Summer 1953 • Vol. XV No. 3 FictionJuly 1, 1953 |

Two Recent Travelers

Ataturk in bumpy stone or marble, a seated pose, bitterly earned pomposity, a sort of athlete-deputy from the East; or reckless on horseback in the new squares, streaky, brigandish, a furious, suicidal patriot; or in three colors, cheeks lightly pink, a paper image on the walls of restaurants, hotels, living rooms, boats, bank buildings, on the flowered, spotty wall paper in the dismal coffee houses. Again and again, the hot black of his tuxedo lapels and the cold white of his shirt front, almost a dummy in a hire-for-the-evening shop—the official portrait. He was everywhere, everywhere. "A spectacular fate when you remember that he's dead," Harriet observed. They were amused, but even from the first uncomfortable in his presence. Perhaps it was a mistake to have come at all. One might better leave unseen the marvels of old Istanbul than face up to the squalid, inspired frenzy of the new, the democratic desolation. Traveling, like everything else, had become too political. Was

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The Parents

By Ruth Stone

Ataturk in bumpy stone or marble, a seated pose, bitterly earned pomposity, a sort of athlete-deputy from the East; or reckless on horseback in the new squares, streaky, brigandish, a […]

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