my name is red
orhan pamuk
It took me months to read its 500 or so pages. I highlighted twelve pages worth of annotations. My awe was non-quantifiable in a novel that's magical, educational, enlightening. If you ask me why, I won't have an arrogant answer except that it has been my honor to read this novel. Because I felt the stir of light snow falling sorrowfully, or melancholy rain. For the first time, I learned about Husrev and Shirin, geometric patterns, gold leafs, gilding, painting as the act of seeking Allah's memories and seeing the world as He sees it, of how the color crimson or a coin would narrate a story, the combined smell of bedding, frying oil and humidity, of warm lentil soup, of artists blinding themselves literally to maintain their convictions about style, their souls mingling with the eternity of a picture, the enemies of coffee, and what a pleasure it is to fiercely form my own picture sixteenth century Istanbul. I can only write about my own experience, and I'd like to think that it has widened my perception of art and history while fascinating me with a story that gripped me for long months.
I read John Updike's review in the New Yorker, and I felt even more humbled about saying anything. I was reduced to "yes" and "exactly." Fuck, even the reviews about this book are literary gems.
And life happened while I was reading it. I usually read it when I was waiting for my son do maths at a Kumon center near my old university, summoning memories of the library, of reading Kafka, Joyce, Eco (especially), and something about literary criticism or postmodernism.The warm summer breeze of Malate stirred my middle-aged face.
