In which I scale new heights of insensitivity

Now I know there’s nothing good or exciting about murder. Obviously. Even worse if the would-be victim is a lovely Turkish novelist. So why does this story actually give me a bit of a thrill?

“Thirteen people have been arrested in Turkey as part of an investigation into an ultra-nationalist gang reported to be planning the assassination of Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk. According to reports in the Turkish press, the author of international bestsellers including My Name is Red was targeted as part of a campaign to sow chaos in preparation for a military coup, scheduled for 2009.”

Partly, p’raps, because I’m a terrible person but mostly, I think, because the idea that novelists still play an important enough role in the lives of countries that they could be considered a target of assasination appeals to me. Instead of being seen as machines to pump out the next Scarpetta novel or whathaveyou, novelists can still be seen as significant and dangerous. Not much help if you’re getting gunned down in the street, obviously, but appealing nonetheless.