It took me until the last ten pages of this book to even begin to understand what I was reading. Tanpınar's Five Cities reads like an elegy to a lost world -- and for us it is doubly lost, since even the world he described in 1948 is itself history. For me, the sense of "loss" is complicated by the fact that I've never been to Turkey -- neither Ankara, nor Erzurum, nor Konya, nor Bursa, nor even Istanbul. These are the five cities of the title, and each gets its own chapter (in the order in which I listed them). As I read the first four chapters, I felt lost both in space and time. I thought it a shame that I could not reproduce the sense of wonder that the friend who gave me this book found in it. It is one of her favorites, she told me. She loves it so much, that she gave it to me twice.
Tanpınar's elegantly fluid prose seemed to meander as a stream through a landscape of memory, history, art, and poetry so unfamiliar to me that I couldn't tell if there was any logic to it beyond 'free association.' Perhaps because I was so lost, I spent much of the book thinking Tanpınar was lost, too -- lost in a present that couldn't measure up to the majesty of Turkey's Ottoman past.
"It is sad that so little remains," (158) he sighed at one point. Nostalgia, I thought. I recognize this.
And certainly Tanpınar's text dwells lovingly in the past of these five cities, their rulers, their poets, their architects, their habits. "All travellers to Istanbul comment on the beauty of our trees," (155) he remarks proudly, before noting two pages later, "Gradually Istanbul is losing her trees: it is not like our losing some old custom or tradition. Traditions vanish because others succeed them, or because they are no longer necessary, but the disappearance of a centuries-old tree is a different matter." (157) Nostalgia again, I thought. And asked myself how many trees there are in Istanbul today, compared to Tanpınar's lifetime.
One more quotation from the same subsection (all these are from the Istanbul chapter) seemed emblematic to me of what the whole text was doing, what it was designed to do: "How I wish I'd been like those old people full of passionate curiosity, who knew everything I knew in my childhood and never once forgot what they learned! I wouldn't only complain of the fate of trees here in Istanbul, I would make known to everyone all the gardens, all the little woods, from the reservoirs and even the Belgrade forest to Çamlıca, from İçerenköy to the Çekmeceler lakes." (158) Tanpınar is "making known to everyone" all the elements of Turkey's past that are lost, that are in danger of being lost, in this minor key. I typed that quotation in to GR right away because I thought it was a perfect way to show 1) the wistfulness of his backward-looking prose and 2) the healthy dose of references to unfamiliar-to-me proper nouns (in this case places, but often people).
But I still didn't get it. I didn't get it until the book was over.
"So many memories, so many people. In discussing Istanbul and the Bosphorus, why have I evoked everything so impossible to resurrect? Why are we drawn to time past as to an empty well?" (209) Not, Tanpınar concludes, because he wishes he could turn back time: "I couldn't live for more than 10 minutes even in the Istanbul of Süleyman the Lawgiver, or of Sokullu." Wait, what? "To do so would mean to ignore so much I had gained, to cut off and throw away vital parts of my being." (210) His goal, rather, is to see the cities of the present as almost semi-translucent, as if one could espy the many past versions of themselves through them. "We certainly don't love these old things for themselves; we are attracted by the feeling of emptiness they leave. Whether any traces remain or not, what we struggle to find in them is a part of ourselves we thought lost." (211)
And then, in case I was still confused: "However delicious the drink, however powerful its effects, we must not forget that Turkish society stands on the threshold of a new age. Istanbul itself waits eagerly for a new age that will create new values." (212) New values that Tanpınar, far from rejecting, was prepared to embrace: "What we must do is surrender to the winds of he present, to the lively fertilizing winds of the new." (212)
If I'm honest, I think I only understood 25% of the book, not only because I didn't understand Tanpınar, but because of my ignorance of the places and people that populated the worlds "under" the world of today. Frankly, I'm just as ignorant about these cities in the present as I am about them in the past! I imagine that someone who had been to any of the cities would get far more out of reading about them in this fashion than those readers, like me, who can only hope that some lively fertilizing wind carries them off to Istanbul, Konya, Bursa, Erzurum, or Ankara in the future.