Elif Shafak: We live in an age of too much information, very little knowledge, and even less wisdom
- Edward Owen-Burge
- 3 days ago
- 7 min read
Updated: 2 days ago
Elif Shafak is one of the most widely read novelists in the world today – and one of the most fiercely articulate on the role of literature in polarised, distracted times. Born in Strasbourg, raised in Ankara, and now based in London, her writing spans continents and centuries, often weaving together the political and the personal. A longtime advocate for human rights, freedom of expression and gender equality, she was awarded this year’s Hay Festival Medal for Prose in recognition of the power and reach of her storytelling.
In this conversation with The Skylark, Shafak discusses her new novel There Are Rivers in the Sky and its origins in a single raindrop. She reflects on the rise of emotional numbness, the collapse of democratic institutions, the vanishing of rivers beneath cities, and why she believes literature is still one of the most powerful forces we have to resist apathy, remember what matters, and connect more deeply to each other, to nature, and to ourselves.
I believe stories change us. It happened to me. Literature changed me. And I think our need for stories is not smaller today. If anything, it’s much, much bigger.
We’re living in an age of angst. Right now, East and West, everybody’s so anxious, so worried – young and old. And the only difference is, some people hide their anxieties better than others. It’s a very polarised world, and also, it feels very broken.
There were all these predictions back in the late ‘90s, early 2000s that in an age of hyper-information, with shortening attention spans, fast consumption, instant gratification, no one would have time for novels anymore. That was the assumption. And yes, there’s some truth to that. But the opposite is also happening. And I think that should give us hope, and expand our hearts a little. Because the faster the world spins, the more confusing and debilitating it feels, the deeper our need becomes for the ancient art of storytelling.
Stories bring us closer. They help us feel less lonely. You realise that in your pain, in your anxiety, in whatever emotions you might be dealing with, you’re not alone. And they also connect us to our shared humanity.
I said this is an age of angst, but I think if it turns into an age of apathy, that’s when things get much darker. And more dangerous. Because apathy is the moment we stop caring. When we say, “what’s happening in Afghanistan, in Gaza, in Ukraine, in Sudan – that’s someone else’s problem.” Or when we see what’s happening to our climate, to our home, to our Earth – our only home – and we say, “Never mind.” Or we start thinking, “Well, the climate crisis is too big, and I’m too small, what can I do?” That’s descent into apathy.
I find it frightening. I don’t think we’re there yet. Hopefully we won’t be. But I think literature is the antidote to numbness. I’m not saying books can solve everything, but they can make a contribution. Art can make a contribution. Literature can.
Because when I read about someone else’s story, I leave my own little cocoon. For a few hours, for a few days, I journey into someone else’s reality. And that’s a very humbling thing for the soul. We need it.
We’ve become so arrogant. We live in an age of too much information – much more than we can process – but very little knowledge. And even less wisdom. And this constant stream of information isn’t helping. It doesn’t stay with us. We just scroll up and down, up and down. Snippets. And it gives us this illusion that we know something about everything. But we don’t.
Instead of focusing on more and more information, we need to focus on knowledge. For knowledge, we need literary festivals. We need slow journalism. Podcasts are great. Books are better. But we need to slow down.
And for wisdom, we need literature. And we need art. Because literature also speaks to emotional intelligence, to empathy. It doesn’t just come from the rational mind.
What breaks my heart is that populist demagogues understand the power of storytelling much better than their liberal counterparts. They understand the power of emotions. Politicians who tell stories, who connect emotionally – those are the ones who are doing better. It’s not a coincidence. Stories help us connect. And we need to think more seriously about emotional intelligence.
But nothing is linear. None of this happens in a planned way. It’s much messier, much more chaotic. And that’s what happens when democracy breaks down.
I remember, back in the late ’90s, there was this belief that the world was divided into two parts: solid lands and liquid lands. The West was seen as solid. You didn’t need to worry about the future of democracy or human rights because those things were already guaranteed. And then you had the liquid lands, where you had to fight for those things.
I had people tell me, with good intentions, “Of course you’re a feminist – you’re Turkish, you live in Istanbul.” And the way they said it, it sounded like: if you’re American, or Norwegian, you don’t need to be. As though gender equality had already been achieved there.
But what we’ve realised, especially in recent years, is that there are no solid lands. We’re all living in liquid times. And what happens in one country doesn’t stay there. Maybe it’s slower, maybe it’s less intense, but it echoes elsewhere.
So we can’t take democracy for granted. Even here in the UK. Even here, we’ve seen how politics became a battleground. How opponents started being called enemies. That’s not healthy. We can disagree, that’s normal. But we don’t have the right to call someone an enemy of the nation, or an enemy of the people. We need to remember our shared values.
This novel might seem like an epic, because it spans countries, centuries, cultures, but it started from something very small: a single raindrop. I didn’t want to take that raindrop for granted.
I come from a region where water is scarce. Out of the ten most water-stressed countries in the world, seven are in the Middle East and North Africa. Our rivers are dying. They’re drying up. And we cannot take water for granted. None of us can.
Today, when we talk about the climate crisis, I think what we’re talking about is freshwater scarcity. So for me, this novel became a kind of love letter to a raindrop. Like that question William Blake asked about a grain of sand – can we see the world in something so small, so overlooked?
What I’d love, though of course every reader is different, is for people to reflect on connection. Umberto Eco has this beautiful essay where he says: if you’re a novelist, you don’t have to invent connections – you just have to see them.
We’re all connected. As human beings, across borders. That’s one layer. And the second is: we’re connected with nature. We’re not above it. We’re not outside of it. We’re not consumers of it. We’re part of it; a small part of a fragile ecosystem. And we’ve forgotten that.
The biggest rivers on Earth are the ones we can’t see. The atmospheric rivers above our heads. And there are so many lost rivers under our feet. Cities like London, New York, Paris. They all have them. Stuttgart. Tokyo. Athens. We buried them because they were small, or dirty, or inconvenient. We covered them, built over them, and forgot they were there.
Now, with sea levels rising and the climate crisis accelerating, that system is no longer sustainable. We’re seeing more and more flash floods in our cities. And so there’s a movement called daylighting where people are trying to bring those rivers back into view.
For me, that’s a powerful metaphor. What else have we buried? What else have we silenced in our histories, in our societies, in ourselves?
I’m drawn to silences. I always have been. And my heart goes to anyone who feels silenced. Because literature doesn’t shout, but it transforms. Quietly, gently, profoundly. It connects us. It carries wisdom. Not because writers are wise – we’re not. But storytelling – that ancient, universal art – it has its own wisdom.
When we write, we connect with something older than us, bigger than us, wiser than us. Think of The Epic of Gilgamesh. Thousands of years old. Passed down orally before it was ever written. So many kings, so many empires have come and gone, and they all thought they would last forever. Their monuments have turned to dust. But a poem – made of breath, made of words – has survived.
So yes, there are different kinds of power. And different kinds of magic. But the one thing that scares me is numbness. The moment we stop caring. The moment we become desensitised.
I was at an event today and I said, “I’m Turkish. Optimism doesn’t come naturally.” If you trace the river Danube from west to east on a map, the level of optimism drops as you go. By the time you get to Hungary, Romania, the Black Sea, Turkey – we’re not very optimistic.
So yes, pessimism comes easily to me. But I think it’s okay if the mind is a little pessimistic, as long as the heart stays hopeful.
And hope? Hope comes from people. From stories. When you meet someone from Iran, or a woman who’s had to flee her home in Afghanistan, it puts things in perspective. You see resilience. And that gives you hope.
Or even someone in your own neighbourhood, your own street. You hear what they’ve been through, and you realise how strong people can be.
Hope also comes from nature. Walk by a river. Sit under a tree. We take those things for granted, but they’re transformative.
And the third place I find hope is in the inner world. There has to be an inner garden. Otherwise this age is too much. We each have to tend that garden. A place beyond materialism. A kind of secular faith.
I love doubt. I love faith. And I love it when they challenge each other. I’m drawn to people who say, “I’m still on the journey.” Who are still learning. Still unlearning.
And I think that’s a good place to be. For art, for literature, and for humanity.
Discover
Who’s fighting for clean rivers?
From pollution to overdevelopment, many rivers are in crisis. These groups are working to protect and restore them.
What happens when water runs out?
Over a quarter of the world’s population faces high water stress. Climate change is making it worse.
What does water have to do with storytelling?
Like rivers, stories flow through generations; essential, and often taken for granted.
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