what is Turkish literature?
The first problem connected to Turkish literature is where to begin. Some people say that it spans over more than a millennium, and treat Turkic oral epics of Central Asia as its roots. In this broad sense, such oral texts as, just to give an example, the Epos of Manas (belonging rather to Kyrgyz people) would be included in an encompassing definition of Turkish literature, giving an expression to pre-Islamic, nomadic, shamanistic way of life.
Another way of facing the problem is to start the history of Turkish literature with the Seljuk conquest of Anatolia (late 11th c.). This is when a written, rather than oral, literary tradition is born, in an intimate connection with Persian and Arab letters, and of course with Islam. This would be the line in which the place of an early poet would be occupied by such a figure as the 13th-c. Sufi Yunus Emre. Its heyday would begin in the 15th century, with various poets, but also with such a unique work as the 10-volume Book of Travels of Evliya Çelebi (1611-1682). All along those centuries of the Ottoman Golden Age (15th to 18th c.), there is a clear distinction between noble genres and folk traditions, the latter encompassing such elements as the famous adventures of Nasreddin Hoca and the shadow theatre.
Finally, the 19th to 21st centuries are treated as a modern period, in many ways opposed to former traditions, essentially through various trends and aspects of westernisation. After the 19th-c. reforms of the Tanzimat, the 20th century brings about a proliferation of currents, such as New Literature, The Dawn of the Future, National Literature movement, and so on. And this is how we arrive at the contemporary Turkish novel that starts more or less in the 1960s and culminates with Orhan Pamuk that everyone knows. This is of course the rough Eurocentric vision that privileges prose and ignores poetry, which still makes the greater part of Turkish literature, hardly visible from the perspective of the international book market.
Another way of facing the problem is to start the history of Turkish literature with the Seljuk conquest of Anatolia (late 11th c.). This is when a written, rather than oral, literary tradition is born, in an intimate connection with Persian and Arab letters, and of course with Islam. This would be the line in which the place of an early poet would be occupied by such a figure as the 13th-c. Sufi Yunus Emre. Its heyday would begin in the 15th century, with various poets, but also with such a unique work as the 10-volume Book of Travels of Evliya Çelebi (1611-1682). All along those centuries of the Ottoman Golden Age (15th to 18th c.), there is a clear distinction between noble genres and folk traditions, the latter encompassing such elements as the famous adventures of Nasreddin Hoca and the shadow theatre.
Finally, the 19th to 21st centuries are treated as a modern period, in many ways opposed to former traditions, essentially through various trends and aspects of westernisation. After the 19th-c. reforms of the Tanzimat, the 20th century brings about a proliferation of currents, such as New Literature, The Dawn of the Future, National Literature movement, and so on. And this is how we arrive at the contemporary Turkish novel that starts more or less in the 1960s and culminates with Orhan Pamuk that everyone knows. This is of course the rough Eurocentric vision that privileges prose and ignores poetry, which still makes the greater part of Turkish literature, hardly visible from the perspective of the international book market.
I have readOrhan Pamuk, Beyaz Kale / The White Castle (1985), Benim Adım Kırmızı / My Name is Red (1998), Kar / Snow (2002)
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I have written... nothing ...
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Gazali'nin aynası
It is a beautiful, tender language that charms me, and that I once intended to learn (yes, also this one). Connected to the horizon of my speech through some threads of Arabic made invisible by deliberate reforms a few decades ago.
I've read Orhan Pamuk just like everyone else. I have perhaps a dozen of Turkish novels in Polish and English versions in my Multilingual Library; some of them brought from Turkey as souvenirs. But what I've heard in Leiden is that Turkish novels are not half as good as Turkish poetry. I can easily believe this. No book, on the other hand, can render the sound of it, unless one day I learn how to read it aloud for myself. Phonetically, the language makes impression of fluidity; it sounds natural and easy to speak. At the same time, it makes an impression of rich texture, with its inaudible ğ's and aspired T's; sounds tender with its ç's and c's. Makes a great choice of consonants, none of them alien or unpronounceable to me. And I'm really not sure if this verse applies to me: For the roads of the East that are not oriental there are no passages in the West, with its confusion of parts: the History atlas, emblems of the soul, inaccurate scales, broken compass, blind lighthouse, difference in mentality points of view, chain of continuity, units of currency, kinds of measuring, wounded consciousness, eclipse of reason, Plato's cave, Gazali's mirror, an empire of signs and images Even if I'm not really sure what a Gazali's mirror might be. Did he mean that little Fürstenspiegel that al-Ghazali wrote for some unknown Seljuq prince? Turkish Literature Night, Universiteit Leiden, 30.04.2019 
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Istanbul / Constantinople
Hagia Sophia
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The cistern
The search of Sinan and other pious peregrinations
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The consecrated element, if one may so describe it, is the ground itself, the entire ground-space of the mosque; it is usually covered with matting or carpets, and the believer takes off his shoes before stepping onto it
Titus Burckhardt, Art of Islam: Language and Meaning (19)
Topkapı Palace
Bursa
Ulu Cami - The Great Mosque
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Commissioned by Sultan Bayezid I in the late 14th century, this monumental mosque feels less like a building and more like a serene forest of stone. Its 20 domes, supported by an intricate system of columns, create a meditative rhythm of light and shadow, while the soothing sound of the central fountain invites you to pause and reflect.
From the outside, Ulu Cami’s twenty domes and massive Seljuk-inspired stone form suggest strength and grandeur. But step inside, and you are immediately drawn into a world of ink, silence, and divine geometry. The vast prayer hall is not just a place of worship—it is a sanctuary of Islamic calligraphy, with more than 190 monumental inscriptions that transform stone into sacred text. These calligraphic works are far more than decoration. They are acts of devotion, executed by generations of master calligraphers—some renowned, others anonymous, but all guided by deep reverence. Among them are names like: Hacı Hafız and Ali b. Yusuf, early artists whose bold, sweeping compositions remain etched directly into the mosque’s stone walls. Later additions and restorations bear the influence of giants like Sheikh Hamdullah (1436–1520), known as the father of Ottoman calligraphy, whose refined style became a gold standard. The powerful, rhythmic Thuluth inscriptions echo the style of Ahmet Şemseddin Karahisari (1468–1566), another master whose aesthetic shaped imperial calligraphy for centuries. And in the 19th century, during the mosque’s restorations, the spirit of Mehmed Şevki Efendi—one of the last great Ottoman calligraphers—infused newer panels and inspired restorers to preserve this tradition with the utmost care. Verses from the Qur’an, the names of God (Asma’ al-Husna), and other devotional phrases are written in a variety of styles—from Kufic to Naskh to Thuluth, each inscription flowing across the walls like silent music. Some are grand and commanding—verses from the Qur’an rendered larger than life. Others are more intimate, nestled into corners, almost like personal prayers. To walk through Ulu Cami is to move through a living manuscript, where each pillar and surface breathes the aesthetic ideals of centuries of Islamic art. The mosque is not frozen in time—it is layered with history, with each inscription marking not just a moment, but a continuity of reverence and beauty. 
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Konya
Alaeddin Keykubat mosque
High on the citadel hill of Konya, the Alaeddin Keykubat Mosque sits like a crown—a timeless monument to the power and elegance of the Seljuk dynasty. Built in stages between the 12th and 13th centuries by Sultan Alaeddin Keykubat I and his predecessors, this mosque is one of the oldest and most historically significant in Anatolia.
Unlike later Ottoman mosques that dazzle with domes and tiles, Alaeddin Mosque speaks in the solemn, grounded language of stone. Its architecture is a fusion of Byzantine and Islamic elements, featuring a basilica-like layout with rows of ancient columns—many of them salvaged from earlier Roman and Byzantine structures—supporting a wooden roof that adds to its tranquil, almost monastic atmosphere.
Beneath its quiet beauty lies a deep sense of power: several Seljuk sultans, including Alaeddin Keykubat himself, are buried in the courtyard’s imperial tomb, anchoring the mosque not only in worship but in royal memory. This was not just a religious center—it was the ceremonial heart of the Seljuk capital, where sultans prayed, ruled, and were eventually laid to rest.
Visiting the Alaeddin Mosque is like stepping into a world where Islamic mysticism, royal authority, and architectural restraint coexist in perfect balance. There are no crowds, no spectacle—just the whisper of history in the wind that moves through its arcades.
Unlike later Ottoman mosques that dazzle with domes and tiles, Alaeddin Mosque speaks in the solemn, grounded language of stone. Its architecture is a fusion of Byzantine and Islamic elements, featuring a basilica-like layout with rows of ancient columns—many of them salvaged from earlier Roman and Byzantine structures—supporting a wooden roof that adds to its tranquil, almost monastic atmosphere.
Beneath its quiet beauty lies a deep sense of power: several Seljuk sultans, including Alaeddin Keykubat himself, are buried in the courtyard’s imperial tomb, anchoring the mosque not only in worship but in royal memory. This was not just a religious center—it was the ceremonial heart of the Seljuk capital, where sultans prayed, ruled, and were eventually laid to rest.
Visiting the Alaeddin Mosque is like stepping into a world where Islamic mysticism, royal authority, and architectural restraint coexist in perfect balance. There are no crowds, no spectacle—just the whisper of history in the wind that moves through its arcades.
The mihrab, however, is a masterpiece in its own right. Glazed in stunning turquoise and cobalt tiles, it reflects the full glory of Seljuk ceramic art, a rare and vivid reminder of the courtly aesthetics that once flourished in medieval Konya. Light filters through modest windows, casting long, serene shadows across the stone floor—no ornament is wasted, and nothing distracts from the spiritual clarity the space evokes.
Izmir: Smyrna
Ephesus
Pamukkale
Hierapolis of Phrygia
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