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Saturday, October 18th, 2008
I wasn't buying as a book collector would, but as a frantic person who was desperate to understand why Turkey was so poor and so troubled. Pamuk's essay in today's Guardian reminds me a lot of his essays in Part II of Other Colors, "Books and Reading." He talks about reading and imitating the first and second waves of 20th-century Turkish poets, and how that poetry (and the repression of those poets) affected his thinking and his voice.The second half of the essay however moves into different territory, questions about Turkey's status as a nation and in relation to the West -- this is material that he has written a lot about, much of it collected in the subsequent section of Other Colors, "Politics, Europe, and Other Problems of Being Oneself." The transition -- the sentence I have quoted above -- is a bit of genius, a summary in 26 words of a huge portion of Pamuk's writing and thinking -- there are whole volumes of worthwhile memoir that can be extrapolated from this sentence. A lovely essay -- go read it! But Ms. Freely: "exalt" does not mean the same thing as "exult". (Apologies if this error is down to the editors rather than the translator.)
 I have added an entry for this essay to the Pamuk bibliography I'm maintaining. If you see any other articles that would fit in well there, let me know.
posted morning of October 18th, 2008: Respond
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Saturday, November 29th, 2008
Pamuk has written a expanded version of his October essay on collecting books -- it is published (in Maureen Freely's translation) in the December New York Review of Books: My Turkish Library.
posted morning of November 29th, 2008: Respond
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Sunday, November 30th, 2008
The Borgesian library is not for me a metaphysical fantasy of an infinite worldâ??it is the library I have built up in my house in Istanbul, volume by volume. Pamuk's new memoir in the New York Review of Books is about building up his library -- one book at a time, "a bit like building a house stone by stone." It's similar to the shorter piece he published last month in the Guardian but contains some valuable new information.Turkey was never a Western colony, and so when Turks imitated the West as Atatürk decreed, it was never the damning, demeaning undertaking described by Kundera, Naipaul, and Edward Saidâ??it became an important part of Turkish identity. I hadn't quite gotten this previously -- it is easier to understand his presentation of the conflict between Islamist and Nationalist in Snow, with this point in hand.
When I decided to become a writer, neither poems nor novels were valued as individual expressions of an artistic sensibility, a strange spirit, a soul: the dominant view was that serious writers worked collectively, and their work was valued for the way in which it contributed to a social utopia and reflected a shared vision (like modernism, socialism, Islamism, nationalism, or secular republicanism). There was little interest in literary circles in the problem of the individual creative writer who drew from history and tradition, or who tried to find the literary form that best accommodated his voice. I'm really taken with the idea of Pamuk as working to introduce the notion of the author as "individual creative writer" into a Turkish literary scene which values the author as a member of an ideological collective.
(One annoying thing: The NYRB software that turns magazine articles into web pages has a problem with some Turkish characters, in particular at least ı and ğ, which it has replaced with blank spaces.) Update: Scott Esposito is unhappy to see this essay appearing in NYRB so soon after a version was published in the Guardian -- I can see his point although I like the piece a lot better than he does.
posted evening of November 30th, 2008: Respond
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Wednesday, March 18th, 2009
At Orbis Quintus today, I found Maureen Freely's new Washington Post piece on translating Pamuk, on trying "to recreate the narrative trance that makes the novel so hypnotic in Turkish." It's a lovely essay, a look into the translator's creative experience -- at the "shadow novelist [who is] present in every translator. Though she must serve the text, she can recreate the author's voice only if she gets so close to the heart of the novel that she can convince herself it briefly answers to hers." (Now I'm just dying to hear from Gün and from Göknar...) At the same page is an audio clip of a conversation between Freely and the Post's writer-at-large Marie Arana.
posted evening of March 18th, 2009: Respond
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Monday, March 23rd, 2009
 Orhan Pamuk was awarded an honorary doctoral degree by the University of Rouen last week; in his acceptance speech, he reflects on the modernist ideal of the reclusive author, and what he and other authors have taken from Flaubert. h/t LanguageHat.
posted morning of March 23rd, 2009: Respond
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Saturday, May 9th, 2009
In the Paris Review interview of Pamuk (from 2004):
Pamuk: I was [in Snow] underlining the clerical nature of the novelist as opposed to that of the poet, who has an immensely prestigious tradition in Turkey. To be a poet is a popular and respected thing.... After Western ideas came to Turkey, this legacy was combined with a romantic and modern idea of the poet as a person who burns for truth.... On the other hand, a novelist is essentially a person who covers distance through his patience, slowly, like an ant. A novelist impresses us not by his demonic and romantic vision, but by his patience.
Interviewer: Have you ever written poetry?
Pamuk: ...I did when I was eighteen and I published some poems in Turkey, but then I quit. My explanation is that I realized that a poet is someone through whom God is speaking. You have to be possessed by poetry. I tried my hand at poetry, but I realized after some time that God was not speaking to me. I was sorry about this and then I tried to imagine -- if God were speaking through me, what would he be saying? I began to write very meticulously, slowly, trying to figure this out. That is prose writing, fiction writing.
At Orbis Quintus, paledave links to a bunch of other Paris Review interviews.
posted evening of May 9th, 2009: Respond
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Sunday, May 10th, 2009
I just made a fun, pleasant discovery; looking back at the Orhan Pamuk interview I was reading last night, I wanted to check whether the Paris Review had published a copy of it on the web. Turns out they did [PDF], and what's more it contains reproductions of a few pages of Pamuk's manuscript notes for The Black Book. Beautiful!
posted morning of May 10th, 2009: 2 responses
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Thursday, September 10th, 2009
This is kind of confusing: the New Yorker published a piece of fiction by Orhan Pamuk this week under the title, "Distant Relations" (translated by Maureen Freely) -- there is no sidebar to the effect that "Orhan Pamuk's new novel, Museum of Innocence, will be published in English next month; this piece is an exerpt" or something like that; but that is what the piece appears to be. It seems strange to publish it as a short story without any explanation of that; and it doesn't really work as a short story -- it does work pretty well as a teaser, though.
posted evening of September 10th, 2009: Respond
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Tuesday, October 20th, 2009
I am happy: The Museum of Innocence was published at long last today, the first novel Orhan Pamuk has published since I fell in love with his voice back in 2007. I have been anticipating this since last August when I saw it mentioned in McGaha's Autobiographies of Orhan Pamuk... I'm wondering idly -- only read a few pages this evening, they are nice -- they have the same beguiling prose quality I remember from the opening of The Black Book -- how well the metaphor of strolling through a museum will work for the experience of reading this book. Will I linger over certain images, walk briskly past others which are not as engaging? Will I want to stay past closing time or will I find myself wanting to go home early, when I have not even gotten to see the exhibit on the third floor?... I'm usually a bit intimidated by museums, I have not yet felt even a bit intimidated by Pamuk's prose* -- its inviting affect is the thing I love most about it. Well; we'll see. Here are the epigraphs to this book: These were innocent people, so innocent that they thought poverty a crime that wealth would allow them to forget. (from the notebooks of Celâl Salik)[Celâl Salik? Is that Celâl from The Black Book? I sort of think so but not sure. Did the Black Book character have a last name? ...and, yes! the columnist in The Black Book is named Celâl Salik.] If a man could pass thro' Paradise in a Dream, and have a flower presented to him as a pledge that his Soul had really been there, and found that flower in his hand when he awoke -- Aye? and what then? (from the notebooks of Samuel Taylor Coleridge) [This is very nice, and definitely calls to mind the opening of The Black Book.] First I surveyed the little trinkets on the table, her lotions and her perfumes. I picked them up and examined them one by one. I turned her little watch over in my hand. Then I looked at her wardrobe. All those dresses and accessories piled one on top of the other. These things that every woman used to complete herself -- they induced in me a painful and desparate loneliness; I felt myself hers, I longed to be hers. (from the notebooks of Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar)
*Oh wait, sorry, I am forgetting about The New Life. So make that "have not in most cases".
posted evening of October 20th, 2009: 1 response
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I wonder when the narrative present of The Museum of Innocence is. The novel is rooted very firmly in time -- in the first few pages we see that the high point of the narrator's life was on May 26th, 1975 (a few weeks past my fifth birthday), and that his involvement with his distant relation Füsun had started a month previous to that, on April 27th (when I was still four years old) -- when is he speaking though? In chapter 4 he says, "As I sit down so many years later and devote myself heart and soul to the telling of my story..." -- I hope (and expect) his road to the present moment will be as much a part of the story as are the events he is narrating. Kemal was 30 at the time of the happiest moment of his life, so was born in 1945, the same age as my uncle. So he could well be narrating in my present moment, as a 65-year-old. Pamuk is 57 years old now, perhaps his narrator is his age, in which case he would be speaking in 2002. Or maybe something else. The excerpt that appeared in the New Yorker this summer under the title "Distant Relations" was adapted from chapters 2 through 6 -- I thought at the time that it would work much better in the context of a longer novel than as a short story, and I was right -- instead of getting to the end and thinking "well, then what?" you just turn the page and keep reading...
 Update: The narrative present has to be after 2007; when Sibel leaves him in 1976, Kemal says "I would not see her again for 31 years." He opened the museum in the mid-90's -- there is a reference to him doing this "twenty years later."
posted evening of October 20th, 2009: Respond
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