- The Washington Times - Friday, November 10, 2006

NEW YORK — In another life, Orhan Pamuk could have been an escape artist.Spend an hour with him, and you quickly wonder if he wants to be somewhere else — or even someone else. Ask him, and he’ll admit that not being Orhan Pamuk is a constant fantasy.

Nevertheless, Mr. Pamuk has good reason to be himself these days. For years, he has been regarded as a novelist of exceptional talent. Now he’s a Nobel Prize-winning novelist of exceptional talent.

What does that mean for a man who wrote he once believed there was another Orhan somewhere?

Mostly just relief.

“The beautiful part of this prize is that I’m pleased from now on nobody else will ask me, ‘Will you get the Nobel Prize?’” Mr. Pamuk says, laughing.

The Nobel is a coda to an extraordinary decade in the 30-year career of Turkey’s most famous writer — one of steep rise in global exposure.

His works have been translated into more than 40 languages. He has traveled to more than 20 countries to promote them. Along the way, he has made his share of political statements, one of which led to a trial in Turkey on the charge of “insulting Turkishness.” Meanwhile, the drumbeat for the Nobel grew louder and more maddening.

In a recent interview at Columbia University, where he is a fellow, Mr. Pamuk insisted that the Nobel would not change his character or work habits, but he also expressed exhaustion with the people who comb everything he says and writes for controversy. He seems unsure if the Nobel will be more of a shield or a magnifying glass.

“Politics do not influence my work; politics have influenced my life, actually,” he says. “In fact, I am doing my utmost to preserve my work from politics.”

Mr. Pamuk is a tall, slender 54-year-old with a slightly pudgy face, almond eyes, ill-fitting glasses and rumpled hair. He laughs loudly, isn’t above wagging his finger over questions he deems objectionable and describes himself as a lover of solitude with a restless imagination.

“I have this urge to stop this life and start afresh,” he says. “I am in a train, and the train goes into a town, or it passes close to houses. … You see inside the house where a man, a family, a TV is on, they’re sitting at a table. You see a life there. There’s an immense impulse to be there, to be them, to be like them.”

Mr. Pamuk was born into a wealthy family in Istanbul and defines himself as Muslim “culturally,” with religion never playing much of a role in his upbringing. In his early 20s, disillusioned with his architecture studies and painting aspirations, he decided he would write. It was nearly a decade before he was published.

“Till the age of 30, my father gave me pocket money,” he says.

His artistic skills have influenced his structurally complex, visually piercing novels. He counts among his inspirations Proust and Tolstoy and says he loves philosophically and emotionally layered works such as “The Possessed” and “Anna Karenina”

His own lyrical, dreamlike stories — often drenched in melancholy — seek harmony in discord but don’t always find it.

In “Snow,” his most overtly political novel, Mr. Pamuk wrote about the plight of young Muslim girls who wished to wear head scarves in school but faced legal obstacles in secular Turkey. In the book, published in the United States in 2004, every character’s point of view seems to have merit, and in it, both secularists and Islamists in Turkey found much to like and hate. The topic was especially touchy, considering the ongoing debate in Turkey over the country’s bid to join the European Union, a move Mr. Pamuk has openly supported.

The push and pull in Turkey, a country that straddles two continents and has deep religious and secular convictions, haunts Mr. Pamuk’s work. Besides “Snow,” his best-known novels in the United States are “The Black Book” and “My Name Is Red.” Another well-received book, “Istanbul,” is part memoir, part history of the home city Mr. Pamuk adores.

He says he hopes the Nobel, Turkey’s first, will have a positive impact on other Turkish writers, but he is not convinced it will protect him from political persecution. He already was very famous when he was put on trial last year, he notes.

Mr. Pamuk was charged after telling a Swiss publication that Turkey was unwilling to deal with painful parts of its history involving the massacres of Armenians during World War I, which Turkey insists were not genocidal, and the killings of many in its Kurdish population. The charge was dropped on a technicality in January.

He insists that he is merely a novelist writing about what he knows and what interests him but that others have interpreted his works as political commentary during what are tense times between the West and the Muslim world.

Still, it doesn’t take much to make him say something political. It is as if he can’t bear not to be honest.

“It’s a conscience,” says Maureen Freely, who has known Mr. Pamuk for many years and served as a translator for him. “If it’s important, he’ll say something. It’s something he regards as a duty he can’t run away from.”

When he won the Nobel, some countrymen denigrated him, saying he was tapped not for his writing, but for his politics. His mother’s happiness was tempered by concern over how Turkish right-wingers would respond.

“I embrace them,” Mr. Pamuk says of his detractors. “This is a day of celebration for me and for Turkey. I’m not going to answer back.”

For the past four years, Mr. Pamuk has been constructing a novel that “is not political, not historical.” It is a love story about a rich Istanbul man’s obsession with a poor relative. The working title is “Museum of Innocence.”

However, something else he is writing — his Nobel prize acceptance speech — is getting unwanted attention. He is still thinking about what to say.

Perhaps when he is honored officially, on Dec. 10 in Stockholm, he will wish to be somewhere else, someone else.

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