I Never Give Up

Our Art of Fiction interview with Orhan Pamuk.

The Paris Review Redux: free interviews, stories, poems, and art from the archives of The Paris Review. View this email in your browser Orhan Pamuk, 1996. Photograph by Matthias Zeininger Berlin. "Morning: the city is covered in snow. It's sticking. Even on our balcony, it's thirty or forty centimeters thick. Ash is sleeping in the other room. I am inside my novel," writes Orhan Pamuk in his notebook, which we excerpted online last week. "I've bought so many books lately! A snowy hush reigns over the house and the city. It's still falling, so visibility is low. And I have to confess: I am so happy." This week, we're unlocking our Art of Fiction interview with Pamuk, which appears in issue no. 175 of the Review.  INTERVIEW The Art of Fiction No. 187 Orhan Pamuk  ​​INTERVIEWER For whom, then, are you writing? PAMUK As life gets shorter, you ask yourself that question more often. I've written seven novels. I would love to write another seven novels before I die. But then, life is short. What about enjoying it more? Sometimes I have to really force myself. Why am I doing it? What is the meaning of all of it? First, as I said, it's an instinct to be alone in a room. Second, there's an almost boyish competitive side in me that wants to attempt to write a nice book again. I believe less and less in eternity for authors. We are reading very few of the books written two hundred years ago. Things are changing so fast that today's books will probably be forgotten in a hundred years. Very few will be read. In two hundred years, perhaps five books written today will be alive. Am I sure I'm writing one of those five? But is that the meaning of writing? Why should I be worrying about being read two hundred years later? Shouldn't I be worried about living more? Do I need the consolation that I will be read in the future? I think of all these things and I continue to write. I don't know why. But I never give up. This belief that your books will have an effect in the future is the only consolation you have to get pleasure in this life.    From issue no. 175 (Fall–Winter 2005)   To read more from issue no. 175, including fiction by Ma Jian, why not subscribe? You'll receive four print issues a year plus unlimited digital access to our seventy-one-year archive. Copyright © 2024 The Paris Review. All rights reserved. You are receiving this email because you opted in via our website. Our mailing address is: The Paris Review 544 West 27th Street 3rd Floor New York, New York 10001 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe, if you must.