My friend Amira finished and reviewed Tales of a Female Nomad, which I raved about, a couple days ago. While she didn’t hate the book, she didn’t particularly like it either. But, her review got me thinking. See, I’m the quintessential American non-tourist. The most exotic places I’ve been are the Caribbean (on a cruise), Canada and Germany. And even though we spent three months in Germany, we really didn’t get out and “experience” the local culture the way we could have. Amira, on the other hand, is currently living in Kyrgyzstan, and is having a totally wonderful and unique experience, something which (for many reasons, the first among them is that I would never even have considered going to Kyrgyzstan) I couldn’t have ever done. She’s well-traveled (or at least better traveled than I am) and has spent the time and energy to devote herself to the culture in which she is living.

So, Melissa, what does this have to do with Snow (which is by Orhan Pamuk, by the way)? Well, what I realized when I read Amira’s review, and what I’ve realized since finishing Snow (and have probably realized before), is that much of what we get out of books depends on what we bring to it. I got a different experience reading Nomad than Amira did, mostly because I’ve had different travel experiences than she has. I didn’t like Snow, but I think if I were a different person, I may have. Let me explain (no, that would take too long. Let me sum up…):

Strike one: This book was written in Turkish (translated, of course) for a Turkish audience and is about the struggle in Turkey between secularists and Muslim fundamentalists. I am, obviously, neither Turkish or Muslim. And I only have a passing interest, and no real knowlege, of Muslims or Islam.

Strike two: This book is very lyrical and poetical. The main character is a poet, and often talks about how poems come to him, almost like inspiration. The author spent pages and pages and pages setting the mood, and evoking images of cold, snowy, winter days in Turkey (and thereby lonliness, desperation, God?). Me: I was trained in college as a journalist, and I am a lover of children’s fiction. Excessive words usually don’t move me.

Strike three: Halfway through the book, the narrator tells about the main character’s murder. Huh? Okay, what’s the point in finishing the book? Why bother telling us that the main character dies (no foreshadowing here) halfway through? What’s the literary point? Why should I, as a reader, even bother to go on? I didn’t, really. I struggled through a bit more, then skimmed the rest. Enough to get the gist of what plot there was. And I still don’t get it.

Granted, it will make for good discussion at the book group (is a book worth reading only for the discussion it creates?): was Pamuk making fun of believers or non-believers? What was the whole deal with Ka’s obsessions about Kars and religiosity anyway? And why was Ka so confused and indecisive? …

Anyway. On to other things.