There was, for example, the poet Nurettin, who admired all things European but took little interest in politics until the day a radical Islamist news paper unearthed something he’d written years earlier-an essay on art and religion-and distorted it to charge that he’d insulted our faith”; afraid of looking frightened, Nurettin dusted off his old ideas and passionately reasserted them; the army-backed secular press warmed to his fine Kemalist words and inflated their importance to make him seem the lifelong hero. Then one morning a device in a plastic bag hanging from the front tire of his car blew him into so many bits that his ostentatious throng of mourners had to march behind an empty coffin.
Orhan Pamuk, “Snow”, 2002
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