Is Huzur the story of a magnificent love affair where a single day feels like a thousand years? Is it the story of the unrest left behind by a glorious civilization long gone? Is it, as the 1948 serial announcement put it, the story of the day the war began, far from borders, political circles, and battlefields? It is a story where all these questions interchange and become one, integrated and unified; an ambiguous interiority simultaneously distant from all, yet simultaneously close to all, a singular symbolism of existence, enriched by the memory of Istanbul and the rising and falling rhythm of music, with an elegant language where love and civilization, art, and life flow side by side. Huzur is, in reality, our inner story. Huzur is the magnificence of the Turkish novel.