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Snow by Orhan Pamuk – Book Review

Over the course of a few snowy days in a small Turkish town, we watch as the Poet regains his gift, a coup d’etat overthrows the local government, and all sorts of radicals talk about how much they hate the West. Snow is a view of the world that is both changing and standing still. A place where poverty and torture are normal daily occurrences. A place where young girls who are forbidden to wear headscarves have committed suicide.

Not surprisingly, Orhan Pamuk’s characters have names that are different from what I am familiar with. There is a lot of talk about a once great Turkish leader, Atatürk, who I have never heard of. There are foods and drinks like Raki that are beyond my expertise. Despite all their weirdness, I can still identify at least a little with the love-struck poet Ka who is the hero of the story. Because who among us has never been in love?

I find Snow wonderfully entertaining because it constantly surprises me by taking my Western self out of the role of reader and into the role of participant. As I listen to the horrible conditions in this horrible place called Kars, I find myself thinking about old fashioned imperialist thoughts. If only we could build a couple of Starbucks and a Home Depot, then everything would be better. Then, just as I’m thinking these thoughts about Nation Building, one of the characters will complain about how all the Westerners want to come in and change everything and make it like the West. Clearly the speaker doesn’t think this is a good idea, so I’m forced to consider why not would that be a good idea?

The novel is structured as a long story told by a friend. A friend who can’t help but give away bits that are too juicy to wait for their right time and place. The preposition is expressed as the future past perfect-His beautiful green eyes, one of which will be shattered by a bullet in 47 minutes, stared intently at Ka.. Like the opening sentence of 100 Years of Solitude, a little of it goes a long way. I soon got tired of the narrator telling me what was going to happen and who was going to die, and then going back to normal storytelling.

If Snow is my only window into the world of Turkish men, it’s a world I’m happy to avoid. They are a cold and murderous place in the small town of Kars. Or they are cowards hiding in their basements. Or they are rebels waiting for their chance to kill and rebel. Women are victims who refuse to admit they are victims. Everyone is sitting around drinking Raki and looking out the window at the huge snowflakes.

The story features two beautiful sisters, each a perfect woman in her own way. Our sad sack poet falls in love with both of them at one point or another. He is amazed by their eyes, faces, large breasts and the fact that one of the sisters is ready to run back to Germany with him. He falls madly in love with their bodies, so much so that he later finds a porn star who looks like the sisters and buys all her tapes.

Germany is often mentioned in the story, apparently every Turk who wants to escape from Turkey ends up in Germany. The Germans don’t seem to be amused by this. Germany also represents the West in this story, as the poet Ka is supposed to be a German newspaper reporter. This leads to all sorts of debates about what exactly this little fly in the city should be saying to the West.

Snow’s format wins me over in the end. The entire story is told as a long series of flashbacks and its endless foreshadowing of what will happen, what has already happened, and how our poor narrator becomes entangled in his own story by following in Ka’s footsteps and falling in love with one of his own sisters.

It is, after all, the story of an unimportant man who writes unimportant poems and dies a meaningless death. The window to the abandoned town of Kars is best left closed. The larger theme of the danger of Islam sweeping the world is pushed aside and eventually forgotten. All the bigger ideas are ignored as the novel becomes one man’s obsession and then slips past that man into futility. Snow had great potential but lost its way.

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