"All the Mornings of the World and the Caucasian Linden Tree"
The French writer Pascal Quignard’s work, adapted into film by Alain Corneau as Tous les matins du monde (All the Mornings of the World), continues to hold its place in our collective memory even after 35 years.
This story, which is an intersection of literature, music, and cinema, filled with emotion and art, has long since earned the status of being unforgettable both in the world and in Turkey.
Set in mid-17th century France, at the dawn of humanity’s struggle with nature, the story centers on the elderly, experienced, free-spirited musician Monsieur de Sainte-Colombe. Opposite him stands the adventurous young musician Marin Marais. For Sainte-Colombe, music is an end in itself; for the other, it is merely a means.
Because of this fundamental difference, he dismisses Marais, who comes to learn the secrets of music from him, bluntly telling him that he can only become a court jester catering to palace pleasures.
Having recently lost his wife, Sainte-Colombe lives with his two daughters, whom he has taught the secrets of art, in a modest house by a river a little way outside Paris. One of the daughters falls instantly in love with Marais. She persuades her father, and the lessons begin. Even the little skill Marais acquires becomes enough to play before the Sun King at court.Sainte-Colombe becomes angry at this concession and banishes Marais once again. The enamored daughter secretly brings the young man into the house, opening both her heart and — without hesitation — teaching him the playing techniques her father had withheld.
Once Marais has taken everything he wanted in every sense, he abandons the young woman and becomes the chief musician of the court. The girl takes her own life. Sainte-Colombe’s pain multiplies.
Some time later, the emptiness in Marais’s heart draws him back to the old composer. Gone are the resentment and anger; now a heart filled with regret calls for shared sorrow.
Still, like All the Mornings of the World, the past mornings and days cannot be returned. Not even a single second can be lived again. The curtain falls. The story completes its cycle, ready to be lived again.
The film also introduced to us the great virtuoso Jordi Savall, who also carried the Ottoman legacy into the present through figures such as Dimitrie Cantemir.
Gérard Depardieu’s perfectly cast portrayal of Marin Marais brought music, literature, cinema, and all those who love them together. For me personally, it was the true beginning of my encounter with classical music.
Despite the long years that have passed, it has lost neither its relevance, nor its excitement, nor the emotions it awakens in souls. That is precisely why, when I saw on Notre Dame de Sion High School’s cultural events page that there would be a Tous les matins du monde concert on January 13th 2026
(https://www.nds.k12.tr/Concert-litteraire-Barrault-Moquet-Tramier),
I felt that I absolutely had to be in that hall. When I pressed the reservation button in the announcement page; I received the crushing message that all seats were full. I contacted all the diplomatic, artistic, and francophone connections I had built over the years, almost begging them to find me a place. When those efforts failed, I went to the historic school’s gate at concert time and repeated my plea in person. Thanks to those who didn’t show up, I was able to watch the event from the very front rows.
I should call it an event rather than just a concert — because this performance, while perhaps not as grand as the film, had a truly enchanting structure. Accompanying the two virtuosos on harpsichord and viola da gamba was the actress Marie-Christine Barrault, reading from Quignard’s original French text. For cinephiles who dream of Eric Rohmer films, Barrault’s presence surely increased interest in the event. Indeed, when I overheard post-concert conversations of people who had neither seen the film nor read the book, I realized that this legendary, still-undiminished artist had added yet another layer of appeal.
The poise of this eighty-year-old lady, who has lost none of her elegance, was itself a life lesson. There is no doubt that Notre Dame de Sion, with its 170-year legacy in Istanbul, organized every detail of this event with flawless perfection. Like the other historic French and foreign schools in Istanbul, Notre Dame de Sion continues to exist in its ancient building, seemingly unaware of urban transformation, entrusting its presence to eternity.
It would be a great mistake to underestimate the importance of these institutions for the city and the country. The school stands just a few hundred meters from the Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality’s Sevgi Soysal Library in Taksim which was dedicated one of the best woman authors of Turkish literature toward the Harbiye district, opposite the iconic Radio House.
Recently, I heard from dear Barçın Yinanç that Sevgi Soysal’s house in Ankara — where she once lived — along with the Caucasian Linden tree there, will be demolished under urban transformation. Yet another victim of this now-outrageous process that has turned into what can only be called urban genocide. The subject may be art, not construction. But the 100-years-more journey of Notre Dame de Sion, Deutsche Schule Istanbul, Liceo Italiano, Saint-Benoît, the old Beyoğlu apartments, and other historic buildings that have survived until today clearly shows how wrong the path we are on is.
Yes, All the Mornings of the World are irretrievable.But the irreversible destruction of collective memory and the transformation of cities into unlivable concrete forests can only be called devastation, erasure, societal dementia.
We well know which ideology began this disgusting urbanization in the 1950s under the dream of becoming a “Little America,” and we know who carries that flag today. We cannot bring time back, but we can refuse to forget.
Just like the melancholy of Monsieur Sainte-Colombe, the old stones of Notre Dame de Sion are still resisting. That is why Sevgi Soysal’s house and the Caucasian Linden matter so much. When we speak of concretization and urban genocide, we know exactly what we mean.Those small, stubborn fragments of memory continue to live inside us.
The real resistance is precisely this: to tell, to listen, to remember — and of course, to act.
This story, which is an intersection of literature, music, and cinema, filled with emotion and art, has long since earned the status of being unforgettable both in the world and in Turkey.
Set in mid-17th century France, at the dawn of humanity’s struggle with nature, the story centers on the elderly, experienced, free-spirited musician Monsieur de Sainte-Colombe. Opposite him stands the adventurous young musician Marin Marais. For Sainte-Colombe, music is an end in itself; for the other, it is merely a means.
Because of this fundamental difference, he dismisses Marais, who comes to learn the secrets of music from him, bluntly telling him that he can only become a court jester catering to palace pleasures.
Having recently lost his wife, Sainte-Colombe lives with his two daughters, whom he has taught the secrets of art, in a modest house by a river a little way outside Paris. One of the daughters falls instantly in love with Marais. She persuades her father, and the lessons begin. Even the little skill Marais acquires becomes enough to play before the Sun King at court.Sainte-Colombe becomes angry at this concession and banishes Marais once again. The enamored daughter secretly brings the young man into the house, opening both her heart and — without hesitation — teaching him the playing techniques her father had withheld.
Once Marais has taken everything he wanted in every sense, he abandons the young woman and becomes the chief musician of the court. The girl takes her own life. Sainte-Colombe’s pain multiplies.
Some time later, the emptiness in Marais’s heart draws him back to the old composer. Gone are the resentment and anger; now a heart filled with regret calls for shared sorrow.
Still, like All the Mornings of the World, the past mornings and days cannot be returned. Not even a single second can be lived again. The curtain falls. The story completes its cycle, ready to be lived again.
The film also introduced to us the great virtuoso Jordi Savall, who also carried the Ottoman legacy into the present through figures such as Dimitrie Cantemir.
Gérard Depardieu’s perfectly cast portrayal of Marin Marais brought music, literature, cinema, and all those who love them together. For me personally, it was the true beginning of my encounter with classical music.
Despite the long years that have passed, it has lost neither its relevance, nor its excitement, nor the emotions it awakens in souls. That is precisely why, when I saw on Notre Dame de Sion High School’s cultural events page that there would be a Tous les matins du monde concert on January 13th 2026
(https://www.nds.k12.tr/Concert-litteraire-Barrault-Moquet-Tramier),
I felt that I absolutely had to be in that hall. When I pressed the reservation button in the announcement page; I received the crushing message that all seats were full. I contacted all the diplomatic, artistic, and francophone connections I had built over the years, almost begging them to find me a place. When those efforts failed, I went to the historic school’s gate at concert time and repeated my plea in person. Thanks to those who didn’t show up, I was able to watch the event from the very front rows.
I should call it an event rather than just a concert — because this performance, while perhaps not as grand as the film, had a truly enchanting structure. Accompanying the two virtuosos on harpsichord and viola da gamba was the actress Marie-Christine Barrault, reading from Quignard’s original French text. For cinephiles who dream of Eric Rohmer films, Barrault’s presence surely increased interest in the event. Indeed, when I overheard post-concert conversations of people who had neither seen the film nor read the book, I realized that this legendary, still-undiminished artist had added yet another layer of appeal.
The poise of this eighty-year-old lady, who has lost none of her elegance, was itself a life lesson. There is no doubt that Notre Dame de Sion, with its 170-year legacy in Istanbul, organized every detail of this event with flawless perfection. Like the other historic French and foreign schools in Istanbul, Notre Dame de Sion continues to exist in its ancient building, seemingly unaware of urban transformation, entrusting its presence to eternity.
It would be a great mistake to underestimate the importance of these institutions for the city and the country. The school stands just a few hundred meters from the Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality’s Sevgi Soysal Library in Taksim which was dedicated one of the best woman authors of Turkish literature toward the Harbiye district, opposite the iconic Radio House.
Recently, I heard from dear Barçın Yinanç that Sevgi Soysal’s house in Ankara — where she once lived — along with the Caucasian Linden tree there, will be demolished under urban transformation. Yet another victim of this now-outrageous process that has turned into what can only be called urban genocide. The subject may be art, not construction. But the 100-years-more journey of Notre Dame de Sion, Deutsche Schule Istanbul, Liceo Italiano, Saint-Benoît, the old Beyoğlu apartments, and other historic buildings that have survived until today clearly shows how wrong the path we are on is.
Yes, All the Mornings of the World are irretrievable.But the irreversible destruction of collective memory and the transformation of cities into unlivable concrete forests can only be called devastation, erasure, societal dementia.
We well know which ideology began this disgusting urbanization in the 1950s under the dream of becoming a “Little America,” and we know who carries that flag today. We cannot bring time back, but we can refuse to forget.
Just like the melancholy of Monsieur Sainte-Colombe, the old stones of Notre Dame de Sion are still resisting. That is why Sevgi Soysal’s house and the Caucasian Linden matter so much. When we speak of concretization and urban genocide, we know exactly what we mean.Those small, stubborn fragments of memory continue to live inside us.
The real resistance is precisely this: to tell, to listen, to remember — and of course, to act.
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