My vague admiration for Georges Simenon is unsatisfactory-- but this is due to a sensibility of not being able to judge him on the basis of Dirty Snow alone, which, excepting for my skid marks over Ellroy, was my favorite genre exposure through Jay Gertzman. I should be awarded my doctorate on the basis of just how many English professors I've waltzed with, how extraordinarily well read I am, even if Derrida may defeat me. I've earned professorial status, but cannot judge Simenon's legacy with the study I've thus far made.
He is unquestionably vulgar, Simenon (hint hint) and the ferocity of his title character signing his own death warrant in this short and sharp little novel made an indelible impact-- and I'm uncertain as to whether Orhan was being a tad too clever with his novel Snow. I'm only speculating. The French Belgian is different in style and tone from the self-effacing Turk with his penchant for Chekhovian mimicry, but both novels offer death knells in a Siberian like atmosphere.
Pamuk, for those initiated in literary traditions, has forced me to care about Turkey as a character in a geopolitical amphitheater, and I resent him for it. Is this a victory for the power of art? Overlaid with the Turkish actor who plays Cenu in Tatort, overlaid with Grecian Turkish name calling over Cyprus, and this family, which sparked so much controversy and clash of values (the Ottomans in this instance had the upper hand and should have sent the physio-behaviorists packing), or the many easterners on Netgammon I played and sometimes outwitted. It baffles me how good I am at backgammon and chess not so much. Mediterranean blood-- but there are limits, even to the poignancy of identification with the special subset of alienated writers. Multi-culturalism is a voyeuristic activity, but in practice it gets people killed as often as not.
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