A Review of Orhan Pamuk’s Snow

Ka, a Turkish exile in Germany, travels to Kars to investigate a news story about young girls committing suicide.

That's the synopsis of the book, but the story is strangely defined by the absence of this plot point, and so many other things that the reader, at first glance, could reasonably assume will be relevant as the narrative is fleshed out. Characters are established and then fade into the background. Even the titular snow - an artifice that serves two purposes in the book, to show isolation and give form to Ka's poetic and life philosophy - is there, yet in a way, not there. Ka frequently stares at the falling snow, but it never has a strong presence. Yet, it is a necessary resource as the city is snowed in, keeping the characters together and it helps to create a sense of oppressive isolation, a reality that Ka was seemingly living in Germany before his arrival in this Turkish city. Perhaps perception changes when we learn that kar means 'snow' in Turkish, and so kar and Ka (whose name is no coincidence) in the original are a constant reminder of one another, and that might suffice.

The same recurring themes characterize Orhan Pamuk's oeuvre, and Snow is no exception. A lovelorn, male protagonist caught between two sisters? Check, and as seen in A Strangeness in my Mind. Mentions of coups and the mention of a tension between two extremes? Also, check.

Intriguing narratives

None of this is necessarily bad. The fact that the story is narrated by Ka's friend - based on reconstructions of his movements, letters, and interviews - is a fine resource, though it sometimes falls flat as the narrator will signpost something that will happen in a future chapter. Given that the plot advances slowly and, in essence, centres around two key moments that are variations of the same (a broad, propagandistic performance), the reader can be left anxiously waiting for the signposted thing to occur. But, as would be expected from any second-hand account, even more so as some time has elapsed, narration can be disorderly, focus on unimporrtant details, meander or skip things the reader would have liked to see clarified. So is it an intended or an accidental device? Pamuk hints at the narrator of the story, Ka's friend, actually being him, and so handily finds an excuse to justify any omission or delay on the part of Pamuk the writer.

Another thing for the reader to bear in mind is the tone of the book. As the plot trundles on, it becomes increasingly obvious that this is a satire. The extremes are so extreme, the posturing so absurd, the book must be read as a bombastic, cartoonish, even, skewering of certain attitudes.

There is a density to the book that rewards deeper reflection. For instance, many of the character names have a significance, such as Ipek (silk) or Kadife (velvet), the names of the two sisters Ka is in love with. Moreover, the poetry written by Ka is never shown to the reader — even though, bizarrely, you might have the impression you actually have read his verses. What these two things have in common is that breadcrumbs are left by Pamuk, and we are never fully sure what is going on. This reflects Ka's directionless and desperate search for something to anchor him, as well as an indication that many characters act on a whim, on emotion. In a novel heaving with manifestos of all stripes, this is striking. In fact, the denouement of the story is provoked by a spur-of-the-moment idea, and it is fueled by emotional reactions and counter-reactions to that initial spark. Nobody acts in a sensical, logical way in this book.

A book about extremes

When it comes to this divide between secularists and Islamists, the extremes are shocking for several reasons. Not one character seems genuine in their devotion to their particular cause, and it creates a vacuum where empty slogans echo. In this space, people as well as culture die. Newspapers are written before events take place, the plays are devoid of any intelligence and every utterance or publication, for the most part, is taken as background noise, as something the 'we' say or 'they' say. The danger comes from, as Ka's paramour perceptibly states, people taking a position and then lying to preserve it. And behind all the lip service and propaganda, there exists a real hatred of the other.

So, where does that leave Ka? This insecure and manipulative poet is guilty of the same, but what stands out is that he does it on a micro, personal level. The only flag he carries is the one that represents his own, personal happiness.

Finally, the most interesting part of the book was the irony. Ka is an outsider who fields many questions, especially from the youth. Normally, it's the reverse, and it is the traveller who is the seeker of knowledge. This dynamic exists because the two extremes in the book are so divided, that they do not have the mental bandwidth to fully understand some of the things Ka says or does, which leaves a deep impression on the reader.

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