Sunday, 26 August 2012


Not too long ago, I think last year or the year before, I read Orhan Pamuk's "My name is red". It really is a hard book, indeed (well at least, for me). It took me quite some time to finish reading it. Now I am reading his non-fiction work; "Istanbul: Memories and the City". What I can say about it, is just "whoaa". I really, really like this book.

Unlike his fiction works, this one is very simple, easy to read, and is basically a collection of essays about the facts and illusions of life that he sees, feels, hears and smells around him, everywhere in Istanbul. I'd say Pamuk is really one of kind, at times he does seemed like a weird psycho guy, having some kind of mental illnesses. Haha. The ways he sees and interprets things are very, hmmmm interesting.

Reading this book, I understand and now think that everyday's life does have some interesting stories to be told to someone else, only if we know where to pick and how to elaborate it, in a clearly written prose, with literary elegance. Therefore, I don't necessarily need to be depressed in order to write creatively.  

I took a lot of time to read "My name is red", reread plenty of the paragraphs to really get what he was trying to deliver. In fact, I reckon if I were to read it again now, it would be as if I have never read it before.

When asked how personal his book Istanbul: Memories and the City was, Pamuk replied:
I thought I would write Memories and the City in six months, but it took me one year to complete. And I was working twelve hours a day, just reading and working. My life, because of so many things, was in a crisis; I don’t want to go into those details: divorce, father dying, professional problems, problems with this, problems with that, everything was bad. I thought if I were to be weak I would have a depression. But every day I would wake up and have a cold shower and sit down and remember and write, always paying attention to the beauty of the book. Honestly, I may have hurt my mother, my family. My father was dead, but my mother is still alive. But I can’t care about that; I must care about the beauty of the book.

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