I wanted to read a book by Orhan Pamuk, who won the Noble Prize for Literature in 2006, but when I looked at his recent novels, I was put off. My Name is Red is 688 pages; A Strangeness in my Mind is 764 pages. To me, this seems a disproportionate amount to time to devote to one author. (Perhaps, I’m like a teenage boy: so many girls, so little time.) So, I chose Istanbul: Memories and the City (336 pages), which was written in 2005, and appealed to me because I visited Istanbul, briefly, on my honeymoon.
Orhan Pamuk is a Turkish writer, screenwriter and academic, born in Istanbul in 1952; he has sold 13 million books in 63 languages. He is a Professor of Humanities at Columbia University, where he teaches courses in writing and comparative literature.
In 2005, Pamuk made a statement regarding the Armenian Genocide that “Thirty thousand Kurds have been killed here, and a million Armenians. And almost nobody dares to mention that. So I do.” An ultra-nationalist lawyer brought a law suit based on Article 301 of the Turkish Penal Code which makes it a crime to insult Turkey or the Turkish Grand National Assembly. The suit resulted in a lengthy battle with the Turkish legals system in which the European Union took an interest because of its implications for the freedom of speech in Turkey. The Turkish Justice Ministry finally declined to back the trial on a technicality, but gave no support to Pamuk, who said that he mentioned the genocide not to call attention to specific numbers of deaths but to demonstrate the lack of freedom to discuss taboo subjects in Turkey.
Istanbul, translated by Maureen Freely, is one of five non-fiction works by Pamuk in English. It is, as the subtitle suggests, a reflection on the Istanbul the author knew as a child together with his family memories. There are black-and-white photographs on every couple of pages, some dating back to the mid-nineteenth century, and some as recent at the 1960’s; most are of ‘old Istanbul’ but there are family photographs, as well. The ‘old Istanbul’ photographs are a vehicle for commentary on the writings of European and Turkish literati regarding the culture, style, history, art and visual perspectives of the city. Clearly, Istanbul was (and is) a unique city: its rapid growth, its human crossroads of East and West, its unique wooden architecture (which frequently went up in smoke), the presence of the Bosporus with all its maritime energy, and the air of melancholy (húzún) arising from the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire, the subsequent economic decline, and the cultural ambivalence between East and West.
Perhaps what is surprising about this book – part travelogue, history, autobiography, artistic and cultural commentary – is that it is an integral whole, seamlessly shifting themes without confusing the reader. This, I think, is all down to Pamuk’s fondness for his city and his skill as a commentator and a writer. One can set the book aside for a day or two, but one is drawn back into its dream-like flow. The attraction is, in large measure, due to the characterisation of the boy, Orhan, his brother, his mother and father, the larger family and their declining circumstances. The one criticism I have is that a map of the city should have been included. There are frequent references to districts in Istanbul by their Turkish names, but one has no idea of the geography which is an omission for a piece of writing which is otherwise so visual.
Istambul is a very pleasant reading experience.