Writing poetic prose and prosaic poetry and allowing the reader to discover the joy of reading such writing is the sign of a good writer. The ability to load humble every day words with so much meaning and emotion is the sign of an exceptional writer. The ability to do this for a long epic poem without losing the interest and attention of the reader is the sign of a great writer.
Usually only the names of good poems are remembered or some stanzas, a line or two, or four, an interesting name like Madame Sosostris, or sounds that tintinnabulate, a general meaning or such. Here we remember a gamut of characters, normal, standard, everyday people who come to mind and disappear again to be remembered once more on another day of introspection or remembrance or association. They are not that special, their names are not strange or funny. They board a train, travel and leave. They remember, reminisce, talk, complain, brag, lie, cry like all people do. But they are sometimes you and sometimes others that you already know although the time is 1941 and you were possibly not even born then.
It has been so short since Nazim hikmet wrote his epic, just as it has been very short since the tragedies of Aeschylus were written or the comedies of Aristophanes, or the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare. Time stands still for the common man as it does for kings and cabbages. But Nazim Hikmet's train continues on its never ending journey and will do so as long as a single copy of this book remains for someone to read.
And a special note of thanks for the translators. I have read it in both Turkish and English and must say that I enjoyed it equally. They have done a great job.