By Anonymous (not verified) on December 03, 2013

For Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk, the very art of writing is political.

Speaking before a packed auditorium at the University of Wisconsin Monday evening, Pamuk used his novel “Snow” to talk about literature, journalism, art, and politics. Wearing a black jacket-white shirt combination that he seems to also favor for his publicity photos (and looking only slightly older), Pamuk gave a mesmerizing talk.

“Snow” is a 2002 book that deals with the travels of a poet named Ka in the Northeastern Turkish city of Kars against a backdrop of violence and a suicide spree among young women there. (The suicides actually took place in the city of Batman, and the residents of Kars were considerably annoyed that he shifted the location, Pamuk said.)

The Center for the Humanities at the University of Wisconsin organized Pamuk’s visit to Madison, in conjunction with high school students from across Wisconsin reading “Snow.” Earlier in the day, Pamuk spoke to students and took questions from them. In his evening lecture, he used the book to touch on broader themes.

“The art of the novel by nature is political,” Pamuk said. “You speak about humanity; you are talking about others.”

Much of the reception for “Snow” was colored by politics, Pamuk said. It was published a few months after 9/11, Pamuk said, and was viewed “through the filters of this trauma.” People wanted urgent, ready-made answers about political Islam, he said, and were frustrated that the novel didn’t provide them.

Pamuk did a lot of research for Kars, extensively interviewing the residents in his role as a journalist for a Turkish newspaper that sent him there. A local anchorman asked the townspeople to be forthcoming with Pamuk, and, as a result, “they were filling my buckets,” Pamuk said. The only inconveniences were the friendly policemen who followed him around everywhere, ostensibly to provide him protection, but also to ensure that the folks didn’t tell him anything too politically controversial.

Pamuk knows the trouble politics can cause. He got into hot water some years ago for bringing up the Armenian Genocide and the official mistreatment of Kurds, taboo topics in his native land. He was put on trial, but the Turkish government withdrew its case after an international outcry. Pamuk had to go into self-exile for some time, returning to Turkey only after the furor had died down. (The authorities were so peeved at Pamuk that when he received the Nobel in 2006, the then-Turkish president, Ahmet Necdet Sezer, refused to congratulate him.)

In “Snow,” Pamuk deals with a swirl of complex themes: religion vs. secularism, traditionalism vs. modernism, authoritarianism vs. democracy. What makes the novel even more complicated is that the secularists are authoritarian, while the suppressed traditionalists don’t care for democracy, either.

“F. Scott Fitzgerald said that two strong and contradictory ideas are a good point to start a novel,” Pamuk said.

“For a novelist, there is no right or wrong,” Pamuk added. “You let others speak.”

“The novel is not dead,” Pamuk averred, citing China and India as countries where large portions of the population hanker to get a book published.

In response to the inevitable question about his religion (Pamuk has expressed his irritation in the past about this line of questioning), Pamuk said he “worships at the altar of literature,” naming Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, and Proust, among others, as his favorites.

Pamuk’s portrayal of Istanbul, where he has spent most of his life, is what has made him the favorite of critics. Most of his novels are set there (“Snow” is a significant exception), as is his memoir, “Istanbul: Memories and the City,” a riveting read right from the opening sentence.

“You have made your native city an indispensable literary territory, equal to Dostoyevsky’s St. Petersburg, Joyce’s Dublin or Proust’s Paris—a place where readers from all corners of the world can live another life, just as credible as their own, filled by an alien feeling that they immediately recognize as their own,” Professor Horace Engdahl, permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy, said in his Nobel presentation.

“I write because I am angry at all of you, angry at everyone,” Pamuk eloquently remarked in his Nobel speech. “I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can only partake in real life by changing it. I write because I want others, all of us, the whole world, to know what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, in Turkey.”

Pamuk captivated his audience here in Madison, Wisconsin, even if he ducked a question from me on what specifically makes him angry. Pamuk is completing another book, and its publication will give us one more chance to explore at length his life and work.

Add new comment

By submitting this form, you accept the Mollom privacy policy.

More

The American Council on Science and Health (ACSH) poses as an independent science-based organization devoted to...

By Jessica Mason and Matthew Rothschild

Thursday afternoon, a group of 75 Wisconsin protesters...

By Wendell Berry

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more 
of everything ready made. Be afraid 
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery 
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card 
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something 
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know. 
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord. 
Love the world. Work for nothing. 
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it. 
Denounce the government and embrace 
the flag. Hope to live in that free 
republic for which it stands. 
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man 
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers. 
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.


Say that the leaves are harvested 
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus 
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion—put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come. 
Expect the end of the world. Laugh. 
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts. 
So long as women do not go cheap 
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy 
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep 
of a woman near to giving birth? 
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head 
in her lap. Swear allegiance 
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos 
can predict the motions of your mind, 
lose it. Leave it as a sign 
to mark the false trail, the way 
you didn’t go. Be like the fox 
who makes more tracks than necessary, 
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Wendell Berry is a poet, farmer, and environmentalist in Kentucky. This poem, first published in 1973, is reprinted by permission of the author and appears in his “New Collected Poems” (Counterpoint).

Public School Shakedown

Progressive Media Project

Newsletter

Get Breaking News and Alerts!