Orhan Pamuk

"I am nothing but a corpse now, a body at the bottom of a well." In the very first line of My Name is Red Pamuk relates the death and troubled soul of one of the Sultan's most skilled miniaturists, Elegant Effendi And so, begins the reader's journey into the secretive and often abusive world of miniaturist artists working in Istanbul in the 16th century. It is at a time in history when the long sought after city is at a crossroads. Geographically as well as artistically, Turkey is on the show more edge of Asia and Europe. A country trying to hold on to its Mongol influenced artistry while the introduction of Frank and Venetian styles are beginning to influence some of the artists. Master miniaturist, Osman relates the difference, "Meaning precedes form in the world of art. As we begin to paint in imitation of the Frankish and Venetian masters...the domain of meaning ends and the domain of form begins." Oh, for the introduction of perspective, shadows and the horizon line! Until this time figures were drawn with no relation to space, nor time. How this will change art that has always been depicted as seen through the eyes of Allah, from above, and not from a human's street level perspective, to do so is considered blasphemy. Yet, how enticing to see portraiture where none had existed before. Influences so difficult for some to resist and one is trying to halt. The world of Elegant's fellow miniaturists is especially at risk and from this select lot one of them will kill to retain the past.
Just as if the reader were Istanbul, Pamuk keeps the reader on the edge till the very end and takes him through the city's dark and deserted streets to places one may not have known existed. It is a journey of murder, incredible artistry, mystery and love. Each chapter is written as if spoken directly to the reader. You are a part of the scene, you are an observer who knows what is in the hearts of each character. A touch of magical realism comes forth as artists renderings talk to you and relate their story. My Name is Red is truly an incredible piece of historical fiction that proved to be informative as well as entertaining. It's pages contained everything I look for in a great novel. show less

“Now then, draw Death for me,” the old man said.
“I cannot draw a picture of Death without ever, not once in my entire life, having seen a picture of Death,” said the miraculously sure-handed miniaturist, who would shortly, in fact, end up doing the drawing.
“You do not always need to have seen an illustration of something in order to depict that thing,” objected the refined and enthusiastic old man.
“Yes, perhaps not,” said the master illustrator. “Yet, if the picture is to show more be perfect, the way the masters of old would’ve made it, it ought to be drawn at least a thousand times before I attempt it. No matter how masterful a miniaturist might be, when he paints an object for the first time, he’ll render it as an apprentice would, and I could never do that. I cannot put my mastery aside while illustrating Death; this would be equivalent to dying myself.”
“Such a death might put you in touch with the subject matter,” quipped the old man.
“It’s not experience of subject matter that makes us masters, it’s never having experienced it that makes us masters.”
“Such mastery ought to be acquainted with Death then.”

A tale of art, religion and murder, set in later 16th century Istanbul, which has been hanging about unread on my shelf for several years. For some reason I though it would be heavy going, and I only read it this month because I am trying to work my way through the books that I have owned for longest, but it turned out to be an intricate and beautifully written mystery story.

One of the master miniaturists working on a secret project for the Sultan, goes missing and is later found dead. The story of the murder investigation is told from multiple points of view, including some of the drawings made by the miniaturist and his colleagues, but the chapter headings make it clear who is talking so it never becomes confusing. The murderer is one of the narrators, pretending to be innocent of the crime and trying to throw suspicion onto his colleague, but he also narrates chapters as 'the murderer' and in these chapters he explains events and tries to justify his crime, and tries not to leave any clues to his identity. show less

Osman first comes across a book called The new life when he sees a pretty girl carrying it around in the university refectory. He spots a copy on a bookstall, reads it himself, and finds his life transformed in some weird way by what he reads. Osman and the lovely (but regrettably unavailable) Janan set out on a quest for Janan’s lost lover that involves criss-crossing Turkey on an apparently endless series of bus journeys, a considerable number of which end in deadly bus-collisions. show more

Repeatedly, Pamuk seems to side-step any straightforward interpretation of the book, allowing the plot to shift directions unpredictably whenever we seem to be getting close to some kind of resolution. It’s a sweetly-ironic account of young love, a study of how conspiracies and counter-conspiracies work and of how ready young people are to allow themselves to be influenced by ideas that promise to bring an escape from the everyday, a look at how the power of an idea can become detached from its originator’s intentions when it is put into a book, and it's often also a gently satirical look back at life in provincial Turkey a few decades ago. And a nostalgic homage to obsolete Turkish brand names, overnight buses, rail travel, bad films and the low-grade children’s literature of the author’s youth. But it also brings in Dante, Rilke, and a whole bunch of other apparently incongruent threads, so you need to keep your wits about you.

Puzzling, but often quite captivating. If you are looking for a book about how many angels can dance on a candy-wrapper, this is the one. show less

Pamuk: Magnificent as always. This is a particularly special novel about the weaving, winding city of Istanbul and its social, political and individual characteristics. Every unique soul is developed to the point of existence. Even the sprawling places that Pamuk has invented live through his writing. And the duality of events and circumstances in the protagonists life, both mundane and unusual, are told in the balancing and unbalancing of the boza scales he balances across his back. A show more beautiful novel that reads like a painting. show less