کتاب صوتی نام من سرخ

by Orhan Pamuk, دامون آذری (producer), عین‌له غریب (Translaror)

نام من سرخ اثر فاخر نویسنده ترک زبان معاصر و برنده جایزه نوبل ادبیات سال ۲۰۰۶، اورهان پاموک است که بخشی از تاریخ ترکیه را در زمان امپراتوری عثمانی و نقاط مشترک تاریخ ایران و ترکیه را به تصویر کشیده است. در این اثر مفاهیمی چون عشق، خشونت، حسادت و.. به ظرافت هرچه تمام تر بیان گردیده است .شیوهٔ چند صدایی یا پلی فونی روایتِ حوادث مختلف را توسط شخصیت‌های رمان ممکن کرده‌است.از جمله انگیزه‌های پاموک برای خلق این اثر، بازآفرینی داستان‌های ادبیات کلاسیک بوده است، در این رمان از کتاب های مشهوری نام برده شده است،کتاب هایی که بیشتر آن‌ها از جمله آثار فاخر ادبیات فارسی بوده است، آثاری چون آثار فردوسی و نظامی. پاموک درباره انگیزه خود از نوشتن این رمان گفته‌است: «بین ۷ تا ۲۲ سالگی‌ام می‌خواستم نقاش شوم. بعدها وقتی نویسنده مشهور ترک شدم همیشه دوست داشتم درباره لذت نقاشی بنویسم. می‌خواستم توصیف کنم که نقاشی کردن چه حسی دارد و یک نقاش چه عقایدی دارد.»

بخشی از متن کتاب
ارهان راست می‌گه ديگه، اگه اين نقاشی رو نقاشی می‌کشيد که پيرو مکتب هرات باشه شايد می‌تونست اون پرنده‌ها رو - همون فاخته‌ها، پوپک‌ها، چه مي‌دونم، همونارو ديگه - ميخکوب کنه سر جاهاشون ولي خب چهره‌ی من چي می‌شد اون وقت؟ اگه هم يک نقاش ونيزی اين کار رو به عهده مي‌گرفت اون پرتره يه چيزی می‌شد ولي خب اون وقت زمان چی؟ راست می‌گه ديگه، من هم چيزی می‌خوام که نه اون‌وری‌ها می‌تونن بکشن نه اين‌وری‌ها.

این کتاب صوتی را می توانید از سایت های آوانامه و آدیولیب دریافت کنید:
AvaNameh.com
AudioLib.ir


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Genres: Fiction, Historical Fiction, Mystery, Turkish, Literature, Novels, Turkish Literature

Audiobook

First published January 1, 1998

About the author

Ferit Orhan Pamuk is a Turkish novelist, screenwriter, academic, and recipient of the 2006 Nobel Prize in Literature. One of Turkey's most prominent novelists, he has sold over 13 million books in 63 languages, making him the country's best-selling writer.
Pamuk's novels include Silent House, The White Castle, The Black Book, The New Life, My Name Is Red and Snow. He is the Robert Yik-Fong Tam Professor in the Humanities at Columbia University, where he teaches writing and comparative literature. He was elected to the American Philosophical Society in 2018.
Of partial Circassian descent and born in Istanbul, Pamuk is the first Turkish Nobel laureate. He is also the recipient of numerous other literary awards. My Name Is Red won the 2002 Prix du Meilleur Livre Étranger, 2002 Premio Grinzane Cavour and 2003 International Dublin Literary Award.
The European Writers' Parliament came about as a result of a joint proposal by Pamuk and José Saramago. Pamuk's willingness to write books about contentious historical and political events put him at risk of censure in his homeland. In 2005, a lawyer sued him over a statement acknowledging the Armenian genocide in the Ottoman Empire. Pamuk said his intention had been to highlight issues of freedom of speech in Turkey. The court initially declined to hear the case, but in 2011 Pamuk was ordered to pay 6,000 liras in compensation for having insulted the plaintiffs' honor.

Reviews

[Jim Fonseca · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book is as much about art as it is a historical novel.

First the novel. A tale of miniaturist painters in Istanbul during the late 1500’s. The deceased master’s daughter is in a religious and political limbo: her soldier husband has been missing for four years, but with no body and no witnesses to his death, she can’t get a divorce and move on with her life. She wants to find a new husband and a father for her two young boys and get away from the amorous intentions of her husband’s brother. And there's a murder mystery.

Enter a man called Black, an administrator of sorts who has returned to town after twelve years in distant lands. He still carries a torch for the beautiful widow from his days as a youth. Can he find her father’s killer, keep the brother-in-law at bay, help her get a legal divorce, and win her hand in marriage? Along the way we have blended into the text what are really mini-essays about horses; dogs in the Koran: what it’s like to be a murderer; Satan; the path of a counterfeit coin, etc.

At least half of this lengthy work is about art. (I say lengthy because the 500-page paperback I read was tiny type, so this is a 700- or 800- page book in normal font.) Miniaturist painting was imported into the Ottoman Empire from Persia. Most of the painting was done as pictures in books and to illustrate the borders of pages of books, accompanied by elaborate calligraphy. (Think of the Irish monks’ manuscripts such as the Book of Kells.)

Ottoman miniaturist painting was highly stylized. Pictures were drawn from the viewpoint of Allah, from the top of a minaret, and did not use what the West thinks of as true perspective. Armies lined up symmetrically in battle scenes; horses always had the same foreleg raised; a finger placed in a mouth always represented surprise. In accordance with religious concerns about idolatry, faces were generic, not individualized. Who would dare place an identifiable individual at the center of a painting? Man can copy; only Allah can create. The painter tried to portray the ideal horse or chair as Allah created it (think Plato’s “ideal chair”), not the individual variant before them. Is individuality expressed by a traditional miniaturist painter “style” or a “flaw?” Does it offend God?



Compare all this to the European masters at the time such as da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael (the Turks called them “the Venetians”). So a lot of the book is about East meets West in the art world. All in all, an excellent book from the Nobel Prize-winning Pamuk. The story kept my interest and I enjoyed learning about Ottoman art, even when the sections where the miniaturists talked about the philosophy behind painting got repetitive at times.

Here are links to my reviews of other books I’ve read by Orhan Pamuk:

The Black Book

Snow

Silent House

A Strangeness in My Mind

[Darcy · Rating 5 out of 5]

Generally, when a book starts out with a chapter entitled "I Am A Corpse," you know it's going to be pretty good.

The novel is set up so that each chapter introduces a different narrator, including (but not limited to), Black, Black's uncle, Shekure, a dog, a horse, the murderer and various artists in the workshop. This type of structure for a mystery novel isn't new--Wilkie Collins, for example, employed it several times, most notably in The Moonstone--and it is an effective way to structure a story so as to hide the whodunit. Each character only tells as much as he, she or it knows and in Pamuk's novel even the murderer hides his or her identity.

The structure in "My Name Is Red," though is less designed to sustain suspense and more to allow room for the various philosophical discussions concerning the purpose of art and, perhaps more importantly, the distinctions between Islamic states and Western Europe. The Frankish mode of painting, particularly of portraiture--to glorify the subject, to paint him or her in terms of his/her earthly wealth and power, to distribute such an image openly as a show of control, to demonstrate the creative abilities of the artist--is at the center of these debates and discussions. Black's uncle finds such images alluring and fascinating while others see them as abhorent. Master Osman, for example, sees himself as being forced to choose between the centuries old Islamic traditions he venerates and the more modern and distinctly foreign style he despises. Such a choice is not made easily, as the artists themselves discover. The Frankish method celebrates the individuation of the artist--it prizes the signature of the artist as much as the commissioner of the image. This reverence for the artist, as much as for the piece of art, proves to be a great temptation to the men involved and leads directly to the murder.

The structure, however, also allows for a second discussion, not about art but about writing on art. As much as this is a novel concerning visual images, it is also a novel about ekphrasis--the verbal description of art. Ekphrasis has the effect of slowing down a narrative, of interrupting it. Thus, in Homer's Illiad, the great battle scene is suddenly punctured by a lengthy description of Achilles' shield. Pamuk plays with this model repeatedly. When the image of the horse, described several times in the novel, is given a voice of its own the narrative is not interrupted, but rather the description of the image becomes the narrative. And, moreover, as the image speaks it refutes the fundamental principles underlying Master Osman's devotion to Islamic traditions of art. Pamuk can hardly resist the joke--this is a novel about art in which not a single image appears, except the map at the beginning and the ones we create in our minds as we imagine the images described. But, are we creating an image of the ideal horse, the horse of God, or one we can actually touch, taste, and smell?

[Jason Koivu · Rating 3 out of 5]

My Name is Red is as gorgeous as these illuminations.



The narrative flows with the weight of such a lush artistic style.



It is a dazzling brilliance that creates a languid beauty...



...that bogs the story down so much I couldn't tell you what happened. But this is a "lush" read and my review shouldn't dissuade you from reading it.

[Michael Finocchiaro · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is a fantastic book by Nobel Prize winner Orhan Pamuk which explores the relationship between art and religion ad between imagery and idolatry. Set in the 16th century, we are transported into an Istanbul of the Ottoman empire with a murder mystery told in the voices of the characters (and sometimes these are drawings in the books or just concepts) that inhabit the story. Its primary characters feel very real and the buildup to the big reveal at the end makes the book a real page turner. I think that the story told here is still more than relevant to our world of today given the problems stemming from reading religious texts word for word and building violent systems of repression or terror based on individual interpretations of those readings. Unfortunately, some things have not evolved enough in the last 400 years...A must read.

[Valeriu Gherghel · Rating 4 out of 5]

Un roman important despre o lume închisă, de stereotipuri și cutume străvechi, leneșă, obligată brusc (la sfîrșitul secolului al XVI-lea) să se deschidă și să țină seama de obiceiurile apusene. Și nu numai în ceea ce privește pictura, caligrafia și desenul.

Două cărți mi-au venit în minte în timpul lecturii: Secretul culorii pure a lui Federico Andahazi, o povestire modestă despre două școli de pictură rivale în Occident (florentină și flamandă). Dar, mai presus de orice, Numele trandafirului de Umberto Eco.

Stilul lui Pamuk amintește, în schimb (nu știu de ce nu mă miră deloc acest fapt), de stilul lui Borges. Iată o frază care sună perfect borgesian: „Am zăbovit vreme îndelungată, fără să mă clintesc din loc. Am privit lumea. Totul”.

Și încă una în care Pamuk repetă verbul „a vedea” așa cum face Borges în povestirea El Aleph, dar și Roberto Bolaño în Detectivii sălbatici:

„N-am vorbit deloc, vreme îndelungată. Am văzut bufniţa care se aşezase pe acoperişul unei bisericuţe greceşti, în aşteptarea nopţii. I-am văzut pe mucoşii din mahala cum se uitau la straiele şi la bocceaua mea şi rîdeau. Am văzut un cîine rîios care se tot scărpina în vreme ce cobora voios din cimitirul cu chiparoşi în stradă, ieşind în întîmpinarea nopţii”.

Aș mai vrea să adaug ceva. Stilul lui Orhan Pamuk nu este deloc manierist (cum au găsit unii cronicari). E bogat, mlădios, liric, asta da. Manierist? Cîtuși de puțin. Metaforele lui Pamuk au o mare prospețime. Iar prospețimea lor dezminte manierismul. Fiindcă, în opinia mea, manierismul înseamnă uscăciune, absență a trăirii.

Citez: „[Își închipui] o frumuseţe din Kazvin, cu pielea ca arama şi gura vineţie”.

Sau: „Tăcerea s-a întins asemenea unei flori care se deschide fără ca măcar să bagi de seamă”.

Dacă nu aveți romanul lui Orhan Pamuk sau, vai vouă!, încă nu l-ați citit, dați buzna în librării și puneți mîna pe el. După ce-l terminați, dați-mi și mie un peșcheș, un plocon, un bacșiș, că v-am îndemnat să-l cumpărați. Polirom a scos mai multe ediții...

P. S. Mă numesc Roșu NU este un thriller :)

[miaaa · Rating 2 out of 5]

On-a-high version:

I am called Black, I longed for my dearest Shekure for twelve years;
I, Shekure, not quite sure what was I doing in this story;
I am called Butterfly, I was the one who drew the Death and Mia thought I was the murderer;
I am called Stork, I was the one who drew the Tree and Butterfly always envy me as I was more talented without the help from our master;
I am called Olive, I was the one who rendered the Satan and drew the exquisite horse;
I am your beloved uncle, I was preparing a book for our Refuge of the World, Our Glorious Sultan before being murdered by one of my apprentice;
It is I, Master Osman, I wished to follow the path of Master Bihzad who blinded himself with a needle;
I am Esther, my eyes were eternally at the windows and my ears were eternally to the ground;
I am a corpse, I was Elegant Effendi before being murdered by a fellow painter;
I am Mia, I read this book from page 1 to 508 whilst crawling and bleeding to death. So please would someone explain wth is this book about?
Jackie Chan: Who am I?


Sober version:

Interesting story regarding Istanbul in the 16th century. One day I'll visit the amazing Blue Mosque that a good friend of mine, Eddie, always talk about. But seriously, though this book is amazing I can't get into it. Totally not my rocknrolla thing.

***

one of the bule put this book on my desk, got no idea which one though they pointed their fingers to each other lol

[هدى يحيى · Rating 5 out of 5]

واحدة من أكمل وأمتع وأنضج الروايات التي قرأتها في حياتي
كنت أستلذ سطورها وكأنني أقرأ شعرا
باموق نجح في خلق معادلة صعبة ها هنا
فأنت لا تكتفي بالتمتع بالحدوتة الشيقة الملغزة
بل هناك تصوير بارع
وملعومات مذهلة
وحبكة ممتازة
ووصف مبهر
وحكايات متضافرة تعيش معها أوقات ولا امتع

لو أنني ظللت أكتب وأكتب عن مدى تمتعي وشغفي بهذه الرواية فلن يكفني أبدا هذه الحروف المتبقية

هذه رواية تقطر المتعة منها
...

[Nandakishore Mridula · Rating 3 out of 5]

I am in two minds about this book.

Obviously, it is an important work. It showcases the miniaturist tradition of the Islamic world, and uses the cloistered world of miniaturists to explore the difference in philosophies between the East and the West. It was all the more interesting to me because I have been fascinated by this difference ever since I began viewing paintings with serious interest. In the East, "perspective" does not exist: the painting flows seamlessy over space and time whereas in the West (especially since the Renaissance) the painting is the reproduction of a particular moment in time (we are not talking of abstractions here). The miniaturist paints the world as God sees it: he does not sign the painting, nor does he have an individual style, because he is unimportant. He continues painting (in fact, he paints better!) after he inevitably goes blind. The Frankish painters, in contrast, paint the world as we see it, which is blasphemy according to some of the miniaturists.

I was captivated by the sweep of the book as well as the way it was presented: short chapters, each from the viewpoint of a different character, as though we were looking at a book of miniatures which tells a different story on each page. Moreover, it is a murder mystery in which the victims as well as the murderer directly speak to the reader! It bears a certain resemblance to "The Name of the Rose" in this regard, although Eco's book is much more powerful according to me.

Coming to the minuses: the writing is cumbersome and a task to wade through. I do not know if this is a problem with Pamuk's writing or the translation. The characters are flat: the protagonist (Black) is too weak and cowardly: the heroine (if we can call her that!) too self-centred and manipulative. Maybe the author intended them to be like that, but it does lose reader interest.

I was also rather put off by the amount of lust bubbling on each page. Apart from normal sex (including homosexuality), there is incest, paedophilia, bestiality, fetishism... simmering just beneath the surface. Young boys are regularly presented as objects of lust. Men kiss each other passionately, even when one is about to kill the other! I have heard that Turkey was the centre of "deviant" sexual practices during Ottoman times, so maybe it is a true picture, but it did not vibe with me.

(Edit to add: a person has commented that this paragraph is likely to give the impression that I am attacking LGBTQ people, and on reading it again, I find that there is some substance to the accusation. So I have edited it suitably. The whole idea of putting "deviant" in quotes was to highlight the dubiousness of the label. However, it was the lust that disturbed me and not the sexual preference. Maybe it is my personal problem, that is why I have noted it down subjectively.)

So...adding the negatives and positives, I will go for three stars.

[Mark Porton · Rating 5 out of 5]

You know when you’re in the hands of a master when you are presented with a story that is so different to anything you’ve read before – AND the author makes it stick.

This is a historical fiction love story AND a whodunnit AND an educational piece on Islamic, Frankish and Venetian art. The art component of this book was a surprise and was the reason for me reading this at a snail’s pace. It gets complicated, heavy at times, but fascinating. The miniaturist was the most fascinating member of the illustration team – these guys used the hairs from a cat’s belly for their brushes. I hope the cat wasn't killed in this process.

Each chapter is delivered as a first-person narrative. Which is brilliant, as you’re not sure who to trust. There are chapters narrated by a dog, a corpse, inanimate objects, such as a coin, or even a physical phenomenon like the colour red. Amazing.

We’re in 1591 Istanbul. The all-powerful Sultan has commissioned a bunch of artists, illuminators, calligraphers, miniaturists, and writers to create a book that depicts him and his reign in a different artistic style to that of traditional Islamic art.

This is controversial as Islamic art is not supposed to depict images in a realistic way – such as the European paintings we are familiar with – which can be almost photolike. The only one who can create real-life imagery is Allah. For mere mortals to do otherwise is blasphemous.



An example of 16th century Islamic art. As you can see it’s hardly realistic. The creation of realism – well, that’s the job of Allah. Notice the lack of perspective. Da Vinci would be rolling in his grave



An example of European art (realistic images) – this of Sultan Murat III – during whose rule, the events in this book take place

The first chapter of this books is narrated by a corpse. The product of a savage murder, he’s found at the bottom of a well. This chapter is called “I am a Corpse.” There’s the start of our whodunnit.

Concurrently, we have a man called Black, who returns to Istanbul after a twelve-year absence, and finds he is still attracted to a beautiful woman he knew when both were children, called Shekure. Shekure's husband has not returned from the battlefront for a four-years. Black is in love with Shekure and wishes to marry her. Shekure’s brother-in-law also has the same desires. Drama and intrigue ensue. There's the other complexity involving the challenges involved in divorcing a man who may still be alive.

There are over twenty narrators in this book. Believe me, it doesn’t get confusing, the format helps and creates a feeling of ‘being there’.

There’s one other thing about Pamuk, he can be bloody funny at times, and he also drops in the occasional explicitly erotic scene, something to keep the blood rushing through the reader’s veins. Not this reader of course, I’m above all of that!

Pamuk managed to keep the suspense building, keeping me guessing who the murderer was right to the very end, all while educating me about sixteenth-century Islamic art.

I really have too much to say – so I had better stop.

I highly recommended this book. I initially gave this four-stars, but after dwelling on how good this was for a couple of days, I had to re-grade it to a thumping fiver-stars!!!!

5 Stars

[Mohamed Al · Rating 5 out of 5]

تذكرت، وأنا أقرأ الفقرة الأخيرة من الرواية التي تقول فيها شكورة " احذروا من تصديق أورهان، لأنّه ليس ثمّة كذبة لا يقدم عليها لتكون حكايته جميلة ونصدّقها" ، عبارة لغادة السّمان تقول فيها بأنها موجودة في كل قصصها التي تكتبها. ودفعني ذلك للتساؤل عن السبب الكامن خلف اختيار باموك أسماء مثل "أورهان" و"شوكت" و"شكورة" لشخصيات روايته وهي في الحقيقة ليست سوى اسمه، اسم شقيقه الأكبر، واسم والدته. وهل يحمل هذا الكتاب جزءًا من روح باموك وعائلته؟
يجيب باموك على هذا السؤال في كتابه ألوان أخرى" بأنه سرّب بعضًا من حياته في هذا الكتاب، كمشاجراته التي لا تنتهي مع أخيه الأكبر شوكت، ومغامراتهم الشقية التي تنتهي دائمًا بخلاف ودموع. هناك أيضًا بعضٌ من أمه في شكورة، إنها امرأة قوية ومسيطرة تعرف ماذا تفعل وماذا تريد، أو على الأقل هذه هي الطريقة التي تحاول الظهور بها. والطريقة التي توبخ بها شوكت، أخو أورهان، والطريقة التي تحنو بها على الأخوين .. إلخ هذه الأشياء وتفاصيل صغيرة كثيرة أخرى نقلها باموك من الحياة .. من حياته.
ماذا عن حبكة الرواية؟
رغم أن باموك برع في حقن روايته بعنصر الإثارة عندما طبعها بطابع بوليسي، إلا أنه يعترف في إحدى مقالاته بأن حبكة اللغز كانت مقحمة وأنه لم يكتبها بإخلاص نابع من قلبه. ويبرر استخدامها بخوفه من أن أحدًا لن يهتم بمنمنماته الجميلة إلا لو وجدت مثل هذه الأداة لجذب القارئ إليها، وهي في نفس الوقت تحمل، في رأيي، رمزية بالغة، فجريمة القتل التي راح ضحيتها النقّاش ظريف، كانت تعبيرًا واضحًا وصادقًا لعداء المتشددين لفنون التصوير، والجرائم التي اقترفوها ولا يزالون يقترفونها –بفتاواهم- في حق الفن والجمال والتعبير البصري.
وبعيدًا عن الجو البوليسي، فإن الرواية تدور في أعمق مستوياتها حول الخوف من النسيان، الخوف من ضياع الفنّ. فقد فُقد هذا الفن الجميل بقسوةٍ وطواه النسيان؛ وكتابه كان لذلك عن آلام وتراجيديا هذا الضياع، وهذا المحو. إنه عن آلام وأحزان تاريخ مفقود!

[بثينة العيسى · Rating 4 out of 5]

يطرح باموق في اسمي أحمر فكرة.. أن وجود الخطأ في العمل الفني هو البصمة البشرية التي تسمّى "الأسلوب"، وأن الفنان عديم الأسلوب هو الأقرب إلى كمال التصوير الإلهي للأشياء. الفنان الذي لا يخطئ هو الفنان الذي لا أسلوب له، الفنان الخفي، وهو رديف لفكرة موت المؤلف في الأدب.

ساد عرفٌ لدى النقّاشين بأنه من المعيب أن يوقّع النقّاش أعماله، فهذا دليل على نقصها، لأن النقش الحقيقي هو النقش الذي يشبه أعمال القدماء وهو لا يحتاج إلى توقيع.

هذه فكرة تنطوي على أن الله خلق العالم بلا أسلوب، لأنها قوانين لا يعتريها الخطأ. هذه الفكرة تقتضي أيضًا أننا لا نستطيع قراءة صفات الله في العالم، أو أن الصنعة لا تدل على الصانع بل على غيابه وحسب.

لقد دشّن باموق فكرته على فرضية لا يمكن التحقق منها. من قال بأن الإله خلق العالم بلا أسلوب؟ من قال بأن هذه القوانين لا تعتريها انحيازات أسلوبية معينة، كان يمكن، في واقع موازٍ أن تكون على نحوٍ آخر؟.

[Taufiq Yves · Rating 5 out of 5]

The main plot of this novel is actually pretty straightforward: a murder mystery and the painstaking investigation that follows.

What really pulls me in, though, is the world that unfolds around it. Orhan Pamuk paints 16th-century Istanbul with the precision of a miniature artist - bit by bit, detail by detail. Like any dazzling city, there's always more going on beneath the surface. So the real magic of this book isn’t the story itself, but how it’s told.

What’s brilliant is that everything in the story talks. Literally everything. People. dead or alive, men or women - all have a voice. Telling stories becomes their way of existing. The murdered man starts off chatting away, women whisper to themselves at night, old men ramble in the treasury, and even a painted tree complains bitterly. Everyone’s bound by fate, even the killer and the victim, but each 1 is a narrator, each one carries emotion. They’re all trying to reach for something beyond their physical form - not wealth, not power, not even love. Under the gaze of the mighty Sultan, their hidden thoughts spill out through the image of that tree early in the story: “I don’t want to be the tree itself - I want to be its meaning.”

But here’s the paradox: if you’re not the tree, how can you ever become its meaning?

And while the characters are obsessed with storytelling, the miniature artists in the book have a total disregard for light. Light doesn’t matter to them. In fact, seeing the world clearly actually gets in the way of their pursuit of meaning. They want to escape the world of light. If we can still see the ordinary world - if our eyes and, by extension, our souls are still tainted by it - how can we possibly paint something pure? So the eyes, which are so crucial to readers and viewers, become a barrier to meaning. When Master Osman drives 2 needles into his eyes, it’s shocking, yes - but I get the sense it’s something he’s longed for. Only by giving up light can he find peace.

For Osman, going blind means stepping away from his own existence so he can become his own meaning. But even then, he still speaks, still listens - he can’t fully escape being Osman. If you look closely, his act of blinding himself feels more like a self-deception, Istanbul-style.

The only 1 who stays silent is the author himself. Or maybe it’s better to say: the most important thing in this book is Pamuk’s ambition. He’s the true master behind this intricate miniature. After giving every character their own vivid voice, he skillfully erases his own. When I couldn’t find any trace of his personal style in the text, I could almost see him smiling smugly. He’s like a hidden tour guide, leading us down a well-worn path, showing a world bursting with color and life. The path is so familiar, and the guide so masterful, that none of the characters notice me - and we don’t even notice myself.

While reading, I felt like I was part of this vibrant, ornate miniature painting: the tree, the brush, the people on the street, even Osman’s needle. Honestly, I was there too. I had my own story - here, there, wherever. But that’s just the beginning.

Whether it’s the deep dive into seeing and storytelling, or the sheer mastery of the writing, this novel deserves serious respect. But its meaning goes even further. After finishing it, I realized I’d become a reader - just like every object in the story, just like every other reader. I’d lived through my own fate. I can’t be the tree, or the dog, or the needle. I can only own my own story, my own way of seeing, and the meaning that comes from that. No matter how hard I resist, how much I try - even if I became the murderer and painted my own portrait in the Sultan’s domain - it wouldn’t change a thing.

Pamuk’s personal style finally reveals itself in the tension between the title and the content. My Name Is Red points straight at meaning, but the story shows how powerless meaning can be when faced with existence. Storytelling, seeing, even meaning - they’re all just beginnings. That’s the secret behind the story, and maybe what Pamuk really wants to say beyond meaning. Whether we get it or not, I don’t think he cares. Because it’s our own journey, our own fate.

So if you’re going to read this book - really read it. I’m a reader. And so are you.

4.6 / 5 stars

[Henry Avila · Rating 3 out of 5]

During nine snowy, cold, winter days in the fabulous city of Istanbul the capital of the Ottoman Empire, at its height in the reign of Sultan Murat 111 there occurred a brutal murder, (not the last one ) the year 1591. At the bottom of an abandoned well the mangled body of Elegant Effendi nicknamed Red, a miniaturist who had worked for the Sultan is found but not before the corpse tells his sad story. How the victim was lured by a person which was thought a close friend, with promises of riches and savagely attacked. Strangely the spirit is contented and feels no anger now. Just looking forward to the new world paradise, in heaven. He was a talented painter along with Stork, Olive, and Butterfly under old Master Osman who gave them all their aliases, taught the boys everything they know including beatings, when mistakes were made ( all surprisingly love their master, of 25 years) in a workshop funded by the revered sovereign. Colorful paintings of bright glorious colors of horses , trees, clouds, important people slaughter on many battlefields, fables, enchanting gardens under the exotic illuminating moon with lovers looking tenderly at each other . Red was uneasy about a secret project he worked on because of the foreign, Venetian styled illustrations forbidden by Islam many believe, later when completed these small paintings will be put in a book, to be viewed only by the ruler and a few trusted associates ... Black (Kara) a clerk, secretary, and occasional warrior hired by pashas fighting endless wars against the Persians, returns to his hometown of Istanbul after twelve long years. A failed romance cause him much suffering, the reason for his volunteered exile. The beauty Shekure his uncle's Enishte daughter, was constantly on his mind the lonely days spent thinking about his cousin wanderings through the vast hot deserts and freezing temperatures in the dizzy , elevations of towering mountains sleeping in pungent tents in isolated locations. The rejection of a marriage proposal by his own uncle for his love, and her wedding to another a famous soldier he can never forget. But her husband has been missing for four years, she with two small children living at her father's house and the army has come back. A second chance for happiness if only Black can win her affections... Still he has very strong competition, from fierce Hasan younger brother of Shekure's fearless husband. Esther a shrewd Jewish peddler, matchmaker , and messenger for clandestine sweethearts she knows everything about everyone, having walked over all the city's streets begins bringing letters to Shekure and Black and Hasan too. Rumors that the killer is a miniaturist sweeps the city. Black had been one in his youth, with the three remaining master painters before quitting. And the angry Sultan wants the murderer caught in three days, or torture will commence on the suspects every miniaturist ...

[Kelly · Rating 4 out of 5]

My fickle heart longs for the West when I'm in the East and for the East when I'm in the West.
My other parts insist I be a woman when I'm a man and a man when I'm a woman.
How difficult it is being human, even worse is living a human's life.
I only want to amuse myself frontside and backside, to be Eastern and Western both.

This is Pamuk's enduring, never ending obsession. He's written fiction and non-fiction, journal articles and newspaper bites, and given endless interviews on this theme. He's even been thrown in jail and put on trial for the identity he has chosen. He's won the Nobel Prize in Literature for his commitment to expressing his deeply divided mind and spirit, and that (at least he and many others believe) of his country- Turkey. (I apologize in advance if this ends up being something of a ramble through the literary bramble, but I can only say that that would mirror the experience of reading this book.)

My Name is Red will tell you that it is a murder mystery, set in 16th century Istanbul, under the rule of the Sultan. But it will also tell you that it is about many other things, each of which changes, ephermerally, by the moment. The atmosphere of the story digs a little bit into Garcia-Marquez's garden, but storytelling would never be mistaken for his. Each chapter is told by a different voice- some of which are plausible members of a storytelling round, and some of which would really only belong in that category if you were on acid, but they all seem about equally credible, due to the fact that nobody is really credible, so one might as well be fiction or myth as fact. (For instance, we hear from the voices of the drawing of a horse, the fake voice of a woman who is actually a man, a gold piece and the color red.) It is ethereal, elusive, and there isn't one incarnation of the mind that can be trusted here. Don't fall into the trap of assuming that what you read has anything to do with anything other than the particular pyschology of the moment- Pamuk is a master of depicting the every day track of a mind, and how unreliable each feeling of a moment is- how everything important is changed by the fact that one just happens to feel hungry at a particular moment, or desperately horny at another. It is an absolute masterwork of insight on the psychology of a particular people at a particular time, and all the various reasons why they are that way, and yet he is able to make them as relatable as possible through it all.

What struck me the most throughout the entire book was how terrified, it seemed, that Pamuk was of missing something. While other authors might be striving to become masters of literature, masters of form, I think Pamuk wished that he could be nothing so much as a master of tapestry-making. I think he would die happy if he could have given this book to the theoretical Weaver in the sky and gotten it back as a divine scrap of worked fabric. There are lists upon lists upon lists of endless things that go on for pages, only to stop and start up once again. As a part of his contradictory feelings towards the West, in a culture whose stories and traditions often originated in the East... although he longs for the West, he's terrified, just as his characters are, that everything they know from the East will disappear. It seems like he can't stop himself- there's some sort of driving fear if he doesn't list everything about history and culture and myth, and repeat all the stories again and again to make sure we remember what they are, it will be gone forever. His expression of ambivalence towards Western culture perfectly expresses the mindset of illuminators in 16th century Istanbul terrified that their entire lives are about to become irrelevant.

The other absorbing, fascinating, and horrifying thing was how well Pamuk illustrates the idea that absolutely nobody speaks with their own voice, both through his painters, constrained by centuries of adherance to a perfect style that some random master brought out of Baghdad that depicts the "perspective of Allah." It is considered heresy and a fault to have a "style", and "signatures" are furitively hidden away as much as possible- the idea that blindness is the ideal to be obtained for these artists is just heartbreaking- at least to someone coming at it from a Western perspective, where seeing painters deliberately rob themselves of their sight, their most precious commodity, over and over again, in the course of obtaining a meaningless idea of perfection that is not their own. The murderer throughout this book strives endlessly to hide himself by speaking in a voice that does not at all resemble how we see him in other places. The majority of people who are speaking a themselves tell stories in order to express their feelings- in fact at the beginning all the suspected illuminators speak almost entirely in story form in order to answer any important question on any philosophical, religious, or even personal topic. Expressing one's feelings just isn't done. One doesn't go up to the pretty boy one would like to fuck and tell him so, one tells him a parable about a gorgeous boy in order to show your admiration for him. Much as the pictures are seen as the "perspective of Allah," it seems that there is only one way to speak, too, in the "words of Allah," or those stories which are sanctioned by the authorities as legitimate- the authority of Allah on earth. It was the ultimate tragedy of the book from the Western perspective, and the ultimate triumph of the book from the accepted ides of the time, all of these de-individualized people (as much as can be done or denied or pushed from sight) striving towards the goal of seeing as Allah does, ever in the correct way.

But everyone recognizes the end of the "Eastern" way of life coming from the West, in the guise of the "Venetian" ways that everyone will want to slavishly follow in the future, ways which reactionary preachers and religious people are protesting against before they've even made serious headway, trying to keep their way of life "pure." But the rest of the book poitns out again and again that there is no way that the culture of the Ottoman Empire was pure in any way- no constantly conquering culture with a large army and a long reach could ever be. No autocratic society that entailed artisans, craftsman and soldiers to pick up and serve someone else once their lord was defeated (if they weren't killed out right) could develop in isolation without any influence from the outside. He shows globalization already happening, back in the 16th century, and how deep the effects penetrate then and now.

I loved his Istanbul for his brilliant evocation of identity, living with a burdensome past and an uncertain future, for its poetry and its memory. My Name is Red accomplishes much the same thing, with more magic- but just enough dirt to bring it right straight home where it belongs in 2009.

[Astraea · Rating 5 out of 5]

5 امتیاز هم کم هست برای این کتاب
اورهان پاموک به حق یکی از نویسندگان برتر دوران ما هستش.
نوع روایت و زبان کتاب بسیار گیرا و جذاب و بیان نظرات و دیدگاه اشیاء نوآوری بسیار موفق بود. .
نه تنها ارزش خوندن داشت، بلکه ارزش این رو داره که در کتابخانه هر فرد کتابخونی باشه...
اگه بخوام گل سرسبد کتابخونه ام رو انتخاب کنم، بی شک در کنار غزلیات سعدی و هومرو لنگلی دکتروف، این کتاب هم قرار داره!!!!!!!!!!!

[Issa Deerbany · Rating 5 out of 5]

رغم طول الرواية وتفاصيل النقش والرسم والتلوين والتهذيب فقد استمتعت بها .
وأرى انها تحفة ولا اعرف اذا فاز بجائزة نوبل للاداب على هذه الرواية ولكن تستحق الفوز .
لولا انها رواية تاريخية لاعتقدت ان الكاتب يعمل نقاشا .
وصف الصراعات الداخلية عند شخصيات الرواية ملهم ويثير العجب وكأنها شخصيات من العصر الحاضر وهذه من عظمة هذا الكاتب.
شكرا اورهان باموق

[مجید اسطیری · Rating 4 out of 5]

دوست دارم بعد از نوشتن این چند خط کمی هم نقدهایی که بر این کتاب نوشته شده را بخوانم اما عجالتا این نکات را عرض کنم:

- فکر نکنم ما ایرانی ها رمانی نوشته باشیم که به اندازه این اثر به فرهنگ و هنرمون خدمت کرده باشه. مسئلهء پاموک در این رمان اساسا هویت هنر ایرانی هستش و خودش هم چند جا در اثر اشاره میکنه که عثمانی ها چیز ارزشمندی در برابر آثار هنرمندان قزوین و هرات نداشته ن. دریغ و دریغ که خودمون تا به حال چنین رمانی خلق نکرده ایم. یک رمانی مرتضی کربلایی لو نوشته در فضای هنر قالی بافی که از لحاظ پدیدارگرایی بدک نیست اما از لحاظ عمق تحقیقاتی در برابر این اثر هیچ عمقی نداره.

- نمیدونم چرا پاموک تصمیم گرفته در نوشتن این رمان اساسا بی خیال "لحن" بشه. به نظر من تنبلی کرده. وقتی شما این همه شخصیت داشته باشی باید برای حرف زدن هر کدومشون یه لحن خاص طراحی بکنی. پدرت در میاد. هر جمله ای که میخوان بگن باید از صافی اون لحن بگذره. اما راه ساده تر اینه که بگی ای مخاطب من تو داری صدای ذهن شخصیت های من رو میشنوی و مگه ذهن آدمها لحن داره؟! همه آدما در ذهن خودشون پر حرف و وراج هستند. اما نه آقای پاموک. کار خودت را خراب کردی.

- ما ایرانی ها از این همه جزئیاتی که درباره هنر نقاشی در ایران گفته میشه خسته نمیشیم و حتی کیف هم میکنیم اما به نظرم چیزی که حجم رمان را این قدر زیاد کرده وفور جزئیات بدون کاربرد هستش. اگر هم نخوایم بگیم بدون کاربرد لااقل میتونیم بگیم نویسنده دنبال موجزترین روش بیان نگشته واقعا

- و تلخ ترین مسئله هم ترجمه بد عین اله غریب که من همین اواخر فهمیدم چقدر صدای مخاطبان حرفه ای را درآورده.

[Jibran · Rating 5 out of 5]

Arguably the best novel of Orhan Pamuk. Set in Istanbul during the height of Ottoman power, this novel is a tribute to the art of painting as well as a fascinating murder mystery which will keep you hooked till the end. The unusual narrative is felt with full force right from the start - as you read the first chapter, starting with the voice of a corpse at the bottom of the well wondering who was the wretched man that killed him.

Then ensues a beautiful exploration of the 16th century Istanbul's art scene, its many rivalries, and in between breaths a heartfelt love story that keeps the main protagonist on his heels, as he finds his way through the internecine politics at home and at court. This story is a fascinating example of the possibilities of modern global novel. Must read.

[Luís · Rating 3 out of 5]

My Name is Red plunges us into the universe of Sultan Murad III's miniaturist workshops in the Ottoman Empire at the end of the 16th century. One of the guild's artists, nicknamed the Delicate, was sent ad patres by an illuminator colleague and then thrown into a well while the workshop to which he belonged was working on producing a prestigious and secret book at the sultan's address. This work seems to contradict the canons of Islamic art and the rules enacted by the masters of the school of Herat.
The story presents colorful characters who each take on a part of the narrative in chapters that fit together cleverly and use the recurrence of narrative motifs. We will ignore the implausibilities of the language used by the characters, which does not mainly provide the period covered. We must remember that we are in an oriental tale where all the licenses and wonders are possible, such as prosopoeia. Unfortunately, the story could be more balanced and laboriously drags on. Weariness quickly wins.

[MaSuMeH · Rating 4 out of 5]

کتاب به اندازه ی کافی مشهور است و نیاز به معرفی اضافه ندارد غیر از 2 نکته به نظر من :1. نحوه روایت از زبان راویان مختلف مثلن جایی از زبان یک سکه پول،که جذابیت فوق العاده ای داشت و 2. یک جایی یک جمله می گوید که شخصا فکر می کنم بزرگترین و اصلی ترین تفاوت شرق و غرب است.مضمون جمله این است که چرا غربی ها از کشیدن پرتره لذت می برند و نقاشان شرق از کشیدن چهره هایی متعلق به فرشته ها و عالم بالا ؟ در ادامه می نویسد به این دلیل که غربی ها دنیا را آنگونه می بینند که هست و شرقی ها آنگونه که می خواهند باشد!

[Daren · Rating 3 out of 5]

Well, I am fence sitting on this one. The overwhelmingly positive reviews from fellow readers make me the outlier on this.

For me I found it a complex and demanding read, yet it was also repetitive and at times numbing in its detail (something I normally find appealing!). While all aspects of the multi-layered story appealed to me, the detail of the miniatures somehow overtook the miniatures as a whole, and I wasn't able to take as much from them as I had hoped.

Without a couple of days off work with a cold, I would probably have laboured harder on this book at its 670 pages of dense text - a larger investment than I am often prepared to make with so many other books awaiting my attention, but it did feel overlong and in my view could have be through a harder edit to reduce page count without affecting the story.

However, I thought it wrapped up much quicker than was necessary (no spoilers so I won't develop that theme much more) with the conclusion to the story of Master Osman and the Sultan's enquiry into the murder left unresolved other than a brief mention.

I am usually a fan of stories with in stories, but I found most of these a distraction - although I realise the reason for having them in the narrative - the formulaic three fables thing seemed to add to the tedium for me as I read.

So, as you can tell, I didn't love this novel. I do think it was masterfully crafted with the continually changing perspective, and aspects were excellent, but for me overlong and drawn out.

On this basis a solid 3 stars.

[Sawsan · Rating 3 out of 5]

يدخل أورهان باموك عالم النقش والرسم في اسطنبول القديمة عاصمة الدولة العثمانية
فن الرسم والتذهيب والتلوين.. تاريخه وموضوعاته وأساليبه وحكايات عن لوحات وكتب وأساطير
ووصف لتفاصيل غاية في الدقة عن الرسومات بكل نقوشها وألوانها
السرد مميز يتوزع على أكثر من راوي, كل فصل على لسان أحد الشخصيات أو الأشياء
الرواية فيها بعض الإثارة والغموض, تبدأ بجريمة قتل ولا تخلو من قصة غرام طويلة
لكن الموضوع العام عن فن النقش بكل جوانبه هو الأهم وكتب عنه باموك بحرفية كبيرة
في بعض أجزاء كانت كثرة التفاصيل سبب في شيء من الملل

[Lisa · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is a perfect novel, I realised, quite a few years after I finished it.

It has art and crime and passion and plot and characters and style and all that jazz. And it appeals to grumpy people past prime as well as passionate adolescents discovering the universe of literature for the first time.

When a student of mine, aged 15, stormed into the library and declared this was the best book ever, I felt strangely sad I hadn't thought more about it since I read and loved it some years ago. When the same student grabbed the next Orhan Pamuk novel she could find on the shelf, an innocent brick of a museum novel, I even felt jealous, as I hadn't read that one yet and I bizarrely envied her the first touch of a Pamuk novel - while at the same time being incredibly grateful he writes and reaches the next generation. A rare gift. I remember developing a passion for miniature painting while reading My Name Is Red, and it has stayed with me since, even through the times when I barely remembered the book itself.

My next Pamuk is in the pipeline while my student is working her way through a museum of innocence, growing with each novel...

[Fabian · Rating 4 out of 5]

I could not help but think of the film "Daisies" (“Sedmikrasky,” dir. Vera Chytilova), that shameless classic of the Czech New Wave while reading Ohran Pamuk’s My Name is Red. That brilliant & psychedelic film of the 60’s portrays two incessant, silly girls who seem to want to emphasize their existence by playing pranks on other people and being undeniably obnoxious. They are terrified at the idea of being forgotten—of not existing. Similarly, in Pamuk’s epic novel of conspiring miniaturists, of love and death, the reader is confronted with the theme of existence. There is an unknown presence which strives to be part of the reader’s consciousness—which, like the two unremitting, adolescent & undeniably-alive individuals of the film, tries its hardest to appear, to become known & acknowledged.

My Name is Red has a radical structure. As I read more and more books, it becomes increasingly clear that some writers take an enormous amount of effort in establishing a frame, a “cabinet of curiosities” (in the same tradition as MVL’s “Chinese boxes” and “communicating vessels) in which to properly display their creations. For example, A. S. Byatt, in her Booker-prize winning novel "Possession," a novel that is more poetry book than a novel, creates several frames in which to place all the poetry which two poets keep exchanging as tokens of their love. Byatt obviously wants to make her poetry accessible, and gives it further clout by giving each poet his or her unique voice—by fully creating two different minds. Pamuk also uses the novel to display his craft, establishing a museum in which to showcase his “paintings”: his cabinet of curiosities includes, not poems, but individual vignettes, brush-stroke tableaus which represent but one facet of a full universe. The conglomeration of these makes up the bulk—gives the reader the voice, the theme & style—of the novel.

“If I could only,” the nameless murderer tells Enishte Effendi, “see the last picture in its entirety” (158). Both the character’s expectations and the reader’s match—their journey is, therefore, genuinely entwined. The reader wants to know what all these different vignettes will culminate in. The wants of a fictional character and those of an actual live reader are the one and the same—this is the main catalyst which moves the narrative to its awesome conclusion. The reader is prepared to sift through the surplus of stories, images, and motifs to get to the bottom of this radical love story/murder mystery. Enishte Effendi admits: “They say we’ve committed an unforgivable sin by daring to draw, from the perspective of a mangy street dog, a horsefly and a mosque as if they were the same size” (158). Virginia Woolf’s literary sense of character democracy, of consciousness-equality, is pretty much Pamuk’s own. By depicting various POVs, by making them authentic and articulate, Pamuk seems to rationalize like many of the great writers that every tiny aspect of the plot is essential—only with all of these different takes on the same thing (the murder of Elegant and the love story of Black and Shekure) can the reader get a faithful interpretation of such enormous complexity and chaos.

There is a consciousness which ties the characters together, and it is perhaps the force of life itself. The crazy girls perturb the status quo when they admit that they want to live (live!) in Daisies. The different entities (whether they be annoying Shekure or the talking picture of a dog, or literally, the color red) all possess life and they indulge the reader in their personal and unique elucidations on life in 16th-century Istanbul. The added element, that is, all the writer’s own beliefs in art (writing is aptly compared to painting) are present in Red, and the work transcends not only the rules of storytelling by having such incredibly different characters in it with such unique voices, but also because it dabbles with the postmodern idea of reading about art within a work of art.

All that being said, there is a grave problem with the pacing of the book--it took me forever to complete this (and lets face it, Gone With the Wind this is not). Also, there is a ceaseless amount of repetition of events, a constant reassurance that seems extraneous-- a recompilation of different occurrences voiced by the different (though extremely intriguing) characters. The themes, rich in the context of the production of art, are very appropriate and very revolutionary. This is a postmodern work which of course still lingers on the romantic, and then plays around some with the detective novel genre.

[Emily B · Rating 2 out of 5]

I bought this book because the first line/page sounded original and intriguing. However I soon found this novel tedious and boring. It just wasn't my cup of tea.

[Lyn · Rating 4 out of 5]

This was a joy to read.

I read a lot of good books: good stories, good characterization, good dialogue, good writing. It’s a rare treat when I can sit down and thoroughly enjoy a book because the writer has not just crafted a good book, but has gone on to create art, to invest his or her time and energy and creativity and genius into a wonderful work, something that is designed to be better than good.

Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s 1998 novel, this edition translated into English by Erdag M. Goknar, about sixteenth century intrigue in and around Istanbul is also about art, and artists, and culture and Islam and so much more.

As the novel begins, a miniaturist has been murdered and thrown down into an abandoned well. We know this because the victim tells us.

Each chapter in Pamuk’s tale is told from the perspective of a different character, a murder victim to begin with, other artists, the murderer, an art master, a tree, a painting of a horse, and so on.

In the author’s able hands, it is as if the narrator of the chapter sits on a stage and shares with us a conversation about his aspect of the story. Some are insightful and brimming with clues about the ongoing investigation, others are chatty and providing us with illuminating backstory about region or about the Ottoman Empire or about the other characters.

We get to know dozens of players in this act and all while learning who is the murderer and why the deed was done.

Masterfully created, this was an exceptionally well told story.

[Lissa · Rating 3 out of 5]

I tried very hard to really like this book. But, I suppose it's impossible to succeed in everything.

My Name Is Red is both historical fiction and a murder mystery. It takes place in 1591 (according to the timeline at the end of the book). The over-arching motion of the plot centers around the death of a master miniturist in the Sultan's court. The death is revealed in the first chapter, though the reasons surrounding the his death are much slower in being revealed. What is known, almost at the outset, is that his death is related to a book that the Sultan has commission that is to be illustrated in the European style, with respect to perspective and a view of the world as an actual person sees it (as opposed to how Allah would see it). Enishte Effendi, the person in charge of the manuscript, calls his childhood apprentice Black Effendi back from Persia to Istanbul to help investigate the murder and help him finish the Sultan's book. Within this overarching plot is the plight of Enishte's daughter Shekure, whose husband went to war four years prior and never came back. Black has been pining away for her during his twelve year absence from Istanbul, though he is not the only man who is interested in becoming her new husband. Amongst the plot and subplot, there are multiple discussions of style and individualism and what it means to be a father/father-figure, among other topics.

The story is told in a sort of Faulkner-esque fashion, with each chapter being told in the perspective of different characters in the story. These characters are sometimes alive, and sometimes dead (as in the first chapter entitled "I am a corpse"). Also, sometimes the chapters are told in the sort-of perspective of the drawing from Enishte's book - I say sort of, because they're really told from the perspective of a coffee house storyteller who is pretending to be what is depicted in Enishte's book. Are you confused yet?

The was my first issue with this book: at the beginning, it's very confusing. Not knowing a lot about the Muslim faith, it took many chapters before I figured out what exactly was wrong with the way Enishte wanted to illustrate his manuscript. My second problem with this book was all of the exposition. There is too much time spent on the exposition on topics like love and style that are obliquely connected with the plot. Certainly these expositions add greater depth to the different characters, but after a while it started to get a little tedious. Thirdly, Pamuk does not inhabit his different narrators in the way that David Mitchell (Ghostwritten, Cloud Atlas) manages to. As a result, the book feels a little bit flat. Fourthly, the subplot with Shekure adds very little to the book. I found her to be an incredibly unappealing character, and I found myself wishing that the murderer would murder her next.

All of that being said, the book does have a certain flair to the writing. Some of the exposition is really thought-provoking. I also thought that the stories told from the perspective of drawings and corpses and even colors were interesting additions to the plot. In sum, I'm not sorry I read it, but I was expecting more out of it.

[سـارا · Rating 4 out of 5]

این کتاب جامونده از نمایشگاه کتاب پارسال بود و خب قطعا بخاطر حجم بالاش حوصله و زمان مناسب می‌طلبید.
داستان در رابطه با هنر نقاشی در عهد صفوی و دربار عثمانیه، زندگی و کار و روابط نقاشان اون دوره و پرداختن به تاریخ نقاشی بخش عمده ای از کتاب رو در برمیگیره و به شخصه موضوع نابش رو بی‌اندازه دوست داشتم.
اما نکته‌ی خاصی که خیلی از قسمت‌ها درگیرم میکرد لحن و زبان عجیب شخصیت ها بود. اکثریت بخش ها لحن گفتگوها خیابانی و عامیانه اند و نامتناسب با سبک و سیاق داستان و آداب و رسوم اون دوره تاریخی.
برخی از شخصیت های اصلی خوب پرداخته نشده بودن و خواننده نمی‌تونست خودش رو با اونها همسو ببینه و به نحوی خودش رو جای شخصیت‌ها بذاره. (شخصیت شکوره کاملا برام غیر قابل درک بود)
و مسئله ای که خیلی برام جذاب بود؛ نزدیکی فرهنگ ایران به ترکیه، فضایی رو ایجاد کرده که انگار با یک رمان ایرانی طرفید نه یک اثر ترجمه.

[Praveen · Rating 5 out of 5]

Even if you are away from your lover if a lover’s face survives emblazoned on your heart, the world is still your home.

An Impetuous response In October 2019
-----------------------------
If your name is red, my name is blue.
You can glide from my hand like sand; I will stick on your soul like glue.

This book is dispersed with such a sumptuous redness that after reading it my entire self was tinged with azure… Not with red but with azure… because the color changes color when it evaporates from the pages of a marvelous book and transpires into the imaginary eyes of a curious reader. I am beholden. I have turned resplendent, but not like you… O Redness! I admit that the shine is the virtue of the Sun and one name of the Sun is also red. But on the backdrop on which this redness sparkles, that since time immemorial is only blue!

A rapport was straightway established between your redness and my blueness. It was all at once since the very beginning when that corpse said

I am nothing but a corpse now, a body at the bottom of a well. Though I drew my last breath long ago and my heart has stopped beating, no one apart from that vile murderer knows what has happened to me.

The Validity of that initial upshot is intact in April 2021
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I jotted down these two short paragraphs immediately after I finished this novel in the month of October in 2019. This book was sitting bolt upright on the shelf for more than six years. It’s today only when I am getting time to write this review, I am recalling all my personal association with this book.

A memory
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I had bought this book years ago at Mumbai airport. I was sitting with my colleague (My senior obvious at my work) with whom I was traveling for the first time. We never had any personal interaction. He was busy messaging someone on his high-end smartphone and I did not want to bring out my phone. So my eyes were attentively examining the disorderly commotion of fellow travelers. While waiting in the waiting lounge for quite some time in absolute quietude I turned to the other man I broke the ice, “Excuse me! I will buy something.”

My senior at once replied pointing in a certain direction with his right thumb to me, “The bookstall is there!”

I looked into his eyes in surprise, grinned like a Cheshire cat, and moved on. I was thinking to myself how this man knows that I want to buy a book and not a burger. We never discussed books. We were first time together.

When I reached to the book parlor, my eyes fell on this title and this title seemed to me so quirky (How can someone’s name be red?) and when I read those lines stated by the corpse on the first page highlighted above, I bought it in a flash. I had not heard much of Orhan Pamuk then. This was probably the second book of my life which I immediately bought knowing nothing about the book and the author just by getting seduced by the title in a book outlet. The first such book was The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. I am beaming to declare that in both cases my all of a sudden infatuation with the title of a book ended up in rip-roaring reading experiences.

However, every time I think about this book this question keeps popping up in my head,

“How did he know that I want to buy a book and not a burger?”

The book
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Set in the Istanbul of the sixteenth century, this is a story of one ‘Black’ who after an absence of 12 years entered Istanbul, like a somnambulist, at the age of 36. He, 12 years ago had fallen helplessly in love with his young cousin. Many of his friends and relatives have died during this 12 years exile. Twelve years ago when he had declared his love for the Shekure, his declaration of love was considered an act of insolence by his uncle. He was exiled. He comes back and found that his love, with her two children, is living alone. Her husband, a soldier, has no clue of his whereabouts. And the brother of her husband, Hasan, has an evil eye on her.

While in the background, the Sultan commissions a great book secretly to celebrate his life and his empire, the work goes to the best miniaturists of the age. Meanwhile, one among them is murdered. As a consequence, in the foreground, it progresses as a story of a murderer, who feels and proclaims to the reader that he would not have believed he could take anyone’s life even if he had been told so a moment before he murdered that fool Elegant, who he feels was like a brother to him. He sometimes feels as if he has not committed any crime at all. He freely walks in the city of Istanbul, from one street to another looking at the faces of people.

As I stare at people’s faces, I realize that many of them believe they are innocent because they haven’t yet had the opportunity to snuff out a life. It’s hard to believe that most men are more moral or better than me simply on account of some minor twist of fate.

In essence, this book is a historical murder mystery. But there are so many themes and sub-contexts present. If you have encountered the term ‘postmodernism’ diving out from an edified tongue of a sagacious literary guy and you get confused what is this. Read this book, it is postmodernist in its approach, if I am not mistaken. Its meta-fictional traits are amazing and worthy of coming back to again and again.

This is a love story.
This is exotic and dreamy.

This is philosophical.
This is very reflective and ruminative in nature.

This is suspenseful.
I had to read it with bated breath.

This is about art and artists.
I saw the knack and prowess of the miniaturists.

This is about religion too.
Those ruminating parts in between are balanced on religion.

It plays wonderfully on human emotions.
That jealousy, that rivalry that romance, you will see.

You will also find real historical references and popular folklores and fables in the narration.

Personally, the most compelling things in this book for me were two.

The first one is the author’s take on art and artists in the plot. Miniaturists and calligraphers were frustrated by the wars and presence of Ottoman soldiers but hadn't yet left for Kazvin or another Persian City from Istanbul and it was these Masters complaining of poverty and neglect, it was commissioned to inscribe illustrate and bind the pages of the manuscripts. While depicting their learning of art and getting mastery and describing the prowess of these artists, the author has sprinkled pearls of wisdom through his philosophical rumination at many places. I liked the conversations between masters and disciples and their thoughtful talks inside their artistic hovels.

I am delighted now to see that Black has acquired another essential virtue. To avoid disappointment in art, one must not treat it as a career. Despite whatever great artistic sense and talent a man might possess, he ought to seek money and power elsewhere to avoid forsaking his art when he fails to receive proper compensation for his gifts and efforts.

One student asked a question.

My great master, my dear sir! what separates the genuine miniaturist from the ordinary?
Master responds that there are three traits

-Will he have his individual style?
-How will he feel when his work and pictures will be used in other’s books?
-Third virtue is blindness!

Second is the narration style of the novel with its suspense. Every major character of the novel narrates his or her story. The ultimate aim is to find the murderer. This murderer comes out in between and talks to the reader about how he did it and why he did it. But the reader is not able to guess who this bloody murderer is!

In my opinion, this book is a must-read for every book lover.

This is a scintillating blending of romance, suspense, history, art, and philosophy in a passionate and spirituous language of prose.

[Samra Yusuf · Rating 2 out of 5]

I believe in the fact that there is nothing as fact, everything the eye beholds is the individual reality of the beholder, what the eye sees and mind translates it as sight is a phenomenon of individual perception, and this is where the artist discerns himself from a mere beholder, he is, simultaneously a beholder and a creator, or we may say the re-creator, his strokes alive the scenery, his colors spark the stars, his art immortals the mortality of life, and his hands vouchsafe timelessness to the time bound. And such an artist, is a blatant sinner in the eyes of Islam, as Allah is the sole creator, and to create is his attribute only, and to impersonate this attribute an act of sacrilege! And Orhan took 700 plus pages to indispensably say this.
Its sixteenth century Istanbul, pinnacle of ottoman rule, a book of illustrations is in the making, the contents of the book are being kept secret until it completes, as the Sultan demands. One of the four makers of book is found murdered at the pit of well with cause of murder and murderer unknown, following another murder of the in charge of the whole work Enishte Effendi by the hands of same murderer in same manner, and a good 500 pages wrap the further happenings.
The novel’s busting with plots within plots, history, mystery, art, education, philosophy, love, lost, you just name it, and all it lacks is grip on reader and the inspiration to move on, or in the very least drag on, I believe Orhan is not the sole creator of this concoction of a thing novel, translator has done the job on equal ground, but translation alone doesn’t grind the gears, it’s the whirlwind of infinity narrative voices you find yourself blown up with, or we might correctly say swipe away with, characters are as flat as a scale, and never did I read anything this lackluster on the subject of art
I am inclined to believe all Pamuk aimed through this, was the encomium to the lost art of Islamic illumination, if it could only had not been with this dry voice..huh!