Interviews
A Bit of Irresponsible Reading
Five Questions with Orhan Pamuk
History
Ahmet Karamustafa: [...] Even a cursory look at your output might suggest to the reader that, in addition to whatever else that motivates you, culturally, literarily, and so on, there is the impression that you might simply have, perhaps, a larger historical project. Do you have a project like that, a conscious deliberate one in which perhaps you are trying to reconstruct or recuperate the past for your readers in a particular way?
Orhan Pamuk: I'm not doing this as a life project. I understand your question as: Some novels of yours are historical. There is always, even in novels that take place in contemporary Turkey, [a] presence of the past. Even in The Black Book, there are chapters—which is a book that takes place in 1980—there are chapters which are completely historical. So I understand your question as: Is this a part of a grand project of exploring Ottoman Turkish history? Well, I would not put it that way. But, on the other hand, there is, of course, a deliberate urge, always an urge, always an urge to write about history, explore history, so to speak, through fiction. But, on the other hand, it's not as planned as—it's not the first plan. It's not the urge to explore history. In Turkey, there are some fiction writers who are deliberately doing that—in fact in their public statements, in interviews, saying that—saying that! For example, there was Kemal Tahir, an author that I admired, made it his business, sort of a project of exploring the Turkish and Ottoman past in a Zola kind of mission, that of—sort of what they thought a scientific work, but we also call it sort of a scientific approach in which the writerly consciousness explores a sort of an alternative history and goes into details of history in such a way that the present, the mysteries of the present, will be revealed to the author. That of, in fact, going so far as looking even at history as a social science, as a sort of a myth-breaking, mystery-revealing, code-breaking activity, which was also a popular way of representing an author, saying that I have now revealed some historical truths that the nation should know! So there is that kind of cultural understanding of novels or understanding—appreciation—or, even more, enjoyment of novels as sort of mysteries of the past which we have to be—which we have to know about are explored and revealed in these novels. And, in fact, there's writers, there are some authors who do that—who, when their books are published, they promote their books with those lines: Some past hidden truth—I have explored this—we have to know that, say, in the revolution of 1908, there were some Germans who were behind it, or some English behind this or that. Is a sort of—also, this kind of understanding—is really close—hovers around also (you understand) conspiracy theories—history is always—there are always facades and inner truths. Which is a very positivistic nineteenth [century] way of looking at things, which I understand.
But, anyway, I was not interested in history that way. I was not interested in history as a "Grand Project" also. When you say, "Grand Project," that is also associated with that kind of myth-breaking, mystery-exploring tradition. I'm not close to that. Another thing, maybe, is that I have some of it—not very much, but some of it—the Romantic notion of the glories of [the] past revealed in research. I have some of that energy in My Name is Red. In fact, some parts of My Name is Red has an elegiac (am I pronouncing that right?) quality of understanding, appreciating, and enjoying and inviting others to enjoy the glories of not only Ottoman, but in fact more Persian painting of, say, 16th, 15th centuries. But then, then, as a project, as a planned thing, my interest in history stops—not my whole interest in history. The way I look at history—now, this was a negative answer to your question—but let's find, give the positive-is more Romantic in the full sense of the word—that it is being associated with a set of images—history, for me, is like Edgar Allan Poe, you know, in his article on how he wrote one of his poems where he makes it his business to explain the effects of his poem—how, in a calculating way. I'm not calculating, but I understand the desire to be associated to a sort of imagery. That is my instinct with history.
Also, my interest in history may be also—you know, I'm now saying, beginning the sentence with "maybe's"—that is, it is not even clear to me! But maybe also be related to the fact that any Turkish writer who [inaudible] wants to be radical about his national identity, and so forth and so on, wants to look for the pure Turkish, that is, the essential thing that was not influenced by the West. And then you go to history. In fact, for example, when I started my—I wanted to be a painter between the ages of seven and twenty-two, and after thirty I decided to write a novel which will take place among—which will be a painter's novel. And at first I started that book as a contemporary book. In fact, the intellectual urge behind writing that book—you know, when you draw, you look at—and if you're inspired—you look at your hand—it's as if it's doing by itself, and so, a pleasurable thing. So what is that? How—and, of course, a metaphor for all sorts of intellectual creativity—how it works? So I wanted to go to these subjects, but I made what Americans call a "false start" and started writing a contemporary novel. And then I switched to history. Why? Perhaps because I realized that if I write a novel about a contemporary novelist in a realistic way, in which I have to do that, then he or she would be so derivative, so much influenced and imitative of western artists, that this person's character would be first, will be damaged from the opening—you see—and then you will not like it. Or, and then I decided to go to a classical period, where the Ottoman is the Ottoman, or the Persian is the Persian, of course, there was also influences there, but—anyway, inventing a pure history, or—that's Romanticism—Nationalism, look at German Nationalism, Nationalism and Romanticism goes hand in hand. So I wanted to do it that way. So I think there is, say, ten or fifteen percent of also a Romantic Nationalist urge to go back—but more to be associated with different imagery. There may be ten percent, five percent, this kind of thing that I negatively talk about, sort of a project of representing and learning about the past. Or I also confess that the urge in me to write historical novels is dying out. I don't know why, but I. [laughs, laughter]
AK: That was a beautiful answer. [laughter]
Sufism
Fatemeh Keshavarz: [.] It is delightful to have you here. Actually my question is quite a bit related to what Ahmet was saying, and it concerns the mystical and particularly Sufi concepts (which is the mystical branch within Islam). You do have structures that come out of these, like Conference of the Birds, by Attar, or you simply have people called "Jalal," you know, after Jalaluddin Rumi, or "Ghalib", you know, after—um—
OP: Sheikh Ghalib—
FK: —Sheikh Ghalib, and Husn-u ashk and so forth. And I have always wondered whether this is something you consciously use as a literary tool? How do you relate to it? Is it happening naturally, you know—can you talk about that?
It's not, it's not happening naturally. It's, it's, ah—for example, I was interested in history for various reasons. Then, perhaps the major thing that happened to me before I wrote The Black Book was I came to the United States with my ex-wife (who was doing her Ph.D. at Columbia University in 1985) and I was in sort of, ah, to sum it up, in a sort of a "identity crisis." Oh! what do I mean by this!? This was the first time I was out of Turkey—although I left the country when I was seven—then I was, in a partial way, closed myself. And although my father and family said, "Oh, why don't you go out, you know, maybe open yourself to intellectual activity outside of Turkey?" Which I resisted. Then at the age of thirty-three I went out and I was impressed by the richness and overabundance of American culture, libraries. And then, a typical situation of, Oh, what is my Turkishness? That kind of thing. And then there I begin to—and I was writing—I decided to write a bit of an experimental, strange book. And then I begin to read lots of Sufi stuff with the help of Borges and Calvino. Here I mean that these authors liberated me from the immense weight of religion, if you look at the past classical—so-called classical—Turkish Ottoman literature. In that, I was a typically middle-class secular Turkish boy that in my childhood, even in my high school and university years, passed Sufi literature, the glories of the Ottoman past—or, history and past was, hm, they were too, not modern, Ottoman—that thing, let's forget them! I was not interested!
But then, after coming to the United States I had in fact with the influence of Borges and Calvino—although I had read them earlier, [they were] a fashionable thing then—Postmodernism had paid me, opened me that I should, I think, I could read, say, Rumi, or classical Arab books in a different way, in a bit of a irresponsible way, maybe suppressing some of the way of the high religion, and all the things that had been rightly or wrongly associated with that kind of activity of reading classical Sufi things, which were very formal, all a community—a gesture of belonging to a community or a sect. In fact, I was reading this stuff for the first time in a very secular—very, they would have called that a irresponsible, child-like way—and looking at the whole Sufi tradition as a sort of a source for Borgesian stories, all these, oh, all these, and Rumi wrote all this Borgesian stuff as well. So why don't I do that, since because I was also with, Oh, what is my Turkishness?—that kind of, quote, "identity problems." That is how it started. I have been asked after these two books—two of my books are essentially, Sufi texts were inspirational, and that is The Black Book and The New Life, which is even more, it's not, there is less name-dropping, more formal, lyric inspiration. Then after these books were published, some journalists, especially from conservative groups in Turkey, asked, "So, you were Sufi? Any Sufi in your family?" That kind of thing. Which—was also—if I say, "No," which made you look artificial because oh! this boy has no real relation, only bookish inspiration, which is partly true.
Translation
Robert Patterson: [.] Orhan-bey, I speak Turkish, but I tend to read your novels in their English translations just because they are more readily available to me while I'm here. You recently had The Black Book re-translated, and I was wondering what factors led to that decision, and if you could also talk about your satisfaction or dissatisfaction with translations of other books as well.
OP: We were talking just about that when we were having lunch. It's—my relationships with my English translators—American translators, whatever you call them—are troubled. Now I'm happy with my last translator, Maureen Freely. I was also happy with my previous translator, Erdag Göknar-I was also happy with Maureen Freely—and, and, I had four translators. The second translator—Güneli Gün—it was my mistake—was not native American speaker, so we had some problems because of that. And she translated two of my books to a sort of a mid-western, slangy, idiomatic American [laughter, inaudible comment]. And some of it—ah—her understanding of good literature is a bit more sugary, sparkling, effervescent, full of joys and puns, and, you know, that kind of thing, which—I think, my Turkish is a bit problematic, but I tend to be intentio—at least, I'm formal, my Turkish is. I pick up sayings and this or that, but I make formal structures and, if I use idiomatic Turkish, not the latest fashionable and cute, cutey, cute Turkish. She tends to also make everything cute, lovely, smiling, and she is that kind of person. Very intelligent—I respect her. And, if you talk to her, her life is also sparkling. [laughs] But, on the other hand, my fiction shouldn't [be], I later realized. And she also gave a Midwestern, idiomatic version of that—which I understood from later from critiques from so many people—which, I decided, after a time, when my books were successful, my agent asked me this: What do you want? And I said, I want The Black Book to be re-translated. And this the successful translator of Snow and Istanbul did that book again.
Naming
Richard Godden: My question is about names in your works. Aliases and pseudonyms seem to abound, kind of behind every corner. In your works, characters often adopt names to efface their identity, or they assume the identity of someone else. Choosing a new name allows them to become someone else—or does it? And while many of your characters are trying to hide or become new people, your readers often encounter your own name in your works. Could you speak a little bit about the relationship between names and personal identity?
OP: Okay, ah, a subject that has troubled
me, worries me, an essential subject for me, um, not easy with picking
up my characters' names. And I don't know why. Often it's some secrets
or obvious things, but no one had written about them. All of the characters
of my main books start with the name [letter] K. And, one reason for
that, is that, since I cannot—I want to write the novel, but I cannot
decide about the character's name, I think, well, just like Kafka's
Kaja, for the time being, I write "Kah" and continue. 
And in Snow, it turned out, the joke turned out to be real thing.
Uh, and also, in the secondary and minor characters' names, I am troubled.
I have all these books published in Turkey by publishers for families
who have a new child—you know, they are name books. I have a collection
of them. There are Islamic name books, Turkic name books, all sorts
of name books with commentaries. I read them all the time. But after
a while, you come across a new character, and you need a name!
And then you have to do hours of research, which I don't want to.
And I have this quality on me, which I overcharge my books, so here if it is a name, it shouldn't be a simple name, it should be also a second or third meaning in it. And so I also look for that. And, in fact, the funny thing is that, that sometimes if I can't decide about a name, then to continue to write the book, in my notebooks I handwrite, I dot-dot-dot and continue, then I will find this person a name. Then I just continue writing the novel. But in the last book I am writing, which I have been writing for three years, there is so much indecision about names, and I've been, you know, writing the book for three years and sometimes I change when I write—so much indecision—that now that I am finishing the book, I handwrite, and someone is typing it now. But then, the person is all dot-dot-dot this to dot-dot-dot? It's all like this! And then I'm also confused! Who was this? [laughs, laughter] Partly because I have this—I don't want randomness in naming characters. We gave names to our children. Most of the time it's social. Grandfather, grandmother, this or that. In fact, I have one daughter, and she is named after a character in The Black Book—a main character. So that was, you know, easy. But then, it's hard for me to find because, I think, the name is, you know, the greatest thing we have. It's sort of an advertisement for all of your life. And also I think that a novelist should never leave anything to random chance. It should be deliberate. So all this plays down—it makes me over-self-conscious in picking up names. Then, of course, there are so many allusive names, so many jokes, double-jokes, or if I decide this or that. There are names which only some friends understand. There are names of (even now I can say) secret girlfriends, who—that kind of thing, so. [laughter]
Polyphony
James Wertsch: I wanted to ask a question that has to do with the voices of the narrators that you have. In part, this comes from a connection that I've found in following up on some commentary on you on your connection to Dostoyevsky. And Dostoevsky was the person whom the Russian literary analyst Mikhail Mikhailovich Bakhtin called the founder, the creator of the polyphonic novel, he has all kinds of multi-voicedness, heteroglossia, about the word with the sideward glance—that is, narrators and characters always speaking, never from the heart in some kind of clear identity-statement, but always thinking about how this answers an anticipated if not a past word. And, of course, in a book like My Name is Red, full of different narrators—but it's not that—it goes in and out of narrators and the characters in a lot of ways. How do you decide on what voice you're using, where those voices come from?
OP: That's a very essential decision about [the] making of a novel. Of course, compared to other writers that I read biographies of, or the personal acquaintances, that I am a more planned—I plan ahead—I think of a book more before I begin to write it, execute it. So, the decision about who is going to narrate it is an essential decision—then it means how do you see things, voice, the irony, seriousness, childishness, naïvete, the possibilities, the ranges, what he or she sees, point of view, the language, this or that, are very important. Then, of course, narrative point [of view]—is it first person singular, or are we going [to do things otherwise]?—that also gives you, opens up or closes all sorts of rhetoric and enjoyment of—and how close are we to this person's consciousness? We may be following the whole story from the point of view of a person, but are we detached? What Flaubert [would] do, you know. We follow the story, but then we are not very close to him. Then we may take some his language, some of my language. Or we may go ahead and write the whole thing from the point of view of a character, even trying to include the language—which is, of course, impossible, especially in a historical novel.
But, so, all these concentrations are there. But then some of these concentrations are linguistic, rhetorical, some of them are more philosophical, as Bakhtin suggests, polyphonic—and then seeing the things from the other's perspective, representing other's narrative point of view, and making the novel not a mouthpiece for the writer, but it's a sort of a clash of various points of view. Which [one] the author fully identifies with is another issue. But there are issues of telling a story, narrative, the technique and rhetoric, and there are points of, problems of philosophy. Writing sort of a philosophy of letting yourself go, and identifying with everyone with equal intensity and honesty. And that's what I think Dostoevsky did. I am a great admirer of Dostoevsky, and I think that his greatest success in fiction (which no one can achieve so far) is to be able to identify with others in such great length that even his grand ideas (that he cherished), he contradicted them fully. He did not care about them—that when he made fun of his own ideas! But then, the way he wrote, or, that he was so gifted in that kind of an intense identification with a character, and giving his or her full voice, that he was (I thought, I think) that as he was writing his scenes that he was aware that he was contradicting his own ideas, but this was, the other thing was, so beautiful and tempting that he continued! I think that it is that kind of intensity with identifying with your characters, with your scene, feeling in your heart the whole thing, believing in what you are doing, is Dostoevsky's key. And Nabokov had a little side comment about Turgenev, which I agree with—it's this, that Turgenev, whenever he writes, Turgenev looks at his pants—or at this line in his pants. Meaning: he is also self-conscious about his social stature, his place in world, which meaning that his heart is not there enough. I agree about Turgenev, but, let's look at the other way around. Dostoevsky, to me, never looks at his pants. [laughter]