Snow by Orhan Pamuk

“May I again insist that you explain to me why you wish to kill yourself?” said Sunay.

“It’s not a question anyone can really answer,” said Kadife.

“What do you mean?”

“If a person knew exactly why she was committing suicide and could state her reason openly, she wouldn’t have to kill herself,” said Kadife.

“No! It’s not like that at all,” said Sunay. “Some people kill themselves for love, others kill because they can’t bear their husbands’ beatings any longer or because poverty is piercing them to the bone, like a knife.”

“You have a very simple way of looking at life,” said Kadife. “A woman who wants to kill herself for love still knows that if she waits a little her love will fade. Poverty’s not a real reason for suicide either. And a woman doesn’t have to commit suicide to escape her husband; all she has to do is steal some of his money and leave him.”

“Very well, then, what is the real reason?”

“The main reason women commit suicide is to save their pride. At least, that’s what most women kill themselves for.”

“You mean they’ve been humiliated by love?”

“You don’t understand a thing!” said Kadife. “A woman doesn’t commit suicide because she’s lost her pride, she does it to show her pride.”

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“You’re very intelligent, Kadife,” said Sunay.

“Does this frighten you?” said Kadife, her voice taut and angry.

“Yes,” said Sunay in a lecherous languor.

“It’s not my intelligent that frightens you, you fear me because I’m my own person,” said Kadife. “Because here in our city, men don’t fear their women’s intelligence, they fear their independence.”