I have always wondered why I have this passion for reading.  It is a passion that transcends any other thing in life.  I read because I need to know I’m not the only one.  I read because I love being by myself.  I read because I know there are people who think the way I do and can put it into words better than I do.  I read because I know there is much more in this world than war, or hunger or sadness.  I read to live.   Yesterday was my book club meeting and we decided to read Istanbul, by Orhan Pamuk.  Victor, a guy from the BClub sent us this wonderful lecture published on The New Yorker and I got to know a little bit more of the great author.

“The question we writers are asked most often, the favorite question, is: Why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write. I write because I can’t do normal work as other people do. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can partake of real life only by changing it. I write because I want others, the whole world, to know what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, in Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all life’s beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but—as in a dream—can’t quite get to. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy.”

Read the whole lecture here: http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2006/12/25/061225fa_fact1?currentPage=all

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