![]() ![]() I haven't read any of Pamuk's other prizewinning work, but I can well imagine that this book has particular value to those who have spent many immersive hours in his fiction. But certainly, and obviously to anyone else but Pamuk, I'm sure, Pamuk's way is not the only way to see it. Of course I'm not saying that Pamuk is wrong in seeing the city the way he does. ![]() Pamuk never left, and seems committed to seeing only the Istanbul of his deliciously sad inner eye. ![]() I want to go back, to see more facets of its ever-varied complexity. To Pamuk, "the city speaks of defeat, destruction, deprivation, melancholy and poverty" to me, it spoke of resilience, regrowth, abundance and commerce. Where he sees it as "poor, shabby, and isolated," I found it vibrant, sparkling, and cosmopolitan. The Istanbul seen through Pamuk's loving but perpetually disappointed eyes is not the Istanbul that exists in the world. This is not a book about a city, it's a book about a mood - Orhan Pamuk's favorite mood, melancholy, which he projects onto everything and everyone around him, and which sustains him as an artist. I'd like to start by saying that if you are traveling to Istanbul and want to find out something about it, you should read any other book instead. I bought this book in Ankara just after leaving Istanbul, where I'd stayed for five days. ![]()
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