New Statesman writers appear at Stoke Newington Literary Festival

From Laurie Penny on protest to Helen Lewis on videogames, via Daniel Trilling on the far right, join NS staff and contributors at the North London festival.

The North London neighbourhood of Stoke Newington boasts a rich literary history: Daniel Defoe once lived at 95 Church Street; Edgar Allen Poe went to school just down the road.  The annual Stoke Newington Literary Festival, now in its fourth year, pays homage to the area’s tradition of radical thinking and literary values with a five-day programme of events, tours and talks.

The New Statesman is pleased to partner with the festival, in which several of our editors and writers will be participating. Highlights include:

Reads Like a Seven

Friday, 8pm. £4. Venue – Babble Jar

New Statesman deputy editor Helen Lewis joins Steven Poole, award-winning broadcaster/game developer Ste Curran and others in a revival of ‘Reads Like a Seven', where they read out one of their pieces of games journalism. It's curated and presented by New Yorker games contributor Simon Parkin (read Simon's pieces for the NS here). Following a sell-out debut at last year’s GameCity 7 - where blogger Kieron Gillen described it as “a reminder of the breadth of what gaming is, what it means and, indirectly, how writers on games have wrestled down the immaterial” – this second iteration promises to “dispels any doubts that video games deserve to be considered alongside other art forms, either for their breadth of invention or the passions they provoke”.

Multiculturalism and the Rise of the Far Right

Sunday, 5pm. £5. Venue – Abney Public Hall

David Goodhart, director of think tank Demos, will be in conversation with New Statesman assistant editor Daniel Trilling. Goodhart has recently authored a controversial book, The British Dream: Successes and Failures of Post-war Immigration, advocating for reduced immigration to the UK and posing the argument that immigration can undermine national solidarity. Trilling’s book, Bloody Nasty People: the Rise of Britain’s Far Right, charts how the likes of the BNP and the EDL have exploited anti-immigration sentiment to pin the nation's ills on to the shoulders of the vulnerable.

Why It’s Still Kicking Off Everywhere

Saturday, 3pm. £5. Venue – Abney Public Hall

BBC Newsnight’s economic editor Paul Mason contextualises worldwide dissent — the Arab Spring, Athens, and Quebec, as well as social unrest in the UK — in his updated best-seller Why It’s (Still) Kicking Off Everywhere: The New Global Revolutions. He’s joined by New Statesman contributing editor Laurie Penny in offering insights and anecdotes on dissent and its role in the global future. How will social networking, the economic crisis and a new political consciousness ignite the next generation of radicals?

Tariq Ali in Conversation with Owen Jones                                                             

Sunday, 2pm.   Venue – Stoke Newington Town Hall                                                 

Tariq Ali, filmmaker and author of over a dozen books on world history and politics including The Clash of Fundamentalisms and The Obama Syndrome, engages leading new Left voice and New Statesman contributor Owen Jones in a wide-ranging geopolitical discussion - in light of the reissue of Ali’s The Stalinist Legacy. Jones is the author of Chavs: The Demonisation of the Working Class.

For the full events programme visit the festival website: www.stokenewingtonliteraryfestival.com/the-programme

The power of books, by Tododesign. (via. Stoke Newington Literary Festival on Facebook)
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Orhan Pamuk's The Red-Haired Woman is playful and unsettling

At times, the novel seems to owe as much to Dostoevsky as to the epics of the long-distant past.

When cultures collide or begin to merge, what happens to their myths? In Orhan Pamuk’s psychodramatic and psychogeographic tale of fathers and sons, the protagonist Cem mentally collects versions of the Oedipus story from across Europe – Ingres’s painting of Oedipus and the Sphinx hanging in the Louvre, Gustave Moreau’s work of the same name, painted 50 years later, Pasolini’s film adaptation, Oedipus Rex. But he also fixates on the epic poem “Shahnameh”, written by the Persian poet Ferdowsi; and in particular the story of Rostam and Sohrab, a reversal of the Oedipus story in which father kills son rather than vice versa. As Cem and his wife travel the world’s libraries to inspect copies, what they learn is “how ephemeral all those ancient lives had been”.

Nor is Cem immune to the act of readerly projection. “Like all educated Turks of my father’s generation,” Cem tells us, “what I really hoped to find on these trips wandering the shops, the cinemas, and the museums of the Western world was an idea, an object, a painting – anything at all – that might transform and illuminate my own life.”

Cem has more reason than many to seek clarification: his own father has been absent – whether for reasons of underground political activity or romantic complications is, for a long time, unclear – for most of his childhood; he and his mother become impoverished and, as he tells us at the very beginning of the novel, his dream of becoming a writer yields to a life as a building contractor. But these matter-of-fact bare bones are deceptive, for what unfolds is a far more fabular account of a life gone awry.

Even beyond his father’s departure, Cem’s life is shaped by his teenage apprenticeship to Master Mahmut, a well-digger of great renown. It removes him from his protective mother’s sphere of influence and immerses him in a world at once simple – long hours of physical labour – and highly skilled. As his and Master Mahmut’s quest for water on a patch of land slated for development runs into difficulties, so their relationship – boss and employee, craftsman and disciple, quasi father and son – becomes antagonistic, beset by undercurrents of rivalry and rebellion. Before too long (and avoiding spoilers) matters come to a head.

Throughout, their story gestures toward the fairytale, as underlined by Cem’s irresistible attraction to a travelling theatre troupe performing satirical sketches and classical scenes in the town near their excavation, and to the red-haired woman of the title. But Pamuk, in the style that characterises much of his work, fuses this material with political and social commentary. Over the three or four decades covered by the narrative, which takes place from the mid-1980s to the present day, the landscape of Istanbul and its surrounding areas literally changes shape. Residential and commercial developments spring up everywhere, many of them courtesy of Cem and his wife Aye, who have named their business after Shahnameh’s murdered son, Sohrab. Water shortages belie the sophisticated nature of these new suburbs, which eventually begin to form an amorphous mass.

Cem is preoccupied by the differences between Turkey and Iran, the latter seeming to him more alive to its cultural past. Turks, he decides, “had become so Westernised that we’d forgotten our old poets and myths”. While in Tehran, he sees numerous depictions of Rostam and Sohrab, and finds himself stirred:

I felt frustrated and uneasy, as if a fearful memory I refused to acknowledge consciously might suddenly well up and make me miserable. The image was like some wicked thought that keeps intruding on your mind no matter how much you yearn to be rid of it.

The extent to which individuals and societies suffer by not keeping their mythic past in mind is Pamuk’s subject, but it becomes more ambiguous when different stories are brought into play. What is the significance of a son who kills his father in innocence rather than a father who kills his son? Which is the more transgressive and ultimately damaging act and should both killers be regarded as guiltless because they knew not what they did?

But, as its title is perhaps designed to suggest, these accounts of fathers and sons omit a key element of the family drama: if paternity becomes a focus to the exclusion of all else, maternal energy must find an alternative outlet. As this strange, shifting novel edges to its conclusion – becoming, in its final act, a noir thriller – that energy makes a dramatic return, changing not only the story but the entire narrative paradigm.

The Red-Haired Woman is a puzzling novel; its intentions are often concealed, and oblique. At times, it seems to owe as much to Dostoevsky as to the epics of the long-distant past; it moves forward by indirection, swapping modes and registers at will. Playful and unsettling, it reprises some of Pamuk’s favourite themes – the clash between the past and the erasures of modernity, so charged in a Turkish context, and the effect on the individual’s psyche – without quite reaching the expansive heights of some of his previous novels. It is, nonetheless, an intriguing addition to his body of work. 

The Red-Haired Woman
Orhan Pamuk. Translated by Ekin Oklap
Faber & Faber, 253pp, £16.99

This article first appeared in the 14 September 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The German problem