Istanbul by Orhan Pamuk

Istanbul is a shimmering evocation, by turns intimate and panoramic, of one of the world's great cities, by its foremost writer. Orhan Pamuk, winner of the Nobel Prize in 2006, was born in Istanbul, in the family apartment building where his mother first held him in her arms. His portrait of his city is thus also a self-portrait, refracted by memory and the melancholy-or hzn- that all Istanbullus share: the sadness that comes of living amid the ruins of a lost Ottoman Empire. As he companionably guides us across the Bosphorus, through Istanbul's historical monuments and lost paradises, its dilapidated Ottoman villas, back streets and waterways, he also introduces us to the city's writers, artists and murderers. Like the Dublin of Joyce and Jan Morris' Venice, Pamuk's Istanbul is a triumphant encounter of place and sensibility, beautifully written and immensely moving.

A book that makes me want to visit Istanbul just to walk around and see the sights that Pamuk describes and develops in this book. Reading his prose is an experience of “painterly” writing, where you cannot help but have a vivid image in your head of the surroundings and atmosphere conjured up with the words. But it is also a portrait of a sensitive young boy coming of age in a place and time where the borders between worlds are unpredictable. Not only are the Western and Eastern worlds in conflict, but also the world of family secrets and respectability.

This was my introduction to the author's writing and he's jumped onto my favorite author list as a result. I'm anticipating reading his other books, especially his fiction.

Going to read this again when/If i ever go to istanbul. Cultural History, West/Orient, Memoirs etc.

পুরো বইটা একরকমের ছোট গল্প। অতৃপ্তি রেখে গেলো। উপভোগ্য অতৃপ্তি। একধরনের ঘোর তৈরী করে বইটা। একধরনের ভালোবাসা, যা আমি এবং পামুক দুজনেই শেয়ার করি নিজের নিজের শহরের তার স্বাদ পেলাম। বস্তুতঃ কাব্যের কাজই হলো নিজের কথা সার্বজনীন করে দেওয়া। পামুক সেই কাজটা চমৎকারভাবে করেন।

I really wish I had enjoyed this more. It's a series of essays, some autobiographical, about the city of Istanbul, its culture, and the author's life there. The autobiographical essays were my favorite part. They were mostly well-written and interesting, and I enjoyed the perspective on the city. These chapters made me want to go visit Istanbul, rent a yali on the Bosphorus and count the boats.

There were also quite a few essays on the author's favorite Istanbul writers. Some of these were interesting, and some of them I ended up skimming or skipping altogether, because I don't know these writers, haven't read their work, and I wasn't personally getting anything out of an analysis of their work. I found myself getting bored. Same with some of the chapters about various Turkish artists.

So let's go back to the “Memories” part of the title. Even though I enjoyed them overall, they alone would not have made this a five-star book for me. The last chapter, in which the author has an extended (repetitive, dull) argument with his mother about why it would be a terrible idea for him to become an artist is what finally drove this three-star review into two-star territory. What drove it from a four-star to a three-star book for me was the frequent references to the author's teenage masturbatory practices. (Why do so many men think this is important information to include in their autobiographical work? It's not unique, it's not interesting, and it was completely unnecessary to mention it in like, six different chapters. WE GET IT.)

I enjoyed the descriptions of the melancholy of the city and the pictures scattered throughout. Ultimately, I think you could probably read the first half the book and put it down and not miss anything, and that's very disappointing considering how many good ratings this book got on the first page of Goodreads.