I really don't want to portray the Islamists as simply evil, the way it's often done in the west.

After all, a woman who doesn't love cats is never going to be make a man happy.

Turkish football serves the cause of nationalism, but not of the nation.

My religion is complicated. Literature is my true religion. After all, I come from a completely non-religious family.

It may not happen in the first instant, but within ten minutes of meeting a man, a woman has a clear idea of who he is, or at least who he might be for her, and her heart of hearts has already told her whether or not she's going to fall in love with him.

The writers secret is not inspiration - for it is never clear where it comes from - it is his stubbornness, his patience.

How much can we ever know about the love and pain in another's heart? How much can we hope to understand those who have suffered deeper anguish, greater deprivation, and more crushing disappointments than we ourselves have known? Even if the world's rich and powerful were to put themselves in the shoes of the rest, how much would they really understand the wretched millions suffering around them? So it is when Orhan the novelist peers into the dark corners of his poet friend's difficult and painful life: How much can he really see?