Orhan Pamuk: The price of bravery

"More than a commitment to the art or to the craft, which I am devoted to, it is a commitment to being alone in a room." This statement by Orhan Pamuk (right), from "Other Colors," a recent collection of his essays, suggests that his attitude as an artist is rather insulated (even though that is hardly the case). This week we were reminded by numerous reports how dangerous it can be in certain cultures for writers who use their art to comment on society, following the allegations that a Turkish "murder network" not only planned a government coup but also the assassination of Pamuk, who received a Nobel Prize in 2006.

As Pamuk has championed the secularizing of his country in lectures and articles, he has made considerable enemies. In 2005, his comments to a Swedish newspaper about historical atrocities committed by Turkey against Armenians and Kurds led to a trial and the prospect of  imprisonment for denigrating Turkish national identity. Though the charges were dropped on a technicality, Pamuk was thrust to the front of the human rights movement in his homeland. It should’ve reminded us how much danger he was in; thankfully the newest alleged plot was discovered before something tragic could occur.

Here are some excerpts from Pamuk’s work that are representative not only of the power and poignancy of his literary voice, but also of his courage in writing about a society roiling with contradictions:

"The problem facing the West today is not to discover which terrorist is preparing a bomb in which tent, which cave, or which street of which remote city, but to understand the poor, scorned majority that does not belong to the Western world." ("Listen to the Damned," an essay published in the Guardian in 2001)

"Why have I devoted so much energy to convey to the reader the melancholy I feel in this city where I’ve spent my entire life?" ("Istanbul: Memories and the City")

"On the Day of Judgment, the idol-makers will be asked to bring the images they created to life.... Since they will be unable to bring anything to life, their lot will be to suffer the torments of Hell. Let it not be forgotten that in the Glorious Koran, ‘creator’ is one of the attributes of God. It is Allah who is creative, who brings that which is not into existence, who gives life to the lifeless. No one ought to compete with Him. The greatest of sins is committed by painters who presume to do as He does, who claim to be as creative as He." ("My Name Is Red: A Novel")

Nick Owchar

Photo credit: Random House

Comments

[Ben Casnocha]

And hearing him deliver those words in-person is even more powerful. He spoke at Claremont in the fall. My favorite part was when he read from his Nobel acceptance speech:

The question we writers are asked most often, the favorite question, is: Why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write. I write because I can’t do normal work as other people do. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can partake of real life only by changing it. I write because I want others, the whole world, to know what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, in Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all life’s beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but—as in a dream—can’t quite get to. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy.