Instanbul in a time of turmoil, with its golden boy and youth, a city divided and its people, and other topics that this third part, which forms the backbone of the text, delves into.

The words and sentences seem to distance me from myself during my previous reading of my novels "My Name is Red" and "Snow" (I hope my mood at that time was the reason). Here, I indulged in memories.

Here, I found myself in a great city (with a face to face with the attached images that represent it), which began to lose its luster after the fall of the Ottomans. A city that is heading on a spaceship towards the West, leaving its buildings to the beauty of their own ruins and its own way of life to a time that is often not in line with the past or for people who live an internal contradiction between the West and the past, which began in the disappearance of its symbols: the Sufi robes, the Ottoman clothing, the choice of Arabic letters replaced by what attracts the eyes of the Turks towards the modern European model.

Here, I found myself describing the childhood and youth of Pamuk in the shadow of a wealthy family that will follow the same path of extravagance towards oblivion, an aristocratic family with its constant quarrels between the parents, its financial battles with other members of the family... Orhan Pamuk, who was abandoned by his strange world and by Istanbul, but he tried to blend it with drawing, reading, and writing, and with his contemplations of the black and white of Istanbul.

Here, he produced the book "Istanbul, Memories and the City", its journalism, the Western books that visited it (Neruda, Goytisolo, Flaubert, etc.), and expressed the views of all of them... especially the Westerners who searched between their words for open or secret admiration for the city, and if they did not find it, they would be wounded by the Westerner who wants to be the Turk that the Westerners distance from their culture.

Here, I remembered my relationship with Pamuk. I will read "The White Castle" soon, and I will try to re-read "My Name is Red" and "Snow" again, perhaps.

The Sufi poets frequently draw comparisons between their love for God and the love shared by legendary lovers such as Laila-Majnu and Heer-Ranjha. This love, which is nothing but a painful longing (as all those love stories involve star-crossed lovers) for something worthy of self-annihilation, is known as 'Huzun'. Despite its melancholic nature, they still choose to have it, believing that having an unrequited love is better than having none at all.

Writers, the ones I hold dear, often possess little of such love for God. Some of them seem to be aimlessly in search of such subjects. Others appear to attach it to specific places and times. Outstanding examples in this regard include One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera by Marquez (both yearning for an older Latin America), Midnight's Children (set in India) and Shalimar the Clown (about Kashmir) by Salman Rushdie, and Watermark (centered on Venice) by Joseph Brodsky.

Pamuk's Istanbul has now been added to this list. As he looks back longingly at his childhood memories, he discovers a parallel in Istanbul's longing for its bygone eras. A city that takes pride in its ruins yet is desperate for modernization, Istanbul embodies the paradoxical life of many other cities in the East.

Besides being a memoir, this book also serves as a highly experimental travel guide. It doesn't merely describe the grand monuments but rather描绘 what it means to live in the city - the beautiful views it sometimes presents and the forgotten streets.

**"The Melancholic Soul of Istanbul in Orhan Pamuk's Works"**

Orhan Pamuk's works are like a flowing river of memories. We can't stop them, but we can change their course. If you've read more than one of his books, you probably remember that except for "Snow" and "The White Castle," the rest are set in Istanbul and its backstreets. In Pamuk's novels, the city and its detailed nuances play a crucial role in the development of the story. Especially in "The Black Book" and "Strange Happenings in My Head," the city is not just the setting of the story but also a part of the main characters.

The Nobel Prize in Literature 2006 was awarded to Orhan Pamuk "who in the quest for the melancholic soul of his native city has discovered new symbols for the clash and interlacing of cultures"

Pamuk is a writer in search of the melancholic soul of his hometown. The charm of this book lies in the fact that it is not just a memoir or a history of Istanbul. It is a strange and unusual combination of the two. Memories are used to describe the city, or vice versa, the characteristics of the city remind of personal memories and lead to a deeper exploration of Istanbul's history full of ups and downs. On the other hand, as Pamuk also mentions in the book, each of the selected topics from the city will be the backbone of the next memory narrative, and these topics are selected with such precision and wisdom that they attract the most attention and agreement from the reader.

But what are the reasons for this attention to Istanbul? Besides the fact that the author was born and raised in Istanbul, there are many reasons that make Istanbul different from other cities. Constantinople was the last glorious imperial capital of the Byzantine Empire, which was conquered by Sultan Mehmed the Conqueror. A sultan whose dynasty and city are among the most glorious in history. After the Muslims settled in the city, which was formerly Christian and European, the conflict between the East and the West or Europe and Asia has not ceased until today. A people who have forgotten their identity in this crossroads and live in a kind of exile.

For centuries, being the capital of influential governments has made the city full of scenic and historical places. On the other hand, its proximity to the sea and the passage of ships have also added to the city's charm. Most of the revolutionary, cultural, and social changes started from Istanbul and spread throughout the Ottoman Empire and Turkey. In fact, it is better to say that Pamuk, by traveling through the history of the city, is looking for his lost identity.

The book is divided into three parts in the context of memories: childhood, adolescence, and youth. The childhood and adolescence parts take up a much larger volume than the youth part. When we look at the lives of adults from a distance, the more we focus, the more we see them as extraordinary and completely unique. Although their uniqueness is undeniable, the hidden truth is that they grew up and thrived among us and in interaction with this society. By accepting that the differences make them different from us, but we also have many similarities. These similarities are what make us enjoy their works more and more.

In my opinion, the most important feature of this book is the sincerity and transparency of Pamuk's narratives. We see that he is also a member of a family that was once glorious, a family that lived in one building and their lives were interconnected, but now they have been scattered and each is in a different place. The intermittent and sometimes permanent separation of the father and mother from each other and finally their divorce. The temporary life with first-degree relatives away from the father, mother, and brother. The loss of the family's capital in the hands of the father. The hatred of school and the repetitive excuses to escape from its oppressive space. Having an older, stronger, and more successful brother in studies. The interest in art and painting, which was the target of ridicule and the pressure of parents and those around him. Being born in a seemingly Muslim country and the constant tugging of a fictional title. The psychological pressures that led to depression. The endless steps to find the answers to fundamental questions. The first love and the predictable failure and the fundamental change after it. The obsession with reading novels to escape from the present time and...

In the last part, we see Pamuk as an architecture student who finds a few lines in the middle of the class. Days full of confusion with a mother who is following her husband's betrayal, her eldest son has immigrated to the United States, and now she has no one close to her except her younger son. The mother, who sees no way in painting, blindly follows her son's footsteps to take control of him. The small and big humiliations, the words of friends and acquaintances that are a hundredth of a gas, and even the loss of the first love and the disappointment of the son's hope in painting. Orhan, as usual, with the answer "I don't want to be a painter. I want to be a writer," goes out of the house to revive the lost peace by walking.

For me, as a serious reader of Pamuk's works, the assumption that a writer has such a high regard for art and especially painting is amazing. An amazing ability that the source of his inspiration became the burning of his unnamed name. After reading "My Name is Red," although I knew about Pamuk's interest in painting, it was always a question for me how with this talent and information in painting, he entered the field of writing - which is of course令人高兴 - and here I found the answer to my question. What else but the failure of love can destroy a passion for years?

And the interesting story of his mother in choosing the name Orhan. Parents are always looking for prominent and influential figures in history to name their children inspired by their names. Pamuk's mother is the opposite of this trend. The second Ottoman Sultan Orhan I was one of the most moderate and borderless Ottoman sultans. He was not after extensive and revolutionary changes and spectacular movements, and in general, his reign was peaceful. Pamuk's mother chose the name Orhan because among the Ottoman sultans, only Orhan did not pursue grand plans and did not intend to promote his name.

Pamuk has always been in my heart. He was and will be. I don't think anyone can even threaten his place in my mind, at least not now. With each new book I read from him, I am amazed as if I have just discovered him. Almost after reading most of his works (two novels and one collection of essays left), "The Innocence of Memories" was a constant companion for me. I did my best to finish this relatively short book as long as possible, and I sipped it drop by drop for more than a month, and its sweetness has not yet left my memory.

If you are not a serious reader of Pamuk's works, which mostly belong to this category, I do not recommend reading this book to you. Because like his other works, it has nothing but melancholy for you.

Finally, a complaint about the publisher Niloufar. It's not bad to take a look at the result of the work at least at the level of Turkey after printing. Almost every two pages have a printed picture, more than ninety percent of which are completely incomprehensible. Either completely black or so blurry that it is not clear at all. With this method, what is the necessity of printing? At least a few pages can be deducted.

Twenty-seven Ordibehesht zero

"The beauty of the panorama lies in its sadness."

Words like these pronounced by Ahrmet Rasim at the beginning of the book perfectly synthesize the essence of this work.

"Istanbul" is not a novel, but a diary of memories, of recollections in which Pamuk shows us, describes to us his Istanbul. An Istanbul where sadness and the melancholy of certain places and of its writer prevail. The Istanbul described by Pamuk takes on the contours of a land anchored to the past, to its minarets and to its history, as demonstrated by the black and white photos that are present in the book.

Pamuk describes his Istanbul based on his memories, from the family to the quarrels with his brother, up to his desire to live only by painting.

An atypical Istanbul, different from the usual one, takes on the chiaroscuro colors of a city that, I hope one day, I will be able to visit.

Something amazing, by Allah.. He did a great job. I will try to write more about it in detail soon.

This wonderful thing that has occurred is truly remarkable. It's as if a great force has been at work, achieving something extraordinary. I am filled with a sense of awe and admiration.

I can't wait to explore this further and share more of its details with you. There is so much to discover and understand about this amazing feat. Stay tuned as I embark on this journey of writing and uncovering the full story.

The book is enjoyable, and I think the readers will like his new way of talking about his memories, his city, and his people to the fullest. This is a memoir of the first kind.

I like its delicacy, its humor, its sarcasm, its melancholy, and its depiction of the villains.

The beauty in it is that you feel his sincerity when he talks about his city... far from that costly romance or the national showiness that makes writers usually describe their cities... especially those cities that had a history that gave birth to them but became backward cities in the present era... and when he also mentions that it is the foreignness that makes the local writers look at their ruins and their desolate landscapes with that "strange" look as if they were foreign travelers, and this love for these old and derelict places in the city only appeared as a tradition following the foreigners' love for them, after they had been symbols of backwardness and poverty in a previous stage.

The memories cover from his childhood to his early youth in the university when he was studying architecture, then he decided to leave the university, and the book ends with a sentence he says to his mother: "I will not be a painter, I will be a writer." Page 388.

Finally, I read it in the translation of Abdel Qader Abdelali and published by Dar al-Mada, and the translation of Abdel Qader is beautiful.

In my first reading of the works of the Turkish novelist Orhan Pamuk, the Nobel laureate in literature, he tells about his childhood and youth years in Istanbul.

He also relates the history of the city and its transformations from the Roman Empire to Islamic rule, then its prosperity during the Ottoman Caliphate, its gradual decline in the early twentieth century, and its revival in our present time.

What I liked most in the novel were the detailed descriptions of the author's feelings and their connection to his social, cultural, and geographical environment as well. I learned a lot about the character of the Turkish citizen who lives with the pride of Ottoman history and the eagerness to integrate with the West and modernity.

This reading experience has been truly enriching, allowing me to gain a deeper understanding of Turkey's past and present through the eyes of a talented writer.

A book that has such a profound impact on me that it makes me eager to visit Istanbul, simply to stroll around and behold the sights that Pamuk so exquisitely describes and develops within its pages. Reading his prose is truly an encounter with "painterly" writing. As you peruse the words, you cannot help but form a vivid image in your mind's eye of the surroundings and atmosphere that he has so skillfully conjured. It is not just a visual experience, but also a poignant portrait of a sensitive young boy coming of age in a place and time where the boundaries between different worlds are fluid and unpredictable. Not only do the Western and Eastern worlds collide and conflict, but also the realm of family secrets and the facade of respectability.

This work served as my initial introduction to the author's writing, and as a consequence, he has effortlessly leaped onto my list of favorite authors. I am now eagerly anticipating delving into his other books, especially his fictional works. I have a hunch that they will offer me even more profound insights and captivating narratives, further enriching my literary journey.

This is the second book by Pamuk that I have read.

I would like to point out that it seems that this book should be read either before or after The Museum of Innocence. This is because as I was reading, I found myself constantly making notes of where the novel and this memoir collide.

I've never been to Istanbul, but after reading this book, I now have a strong desire to go. What Pamuk does so well is not only describe his family but also a city that exists in a conflict between East and West. While this is not something that my own western city experiences, it is somewhat similar to the feeling that Philadelphia has of being sandwiched between N.Y. and D.C. (Though in this day and age, it's almost a good thing that everyone forgets about us).

The book is part biography and part meditation on culture. Its theme of lost youth and innocence carries through to The Museum of Innocence. There are several places in the novel where you will find yourself laughing out loud, such as when Pamuk apologizes to everyone he imagined killing or dying. There are also some extremely moving passages, not just in his descriptions of his family or the feeling of Istanbul, but also his place in society.

However, I do wish that more information about the pictures was given and that they had captions. It would have enhanced my understanding and appreciation of the book even further.

Sometimes I look into an ordinary small house and suddenly see a family on the same floor under the orange light, like the light of our own house, having dinner and chatting. And while watching, I think they are happy. The scenes of happy families behind the windows and, to the same extent, the internal sections of the houses are images that tell us something about our city. However, foreign travelers are forced to cover their eyes from seeing the inside of the houses and the real life of the people.

This contrast makes me realize the importance of looking beyond the surface. We often judge a place or a person based on what we see from the outside, but the real essence lies within. The lives of those families behind the windows may be filled with joys and sorrows, just like ours. We should try to understand and respect their real lives, rather than just seeing a beautiful facade.

Maybe if the foreign travelers could take off their blindfolds and truly experience the real life of the local people, they would have a more profound and meaningful understanding of our city and our culture.

Autobiography with a focus on the author's成长 (exactly until the day he decides to become a writer) combined with a look at this fascinating city... this should be a recipe for success - especially if it comes from the most famous Turkish writer, who has spent his whole life in the city he loves. "Perhaps we love the city we live in, just like our family, because we have no other choice! But we must find out what and why we love in it."

In the central part, Pamuk also delves into a review of how other Turkish and European writers saw Istanbul and in that way presents the east-west conflict that marks this city, and also Turkish culture in general in the 20th century. "Why am I interested in what Western travelers said about Istanbul? [...] Because travelers from the West told me much more about the former scenes in Istanbul and its everyday life than the writers from Istanbul who didn't notice their city at all."

And how did those others describe his city? "Still, I like how Brodsky said in that writing which also offended me for Istanbul: 'How much has everything here aged! It's not old, it's not decayed, ancient, it's not even dilapidated, it just stood for a long time!' He claimed and was right." And reading this, it is clear that Istanbul for most of the 20th century was completely different from the renovated Sultanahmet that we visit today. The city has grown from one million to 10 million inhabitants in just half a century, and today probably even up to 20. Before that - barracks after barracks, full of wooden villas and cottages that burned for decades in huge fires.

The chapter in which he tells about the collective grief of Istanbul is perhaps worth the whole book. This is not the melancholy or depression of an individual, this is hüzün, the grief that millions feel at the same time. "Oh, how they are abandoned, neglected, buried among the mass of concrete, not only the large and magnificent mosques and historical buildings, but even the small domes on the outskirts, fountains, shrines, painfully remind the millions of people who live among them that they are the remnants of a great empire. They remind that the power and wealth of the past have disappeared for the inhabitants of the city together with that culture and that today is so poor and humble that it cannot be compared with the past."

Millions of Turkish nationalists suffer (and Pamuk to some extent as well) because of the loss of the empire. And yet, this is a kind of proud grief, which "Istanbul does not bear as a suffering that must be overcome, but as something that it has chosen itself." It reminds of Tom Zdravković (or other songs of grief) when he says that "this feeling is a kind of fogged glass between the poet and life. The sad projection of life for the poet is more attractive than life itself. Grief is not offered as a result of emptiness and great losses in life, but, what is even more important, also as an essential reason."

Unfortunately, most of this book is not at this brilliant level. The memories of a fifty-year-old about the events that happened to him while he was growing up should sometimes be entertaining. Pamuk himself claims this at one point. However, from him, it will not be possible. This is my first encounter with Pamuk, but I would say that a writer with less sense of humor is rarely met. Humor is not necessary for top literature - we don't need to go further than Andrić to confirm this - but for something like this, it is.

Before I delved into Orhan Pamuk's Istanbul, several of my friends regaled me with tales of their wonderful experiences visiting the city. They spoke of its magnificent historical palaces and breathtaking mosques. I, too, was eager to explore the vibrant street markets and soak in the beauty of the seasides. I had devoured enough history about Byzantium and the Ottomans to fuel my intense interest in the ruins of bygone empires.

However, Pamuk's portrayal of Istanbul as a grim, dirty, and impoverished city left me bewildered. His descriptions of dirt-covered streets, crumbling mansions, and overwhelming pollution painted a rather unappealing picture. The mention of fires, hobos, and the homeless only added to the sense of despair. Antiquated buildings and transportation, old ferries, and the sight of old men in skull caps and chattering aunties all contributed to this image of a city stuck in the past. Civic corruption seemed to be rampant, and it made me wonder if my friends had visited the same place. It could easily have been Naples or Detroit.

It appears that the national passion in Istanbul is melancholy, a result of too much east and not enough west, or perhaps too much of the crappy west and not enough appreciation of the east.

So, is this a place I still want to visit? Maybe.

The book contains so much humor and self-loathing that it warrants a second look. It's as if Pamuk is playfully poking fun at himself.

Certainly, it is well worth reading about Turkish poets, novelists, and historians, as well as how French writers and artists viewed the city from the perspective of the 19th century. And Pamuk's account of his own development as a writer is also quite fascinating.

Pamuk and I, despite being of similar age, are very different types of people. He made a drastic attempt to shed his identity as a middle-class Istanbulu (a word I love) in order to blossom as a writer. Like him as a teenager, I too wandered the streets and took long walks that lasted for hours. But while for him it led to becoming a writer, for me it led to nothing. I was captivated by a turn-of-the-century novel called The Man Without Qualities, which made me realize that abandoning the preconceptions of who I was or who I ought to be gave me the freedom to discover so much more about life.

Without judgments. Without status. Without expectations.

I became a carpenter, an accountant, a forensic auditor, a retailer, a historian, an actor. I was anything and nothing. I stopped writing when I felt I had nothing meaningful to say. In that nothingness, I found freedom.

I wonder if becoming a writer has truly given Pamuk freedom. I also wonder if he has forgiven his father for being a lecher.