I am full of admiration for people who can continue to work as efficiently as ever even when the world seems to be falling apart. Aziz Sancar, a Turkish Nobel laureate in chemistry based in the United States, said in an interview that he does not follow the media of our shared home country because if he does, he gets too upset to do research. Not that there is a Nobel prize in art history or that I think that I would have deserved one, but I do understand him and regret not being like him. I envy his quiet, purposeful existence in a lab, where I understand he spends more time than anywhere else. It was reported that he even lived in a lab and showered with a fire hose for several months at an early stage in his career. Admittedly, his research on the DNA has a chance of eventually curing cancer. Nobody can blame me for not having a sense of purpose in my research on a bunch of bureaucrats and artists whose purpose in life was kissing the sultan’s you-know-what, or failing that, the current grand vizier’s. If my research had the slightest chance of making anything better in this world, I swear I would have camped in a library (not lab, thankfully) until I found the answers to all my questions on those brown-nosers.
As that chance is non-existent, I choose to procrastinate. It’s great during term time as I am so insanely busy with teaching and the kids that I don’t have to find excuses to keep me from writing my book. But now that the term is coming to an end, I will need proactive ways of dragging my feet to see me through the Christmas vacation with minimum intellectual activity. I could have a go at Minecraft if my children allow me. Cook lentil soup. Watch Big Bang Theory or any other sitcom that has been on forever. Read news. Write a blog. Clean the kitchen.
I don’t need convincing to prioritise any of these over my book. To me, clearly, a squeaky clean kitchen top is far more crucial an element of a perfect world than a(nother) book on Ottoman illustrated manuscripts. My friend Evrim would disagree. He is a firm believer in the contribution we are making as humanities scholars. I envy and respect his dedication, but don’t quite understand how he can even imagine his book being more important than my kitchen. My book, thanks to friends and colleagues who pushed me very hard to finish it, has proven to be a satisfying achievement. It is, at this very moment, a coaster. I am delighted to have put it in good use, and feel that all those years spent reading hagiographies, examining shrines, writing and rewriting would have remained a sad saga of a wasted youth otherwise. But how can Evrim guarantee that his book will fill an equally vital void between wooden furniture and cups of tea?
Since we are clearly not curing cancer with our books, motivation can escape us just as easily as hope can when we listen to the news. What do we do if the world seems too far removed from being humane for the humanities to make any sense? Is there really any point in forcing ourselves back into an often truly pleasant but nonetheless painstaking, long-winded endeavour that is likely to return a book-length coaster every five years or so?
When I put my teacup down five years from now I will surely find something to protect my furniture, whether I write another book or not. But who knows which country will be bombing whom.
The Pensive Owl 