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I found myself challenged by this book. Whenever I read a book translated from another language I expect to feel cheated that I'm not actually hearing this story exactly as the author intended. I'm not suggesting this is a poor translation, indeed I believe it was well translated with the cooperation of the author. What was unusual about this book was the numerous references which I often missed. Many neighborhoods and locations in Istanbul were mentioned but meant almost nothing to me. Often when a book is about Paris there's a map to help the reader. I would have liked to have a map of Istanbul. And beyond locations there were many references to historical figures, some rulers, but also poets and writers. I was never sure if the person was real or imaginary. In a sense this book felt like Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, without the sex and drugs. In both books the author's command of the events and their imaginary voice are excellent. In both it was hard to tell whether what was being described was a dream or events that were part of the narrative. For Gravity's Rainbow there are annotated editions explaining all the references. I would have liked one for The Black Book.

The central character is a young lawyer whose wife has left him. He is in denial and hides the disappearance from his family. He turns to his uncle, a famous columnist, only to find his uncle has also disappeared. Are they together? Who knows? Central to this story is his wife's obsession with detective stories and his uncle's preoccupation with mysteries and clues. The central character begins his endless search trying to trace all the places his wife might have been. His wife is also his cousin who he grew up with so there's lots of possibilities from their past. He eventually turns to his uncle's columns seeking clues to their disappearance. Again there are lots of columns so many blind alleys. On page 260 we finally learn that the famous poet Rumi had a lover who disappears and Rumi searches endlessly everywhere in Damascus. The parallel is blatant. Rumi is believed to have murdered his lover, tossing him in a well before ever looking everywhere in Damascus. A negative omen. And omens are jclues that hopefully unravel mysteries. His uncle's columns are full of clues in people's faces and he was always predicting the coming of the messiah and military coups, not necessarily in that order.

Central to this quest is the search for identity. We learn about ancient rulers who gave up everything to figure out who they really are. Our central character reads so much of his uncle's columns that he begins to realize he can write these and readers will believe the columns had been written by the missing uncle. The uncle had been a recluse so the readers are unaware of his disappearance. Spoiler alert, we never meet the wife or the uncle and never know for certain whether they were together. Eventually they both turn up dead but not quite at the same place. Mysteries remain. ( )

This is a most unusual novel that demonstrates clearly why Pamuk deserved to win the Nobel prize for literature. The story concerns an Istanbul lawyer whose wife leaves him. The lawyer sets out to look for her and finds out that his cousin, a famous newspaper columnist, is missing as well. The story deals with his search for his wife and is punctuated with columns from the columnist appearing every other chapter. The book starts very slow and in the beginning, these columns are more interesting than the actual story. Nevertheless, the book becomes more and more engrossing.

The mood of the book is both dark and melancholic. It is also full of references to classic Turkish culture. Googling many of these references helped with understanding of the story. The book is remarkable and strongly recommended. ( )

The physical reconstruction of memory is an interesting idea. ( )

My copy has Pamuk’s and Freely’s signature on the 2nd page and the year 2007, which must have been the year I listened to their conversation in Hay and also the year I read the book for the first time. But I have forgotten everything. Every sentence, every image evoked is as fresh now as if I imagine it for the first time. But perhaps I have never read it, perhaps I browsed some pages, found that the book demands time and attention, more than I was able or willing to give then, so I had put it aside for some future time.

The reader is emerged in a Wunderkammer, is lost like Alice in enchanted gardens where nothing is quite what it seems, where objects and encounters present and past are, or may be, signs revealing secret meanings to those who learn to read them, where the protagonists strive to gain, or fear to loose, the sense of themselves. Pamuk says of his writing (in an interview given 2006 to ‘Le Monde des livres’): „Mon style d’écriture, mon mode de composition, requièrent un imense esprit d’enfance. Et la responsabilité de l’écriture se limite, au fond de moi, au jeu démoniaque et magique avec les règles du monde.“

I had some difficulties at first getting into this strange and fascinating book but half-way through it grabbed me and did not let me go. (III-18) ( )