Sitting in a Journalism school, realising the sheer stupidity of this endeavour, readings on people who have existed without the boundaries of common existence keep pushing me. Discussions on such rarities with people I struggle to relate to seem pointless. My thoughts somehow get lost in discussions with individuals who agitate me. The limits between humility and arrogance get blurred when my ‘friends’ think that they have the knowledge to comment on and discredit these people. Please don’t think that I have constructed monoliths out of these people. They obviously should not be elevated to faultless levels. The main focus for me as a reader, even when I hear the name of a new author is the discipline and commitment given by an author to his/her work. Life itself throws up things that we have to do or want to do. Time is provided or can be found, but there are few who can take it and do something with it. Orhan Pamuk is one such person.
The announcement that Pamuk had been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, necessitated a visit to his website where I found his bio. The writer had mentioned that Pamuk was a journalism graduate but never practiced journalism as a career. He has had no other job but that of a writer for the past 30 years and done a good job at that. I have not had the opportunity to read any of his work, but he gives me an example of different living.
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