him trying to kill himself, I obviously would have; and I\u2019d have paid no mind to all our old resentfulness.<\/p>\n

Or maybe I had heard. I do remember there being a bang upstairs at some point; I thought it was the wind slamming a door. How could that be, though? The noise came a few days after he\u2019d gone up into the attic, and there I was, in the corner hugging my knees. I didn\u2019t go anywhere; which means it must have been a gunshot. But then, his heart\u2014trembling, she leaned over. I\u2019ll check his heart. The left side of his jacket had deteriorated; part of it fell off at the touch of her hand; a swarm of cockroaches scattered over his body.<\/p>\n

I never paid any attention to his appearance; I never looked after his clothes either; the cockroaches probably got at him through some tear I hadn\u2019t stitched and started eating away. After a while, the hole would have grown. She thumbed his shirt. At least they hadn\u2019t gone for his underclothes. His skin looked like it always had. It isn\u2019t warm, but his heart must still be there. She touched his chest. It\u2019s there, I knew it would be; because otherwise I would\u2019ve died. (I shouldn\u2019t have started my sentence with \u2018because;\u2019 now he\u2019ll get angry; that\u2019s right, I lived every moment looking in his eyes and wonder- ing what he\u2019d say.)<\/p>\n

He hadn\u2019t decomposed at all. Good, now how can I convince him that I\u2019d never abandoned him, that I had been thinking of him, that I\u2019d only appeared to have forgotten? He wouldn\u2019t understand; he was obsessed with how things looked. He\u2019d think that because I\u2019d met some- one else and begun a new relationship, I\u2019d forgotten it all. But I remember everything, down to this suit he wore the day he went up into the attic. She passed the flashlight over his corpse; the cobwebs gave it a hazy look. Only here, where I brushed away the cobwebs and touched his heart, is it a little dark; like a still from a dream. We\u2019d never had our picture taken together. Like so many other things, we couldn\u2019t even manage to do that.<\/p>\n

All that rushing, the constant hassle; what were we running for, what was our hurry? No sooner had we finished one thing than we started another, until the day he went up into the attic; we never stopped, never retraced our steps. And then I was crouched up in the corner for days on end. I didn\u2019t eat, didn\u2019t think; I just smoked. The rooms all fell into disarray, like there\u2019d been a war, and the house practically became uninhabitable. I always liked having a kind of order in my life, but I wallowed in the dirt and filth. I suppose I was punishing myself, I suppose running out into the street and seeing him <\/em>was nothing more than a wish to fall into a fatal kind of despair. It doesn\u2019t matter. I\u2019m probably saying these terrible things only because you might want to hear them. But I never thought you\u2019d kill yourself, let alone die. I\u2019d always imagined that you were far away, leading an at least apparently quiet life.<\/p>\n

She began to calm down, following a cockroach with her light. It was trying to climb over the cobwebs; she worried that its feet would tear his suit apart. God knows how many years had gone by, it probably couldn\u2019t withstand the slightest touch. The bug made its way up his neck and teetered along his cheek. His beard had grown; he never did like having to shave every day. Then, around his temple, the cockroach disappeared. If I hold the light there? She couldn\u2019t; she was too scared. But now, in the half-dark, she saw the bullet hole the ugly creature had crawled into. She shuddered, and as she stepped back the cockroach reappeared, carrying something small and withered in its mouth. Terrified, she shined the flashlight through the hole. The beams caromed about the inner walls of his skull. Oh! The bugs had eaten at his brain, had fed off his softest part \u2014 and this one must be carrying away the last of it. She lurched towards him. \u201cDid they really leave you so alone, my love?\u201d she said. From downstairs, she heard her husband\u2019s voice, through that other hole:<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you say something, honey?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing,\u201d she answered, and plunged her hand into the chest of books. \u201cI was just talking to myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Regarded internationally as one of Turkey\u2019s greatest writers, O\u011fuz Atay (1934-1977) remains largely untranslated into English.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":566,"featured_media":33082,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"default","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"footnotes":""},"categories":[15,16,3511],"tags":[3514,920,3571,3570,3344],"article-category":[],"article-type":[],"coauthors":[3569],"class_list":["post-33053","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-featured-excerpt","category-fiction","category-tmr-41-forgetting","tag-forgetting","tag-istanbul","tag-married-woman","tag-self","tag-turkish-writers"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n"The Forgotten"\u2014a short story by O\u011fuz Atay - The Markaz Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\""The Forgotten"\u2014a short story by O\u011fuz Atay\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Regarded internationally as one of Turkey\u2019s greatest writers, O\u011fuz Atay (1934-1977) remains largely untranslated into English.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Markaz Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2024-05-03T05:37:24+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2024-05-06T12:39:15+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/05\/Hale-Asaf-1915\u20131938-Self-Portrait.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"737\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"1024\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Ralph Hubbell\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Ralph Hubbell\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"14 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"Ralph Hubbell\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/d460b79c7cb97c9bec0109011e447dd6\"},\"headline\":\"“The Forgotten”\u2014a short story by O\u011fuz Atay\",\"datePublished\":\"2024-05-03T05:37:24+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2024-05-06T12:39:15+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":2905,\"commentCount\":0,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2024\\\/05\\\/Hale-Asaf-1915\u20131938-Self-Portrait.jpg\",\"keywords\":[\"forgetting\",\"Istanbul\",\"married woman\",\"self\",\"Turkish writers\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Featured excerpt\",\"Fiction\",\"TMR 41 \u2022 Forgetting\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/\",\"name\":\"\\\"The Forgotten\\\"\u2014a short story by O\u011fuz Atay - The Markaz Review\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2024\\\/05\\\/Hale-Asaf-1915\u20131938-Self-Portrait.jpg\",\"datePublished\":\"2024-05-03T05:37:24+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2024-05-06T12:39:15+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2024\\\/05\\\/Hale-Asaf-1915\u20131938-Self-Portrait.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2024\\\/05\\\/Hale-Asaf-1915\u20131938-Self-Portrait.jpg\",\"width\":737,\"height\":1024,\"caption\":\"Hale Asaf (Turkish, 1915\u20131938), Self Portrait (year unknown).\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"“The Forgotten”\u2014a short story by O\u011fuz Atay\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/\",\"name\":\"The Markaz Review\",\"description\":\"Literature and Arts from the Center of the World\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"The Markaz Review\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2023\\\/08\\\/cropped-New-2023-TMR-Logo-500-pix.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2023\\\/08\\\/cropped-New-2023-TMR-Logo-500-pix.jpg\",\"width\":473,\"height\":191,\"caption\":\"The Markaz Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"}},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/d460b79c7cb97c9bec0109011e447dd6\",\"name\":\"Ralph Hubbell\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/ae36130f4d6f1344bb12635074bad76dc1d927c9c1fd59134386eba49609b757?s=96&d=mm&r=g1e85d1686241b51947316800a278819d\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/ae36130f4d6f1344bb12635074bad76dc1d927c9c1fd59134386eba49609b757?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/ae36130f4d6f1344bb12635074bad76dc1d927c9c1fd59134386eba49609b757?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"Ralph Hubbell\"},\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/author\\\/ralphhubbell\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO Premium plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"\"The Forgotten\"\u2014a short story by O\u011fuz Atay - The Markaz Review","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"\"The Forgotten\"\u2014a short story by O\u011fuz Atay","og_description":"Regarded internationally as one of Turkey\u2019s greatest writers, O\u011fuz Atay (1934-1977) remains largely untranslated into English.","og_url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/","og_site_name":"The Markaz Review","article_published_time":"2024-05-03T05:37:24+00:00","article_modified_time":"2024-05-06T12:39:15+00:00","og_image":[{"width":737,"height":1024,"url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/05\/Hale-Asaf-1915\u20131938-Self-Portrait.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"Ralph Hubbell","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Ralph Hubbell","Est. reading time":"14 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/"},"author":{"name":"Ralph Hubbell","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#\/schema\/person\/d460b79c7cb97c9bec0109011e447dd6"},"headline":"“The Forgotten”\u2014a short story by O\u011fuz Atay","datePublished":"2024-05-03T05:37:24+00:00","dateModified":"2024-05-06T12:39:15+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/"},"wordCount":2905,"commentCount":0,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/05\/Hale-Asaf-1915\u20131938-Self-Portrait.jpg","keywords":["forgetting","Istanbul","married woman","self","Turkish writers"],"articleSection":["Featured excerpt","Fiction","TMR 41 \u2022 Forgetting"],"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/","name":"\"The Forgotten\"\u2014a short story by O\u011fuz Atay - The Markaz Review","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/05\/Hale-Asaf-1915\u20131938-Self-Portrait.jpg","datePublished":"2024-05-03T05:37:24+00:00","dateModified":"2024-05-06T12:39:15+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/05\/Hale-Asaf-1915\u20131938-Self-Portrait.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/05\/Hale-Asaf-1915\u20131938-Self-Portrait.jpg","width":737,"height":1024,"caption":"Hale Asaf (Turkish, 1915\u20131938), Self Portrait (year unknown)."},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/the-forgotten-a-short-story-by-oguz-atay\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"“The Forgotten”\u2014a short story by O\u011fuz Atay"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#website","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/","name":"The Markaz Review","description":"Literature and Arts from the Center of the World","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#organization","name":"The Markaz Review","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/08\/cropped-New-2023-TMR-Logo-500-pix.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/08\/cropped-New-2023-TMR-Logo-500-pix.jpg","width":473,"height":191,"caption":"The Markaz Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"}},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#\/schema\/person\/d460b79c7cb97c9bec0109011e447dd6","name":"Ralph Hubbell","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/ae36130f4d6f1344bb12635074bad76dc1d927c9c1fd59134386eba49609b757?s=96&d=mm&r=g1e85d1686241b51947316800a278819d","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/ae36130f4d6f1344bb12635074bad76dc1d927c9c1fd59134386eba49609b757?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/ae36130f4d6f1344bb12635074bad76dc1d927c9c1fd59134386eba49609b757?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Ralph Hubbell"},"url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/author\/ralphhubbell\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/33053","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/566"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=33053"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/33053\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":33095,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/33053\/revisions\/33095"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/33082"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=33053"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=33053"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=33053"},{"taxonomy":"article-category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/article-category?post=33053"},{"taxonomy":"article-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/article-type?post=33053"},{"taxonomy":"author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/coauthors?post=33053"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}