When sleepless nights strike, I wander out, no matter the hour. Last Monday was no different. My destinations are usually the same – either the seaside near Kadıköy or its surrounding areas. It all depends on my mood. Yes, I am "a person from the Anatolian side." For those unfamiliar with Istanbul's local rivalry, let me explain: Our beloved city, divided into Anatolian and European sides, is often proudly referred to as "the city that unites two continents." Yet, each of us has a deep-seated attachment to one side, hence the phrase, "I am a person from the Anatolian side."

But I digress. On that Monday night, I walked along a beach near Kadıköy. Familiar faces mingled with strangers – laughter from folding chairs, police officers on bicycles, cute hedgehogs and folks perched on rocks. I even glimpsed a celebrity. As usual, I was lost in music. Instead of savoring the beach's natural sounds, I was absorbed in "Concerto in D Minor, BWV 974: II. Adagio" from "The Fabelmans" soundtrack, which I’ve been obsessively replaying. Though the full title eludes me, I remember it simply as "Concerto in D Minor," etched into my memory with all its emotion and depth.

Steven Spielberg’s "The Fabelmans" profoundly moved me. The film’s human stories are deeply touching, though I don’t associate the concerto with any specific emotion. The scene remains vivid, and the piece has taken on a new meaning for me, evolving as I do.

As I walked with the concerto, a young man caught my eye. Sometimes, you find yourself staring at someone unintentionally. In a city like Istanbul, this can sometimes lead to conflict, but thankfully, it didn’t. The young man seemed so forlorn, so reminiscent of "Werther." I had recently revisited Goethe’s "The Sorrows of Young Werther," which reignited my fascination with the character. The young man’s demeanor made me wonder: Is "Werther Fever" truly over?

For those unfamiliar, "Werther Fever" was a cultural phenomenon following the 1774 publication of Goethe’s moody novel. The story of Werther, a young man who falls hopelessly in love and ends his life in despair, caught readers, particularly young men. This led to a surge of imitation – many began dressing like Werther, adopting his blue coat and yellow trousers as symbols of his melancholy and romantic despair.

By the way, a quick note – my last piece was completely about melancholia. I’m fine, dear readers, everything is going well.

Interestingly, the young man I saw was wearing a bluish coat. Was this a coincidence? Jokes aside, it sparked a flurry of questions in my mind: Why are we so influenced by literary characters? Historically, people have idolized and emulated literary figures, but does that still happen today? Except for the young man I saw, of course. (Just kidding.)

In tennis, "simple mistakes" made by players are often reflected in statistics – errors not from pressure or opponents, but from a lack of skill. Perhaps this is akin to a shift in how readers engage with literature. Perhaps the influence of characters was merely an illusion, or just a "simple mistake" in our own reading statistics. Have our thinking patterns evolved, leading us to be more realistic? Is this a positive change? As I pondered these questions during my walk, I realized they were too complex to answer immediately. And as you’ll see by the end of this article, my inquiries continue.

Once, a book was more than ink and paper – or should I say keyboard and screen? It was a gateway to another realm, a siren's call to the soul. Characters were gods; plots, sacred texts. But these literary frenzies, these infatuations with fictional beings, are as fleeting as morning mist. When the fever breaks, what remains?

Take Werther. His sorrows were a balm to a generation of lovelorn souls, a fashionable affliction. But time, the unyielding critic, unmasked the melodrama. Werther faded into the dustiness of literary history.

Consider Don Quixote. Cervantes’ self-styled knight-errant set out to revive chivalry and mend the world’s ills. His idealism, despite mockery and absurdity, has resonated through centuries. His quixotic quest inspired many to chase dreams with equal fervor, no matter the obstacles. The term "quixotic" now describes those who pursue noble but impractical ideals.

Or Dorian Gray, Wilde’s decadent anti-hero. His quest for eternal youth and beauty mesmerized a generation obsessed with appearances. Wilde’s exploration of morality and societal hypocrisy was equally compelling. Yet, time revealed the superficiality of Gray’s pursuit, transforming him from an ideal to a cautionary tale.

Then there’s Captain Ahab. Melville’s monomaniacal sea captain, driven by a relentless pursuit of the white whale, embodied the American spirit of ambition. Ahab became a symbol of indomitable will, inspiring art and philosophy. Yet, his extreme obsession gradually shifted from heroism to tragedy as cultural attitudes evolved.

Bram Stoker’s Dracula further enriches this pantheon of literary icons. The count, an archetype of fear and allure, sparked a cultural obsession. Vampires, symbols of forbidden desire and eternal youth, thrived in the Gothic horror genre. Countless films, shows and novels have since explored the vampire mythos.

What ignites such fervor for these literary icons? Is it the sheer power of the written word, the ability to conjure entire universes within a book? Or is it something more primal – a collective yearning for escape, meaning, something beyond the mundane?

Great literature seems to transcend time, its characters and themes appearing eternally relevant. Yet history reveals a different truth. Literary fevers are as ephemeral as the characters they celebrate. They emerge from a storm of authorial brilliance, cultural zeitgeist and collective longing. Like all storms, they eventually pass, leaving ripples of influence but little lasting impact. And in their wake, new fevers arise, promising fresh thrills and fleeting obsessions.

Perhaps literature’s true power lies not in creating enduring icons but in provoking thought, challenging assumptions, and inspiring empathy. A book that ignites a fever may capture our attention briefly, but one that encourages us to question, to grow, to connect, offers a legacy far more enduring.

So, where do we stand now? Could the young man in the blueish coat truly have been inspired by Werther?

In my view, no. Literary icons no longer shape the deep thought structures of generations as they once did. This shift isn’t due to a lack of great writers or compelling characters. Rather, it's a reflection of changes in reader behavior – a profound transformation in how we think, driven by myriad factors.

To clarify, readers today seem to have lost faith in fictional characters. This loss of faith mirrors a broader skepticism toward reality, fueled by the belief that everyone is incredibly important, unique and individualistic. We no longer see characters like Raskolnikov for example as profoundly impactful. Instead, we believe, on some level, that we are as complex and special as novel characters in our daily lives. This widespread distrust and indifference extend to many aspects of our lives, including literature.

In essence, the era of literary "fevers" might be coming to an end. No matter what is written or created, nothing seems to ignite a widespread fever anymore. It’s like the end of one era and the beginning of another. Today, if we think of a contemporary "fever," Harry Potter is the closest phenomenon we have. Indeed, Harry Potter represents the nearest thing to a literary fever in our current age. And we must accept that the Harry Potter fever, just like those of others, is a phenomenon that doesn’t shake us deeply; it’s more of a pleasant diversion, akin to enjoying a wonderful ice cream. By the way, this isn’t a call for all of us to become Werther, nor is it a critique of Harry Potter; though I do love ice cream. I was simply making a humble observation. If I hadn’t written this, I wouldn’t have been able to determine whether that young man in the bluish coat was truly Werther or not. And, it seems he never was, was he?