by Ann Althouse

Elif Shafak, author of a book called "The Bastard of Istanbul," has just been acquitted of the strange-sounding crime of "insulting Turkishness." The idea of such a crime seems ridiculous or contemptible to most Americans, though some of us might push the problem aside and perhaps even congratulate ourselves for appreciating cultural difference. But the belief that government should not punish free expression is deeply embedded here, and it's easy to conclude that Turkey needs get rid of its law.

The European Union has threatened to exclude Turkey over this issue, and this pressuring might work, but it also stirs up opposition. The nationalist lawyers who brought the charges against Shafak stormed out of the court complaining that the judges were caving to political pressure. The law is an expression of national pride, and changing it because of the demands of outsiders wounds that pride. To be compelled to adopt the outsiders' preference for free expression paradoxically sacrifices the freedom to express that pride. How much better if Turkey could discover its own love for individual free expression and relocate national pride in a willingness to hear debate and criticism, which is, after all, a mark of strength.

The insults to Turkishness at issue in Shafak's case were lines she had her fictional characters say. (One Armenian character speaks of "Turkish butchers" and "genocide.") Shafak offers a narrow defense that ignores the question whether the law should exist at all. If the law applied to her, "nobody can write novels in Turkey anymore." And: "The words of a character could be used as evidence against the author or the film director. I think it is extremely important to defend the autonomy of art, and of literature." That is, novelists stand aloof the fray and deserve special immunity from laws that penalize those who state their opinions without fictional mouthpieces.

This resonates with the controversy over Pope Benedict's recent speech, in which he recited a centuries-old quote calling Islam "evil and inhuman." He's now apologized, saying, "In no way did I wish to make my own, the words of the medieval emperor." But some seemed to think people who got upset were obtusely failing to understand that he was quoting someone else.

Of course, it's true that a novelist is not embracing every line that comes from a character's mouth and the Pope doesn't endorse everything he quotes. But one very significant way of expressing an opinion is by indirection. On my blog, I often cut and paste a quote and tag on an enigmatic statement or a puzzling question. But this certainly doesn't mean I have no opinion. I'm not floating ideas randomly. Maybe I've chosen to proceed by indirection because I enjoy the tease or love the art of writing. Maybe I'm not quite sure what I think, or I want to leave it open-ended and invite you to explore your own thoughts. But maybe I fear the reaction and want to slip my opinion in gently or preserve deniability.

In a repressive and violent world, the tools of indirection are important. But if we care about expression, we care about truth. So let's not pretend that quotes and fictional characters and other literary devices have nothing to do with what you mean to say. It may be somewhat complicated to figure out what is really there that has to do with you, but surely something is.

Ann Althouse is a law professor at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. She blogs at althouse.blogspot.com.