“The Museum of Innocence” by Orhan Pamuk (translated by Maureen Freely)

This is a novel about love and patience. It is also a story about class, propriety, gender relations, religious norms, and traditional values. It is also one weird book. The story, above all, is one about an all consuming obsession. Set in Istanbul in the second half of the twentieth century, the novel details the milieu of the city’s nouveau riche and fading aristocracy. Kemal, the narrator, set to marry the daughter of a prestigious civil servant, Sibel, becomes enraptured by a poor distant relative, Fusan, whom he happens upon at a boutique. “Even all these years later I remember that Sibel spoke to me sweetly. Sibel was fun, and clever, and sympathetic, and I knew that with her at my side I would be fine, not just then but for the rest of my life. Late that night, after I had taken her home, I walked for a long time through the dark and empty streets, thinking about Fusan. What I couldn’t stop thinking about, what perturbed me was not just that Fusan had given me her virginity; it was that she had shown such resolve in doing so. There had been no coyness, no indecision, not even when she was taking off her clothes.” From the start of the affair, the mood of the book reveals that things will not end well for anyone. “It was during these days that I first began to feel fissures opening in my soul, wounds of the sort that plunge some men into a deep, dark, lifelong loneliness for which there is no cure.” When Kemal and Fusan become estranged, he sinks to the nadir of his despair, comforting himself with any relic from his apartment that she had happened to touch. “As the pain I felt wondering whether Fusan might come grew less intense each day, I sometimes convinced myself that I was slowly growing accustomed to her absence, but there was no truth to this, none at all. It was simply that I was growing more adept at distracting myself with the happiness I found in objects.” For a time still engaged to Sibel, Kemal obsessively ruminates on the nature of love. “I would entertain the hopeful thought that all serious and honorable men who happened to fall passionately in love went through the same things I did.” The objects of his obsession consume Kemal’s existence. “The power of things inheres in the memories they gather up inside them, and also in the vicissitudes of our imagination, and our memory—of this there is no doubt.” What could be a thoroughly pitiful and depressing tale is interspersed with just a shimmer of light as Kemal struggles on with life. “I had already had intimations that my passion for Fusan would ultimately turn into such a story of stubborn introversion. My love for her, my obsession, or whatever one could call it—it had rendered me incapable of diverting myself onto a path that would lead me to sharing this world freely with another. Even in the early days I’d known deep in my heart that mutuality could never happen in the world I’ve been describing, and so I’d turned inward, to seek Fusan there. I think Fusan knew, too, that one day I would find her inside me. In the end everything would be fine.”

“My Name is Red” by Orhan Pamuk (translated Erdag M. Goknar)

Pamuk has written an epic murder mystery set in sixteenth century Istanbul. The story centers around the miniaturist artists in the Ottoman sultan’s atelier, culled from the remote regions of his empire to illustrate his manuscripts. The first chapter is narrated by a corpse, so you know there will be some mysticism in this story right off the bat. “Only when one escapes the dungeons of time and space does it become evident that life is a straitjacket. However blissful it is being a soul without a body in the realm of the dead, so too is being a body without a soul among the living; what a pity nobody realizes this before dying.” However, the amount of historical detail in Pamuk’s novel is also astounding. He incorporates backstories of Ottoman battles, tales taken from eleventh century Persian epic poems, strictures of the Koran, and real legends of the master miniaturist, Bihzad’s life. “We owe Bihzad and the splendor of Persian painting to the meeting of an Arabic illustrating sensibility and Mongol-Chinese painting.” What propels the action of this intricate tale is the detailed descriptions of Ottoman life under the sultan’s rule. The sights, smells, and sounds of Istanbul make it bustle and pulse with vigor. “A city’s intellect ought not to be measured by its scholars, libraries, miniaturists, calligraphers and schools, but by the number of crimes insidiously committed on its dark streets over thousands of years. By this logic, doubtless, Istanbul is the world’s most intelligent city.”

A major theme of this novel is artistic integrity. Miniaturist painting in the Islamic style sought the suppression of individual technique and flourish. “Where there is true art and genuine virtuosity the artist can paint an incomparable masterpiece without leaving even a trace of his identity.” Works were often painted collectively and went unsigned. As masters passed on their methods to apprentices their prowess was extended from one generation to the next. “I now understand that by furtively and gradually re-creating the same pictures for hundreds and hundreds of years, thousands of artists had cunningly depicted the gradual transformation of their world into another.” An artist would give his life, through his eyes, to the perfection of detail. It was an honor to go blind in the mastery of the form. In fact, legends spoke of master miniaturists, who from memory, could paint majestic scenes years after sight had been taken away from them. “Blindness wasn’t a scourge, but rather the crowning reward bestowed by Allah upon the illuminator who had devoted an entire life to His glories; for illustrating was the miniaturist’s search for Allah’s vision of the earthly realm, and this unique perspective could only be attained through recollection after blindness descended.” Artistic skill, memory, and tradition were blended in the gifts of these miniaturist geniuses. “But hadn’t all the legendary illustrations by the old masters of Herat been drawn with fine lines that ran between death and beauty?” Blindness was an affliction in the creation of art and blindness was a gift to those who spent a life creating art. “To paint is to remember.”

Furthermore, these Muslim miniaturists were living in a time of turbulent mixing of East and West. Trade with Europe was brisk and, particularly, “Frankish portraiture” was becoming in vogue in the Ottoman court. “The Venetian masters had discovered painting techniques with which they could distinguish one man from another—without relying on his outfit or medals, just by the distinctive shape of his face.” However, strict Islamic preachers still viewed all depictions of figures and images as blasphemy. “I saw the lion, representing Islam, chase away a gray-and-pink pig, symbolizing the cunning Christian infidel.” This tension was battled out on each illustrated page. As Pamuk weaves his tale, master miniaturists, a coffeehouse storyteller, a Jewish matchmaker, a dog, a desperate widow, a tree, a child, and death, himself, all take turns narrating chapters of the story. In the end, as much as this novel is a mysterious love story, it is also a contemplation on the nature of time, artistic traditions, and the mastery of one’s craft. “Beauty is the eye discovering what the mind already knows.”