Potrei riassumere questo romanzo così... Galip, protagonista principale, decide di diventare scrittore. Questo cambiamento di carriera porta a molte conseguenze in la sua vita.

Inoltre, c'è una pista importante nel romanzo: se cambiate il nome, troverete la chiave di lettura de "il libro nero". Questo sembra suggerire che c'è qualcosa di nascosto dietro i nomi, qualcosa che potrebbe rivelare il vero significato del romanzo.

Poi, c'è la scomparsa di Ruya. La sua scomparsa lascia molti interrogativi e vi ricorda qualcosa o qualcuno? Forse c'è una connessione tra la scomparsa di Ruya e la chiave di lettura del "libro nero".

Infine, c'è Istanbul metafisica. La città di Istanbul sembra essere un personaggio importante nel romanzo, con le sue strade, i suoi edifici e la sua storia. Forse Istanbul è la chiave per capire il romanzo intero.

A very unusual book indeed!

It is not plot driven at all, and only minimally character driven. Perhaps it could be said to be driven by setting and mood, if that's even possible.

A case could be made that Istanbul itself is the main character, which would be in line with the later works of Pamuk.

For me, the best way to read this book was to simply sink in and allow the narrator/storytellers to take me on their journey into Ottoman and Turkish culture. We traversed Istanbul together, both by day and by night.

A modest knowledge of the history of the Ottoman Empire and modern Turkey, especially the founding of the modern Turkish state, would be extremely helpful to the reader. It would enhance their understanding and appreciation of the rich tapestry of culture and history that is woven throughout the pages of this unique book.

This book failed to communicate with me; it simply passed over me. Perhaps it's due to excessive familiarity; one needs to be non-Turkish to perceive it as profound and mysterious. However, I struggle to comprehend how one can envision anything with the meager descriptions within the book. I mean, I actually know the places it mentions; and it was even difficult for me. The same holds true for the characters; I literally know at least one person similar to each character, yet all of them were forgettable and two-dimensional.

Moreover, the entire tone of the book is whiny while attempting to be existential. It aims to describe a certain emptiness or bleakness in the lives of low-middle class Turks; but for me, it only reveals the writer's inability to see the richness of the subject matter.

Maybe the only aspect I enjoyed in the book is its portrayal of the psychotic relationship between journal columnists and their audience in Turkey. After reading this book, one can understand why so many columnists in Turkey are currently being arrested. Somehow, strangely, they hold significant influence.

I was glad that Pamuk won the Nobel Prize; but for me, the true treasures of Turkish literature are Oguz Atay and Ahmet Hamdi Tanpinar. If they are available in your language, give them a try.

**CRITIQUE: An Album, a Gallery, a Museum, an Encyclopaedia, or the Book of Life?**

Orhan Pamuk's novel delves deep into the neighbourhood and community where Galip, one of the protagonists, resides. Galip's grandfather constructed the multi-storey City-of-Hearts Apartments. Initially, it was occupied by the extended family, but later, it was "colonised by small clothing manufacturers, insurance offices, and gynaecologists who did abortions on the sly." The family had their shopping at Alaadin's shop in Nisantasi and owned two concerns: the White Pharmacy in Karakoy and a candy shop in Sirkeci that evolved into a patisserie and then a restaurant.

Pamuk vividly描绘了这个集体社区，它代表了伊斯坦布尔（以及现代土耳其）本身。小说中的每个物体和地点都在虚构的相册、画廊或博物馆中占据一席之地。它们的描述就像百科全书中的条目一样被组合在一起，因此，尽管小说并非特别宏大或极致，但却具有百科全书式的特点。例如，“世界是一本全新的百科全书，等待从头读到尾……”，“他看得越多，就越意识到他曾经梦想的‘我们的城市’的一切实际上都是真实的；仅这一事实就告诉他，世界是一本书。被生活之书所吸引，他花了更长的时间在其街道上徘徊，为每一页翻过所发现的新面孔、新标志和新故事而欣喜……”

**Lists of Phenomenal Observations**

In a sense, an encyclopaedia is a list of observations about phenomena or things arranged alphabetically. Each entry is a synopsis or sketch of the essence or being of the phenomenon or thing. "The Black Book" is such an encyclopaedia regarding the city and inhabitants of Istanbul, as experienced by the two narrators, albeit not in alphabetical order. Some of the notable lists in the novel include:
- **The Apartment**: "For a long time he listened to the apartment's long-forgotten inner workings: the rattling of the radiators, the silence of the walls, the crackling of the parquet floor, the hissing faucets and waterpipes, the ticking of an unknown clock, and a strange moan wafting in from the air shaft."
- **Alaadin's Shop**: "In the distance was Alaadin's shop amid the toys, magazines, balls, yo-yos, coloured bottles, and tanks glimmered a light that was just the same shade as Rüya's complexion, and he could just see it reflected on the white pavement outside."
- **The Street Vendor**: "At his feet, spread out on a large cloth on an empty stretch of pavement, was a selection of objects that soon had Galip transfixed: two elbow-shaped pipes, assorted records, a pair of black shoes, a broken pair of pliers, a lamp base, a black phone, two bedsprings, a mother-of-pearl cigarette holder, a broken wall clock, a stack of White Russian banknotes, a brass faucet, a figurine of a Roman huntress - the goddess Diana? - an empty picture frame, an old radio, a pair of doorknobs, a sugar bowl."

These lists capture the diverse life in Istanbul.

**Self and Other**

Pamuk's observations shed light on Turkish culture and identity. However, many aspects of the novel specifically focus on the Turkish self, especially as it models itself on foreign or Western cultural influences. Similar to Buenos Aires in Manuel Puig's "Betrayed by Rita Hayworth", Turkish society was increasingly influenced by Western culture, particularly values and mannerisms from the Hollywood film industry, Cadillacs, and detective fiction during and after "the great westernising wave". Turks who consumed these cultural products would assume new identities, becoming empty mannequins. Galip's wife, Rüya, an obsessive fan of American detective novels, has lost her Turkish identity, abandoned Galip, and left only a nineteen-word farewell letter. Galip, parted from Rüya, searches for her and his lost identity on the streets and in the apartments of Istanbul.

**"That's Cinnamon, That's Hollywood"**

The loss of identity is facilitated by the belief that our "real" identity is incomplete and needs to be supplemented by something or someone else. We tend to imitate and become someone else, rather than enhancing our self-consciousness or self-awareness. In modern times, this other person is often Western European or American. The West wanted to paint the red door of Turkey black, turning the East into the slave of the West. Turkey had to enter the garden of its memory and restore its identity. In contrast, authenticity means being true to oneself and refusing to become someone else. As the novel states, "I must be myself." and "Once upon a time, there lived in our city a Prince who discovered that the most important question in life was whether to be, or not to be, oneself."

A lawyer named Galip discovers a note from his wife, Ruya, saying she is leaving him. He hides this from his family and starts searching for her. Meanwhile, he finds that his uncle, Celal, a newspaper columnist, has also disappeared. Naturally, he assumes they have run off together and tries to figure out the reason by looking into their shared lives. He gradually starts reading Celal's old columns for clues and begins to accumulate details of Celal's life.

At first, I was engaged, but towards the middle, my interest waned. The problem is there's no real story, just a vague exploration of identity. While this can be interesting, the writing style and format made it too broad for my taste. The book alternates between a chapter about Galip's investigation and a chapter of one of Celal's columns. While I was interested in Galip's story, the columns added little and felt like distractions. As the book progresses, there are numerous references to Turkish history and literature, which, though interesting, seem a bit obscure and unfamiliar in a murder mystery (even if it's not really one).

Unsurprisingly, the book explores the concept of self and identity. Towards the end, Galip is writing the columns and there's a sense that he and Celal might be the same person. The two men merge, blurring the lines of identity. The ending is rather blunt and opens up new, more sinister interpretations about the reliability of the narration.

Overall, the book is very good but too long and dense. So much could have been cut. It didn't grab me like Snow did, perhaps because it didn't have a conventional narrative. Pamuk is a great writer, but this one felt a bit loose and vague. The big ideas he presents don't quite come across as profound or entertaining. I wasn't really moved or gripped. Still, it's definitely worth a read.

At the beginning of writing, I found myself in a state of hopelessness, thinking that everything that could be said or written about this book had already been said and written. The shield of this thought was on page 140, and "careful readers" had long escaped from this hopelessness by realizing this:

"After any period of time following the display of 9:35 by one of the clocks, it is also absurd to conclude that the second clock is imitating the first when it shows 9:35."

Those of us who are not careful readers and lack the ability to add meaning to it can continue to live after being tortured by this for a while. In the life that Hasan Ali Toptaş calls "the repetition of repetitions," a transformative source, the Black Book is like a tree in a garden where the gates of suspicion can only be pushed, where fruits that have no connection with each other grow on all branches, and when one is picked, the next one is given.

While we are looking for our dreams in the lands where Attar raised Mevlana "Celal"eddin Rumi and Mevlana's Şeyh Galip, the Black Book writes our identities that stick to us like an eye on our shoulders. Essentially, the sentences constructed as if the book had come into being on its own are not coincidences; sometimes it is as if an author did not exist and the book came into being on its own, branched out, and budded like a living being.

There is a labyrinth-like entrance gate to Orhan Pamuk's book on the illustrations of the book. Although a sense of a familiar world is awakened when entering it, on the other hand, there is a feeling that erases the localness of a strange city with those who have "a strangeness in their heads" and a throat from which the water has been drawn. It is a novel for "those who always think of the good answer at home after the event", and it contains a sad Galip who, in Pamuk's words, "carries his loneliness like a disease". As if the author, too, while carrying all this sadness, has poured all his troubles and sadness into Galip through a pen and paper.

"A person who can take a pen and paper in his hand and pour something out, and can also read what he has poured out to others, whether good or bad, is considered to have escaped from this disease to some extent. That's why, perhaps, I have never come across a writer who can talk about this most important human condition with its rights."

The book, which consists of two parts, is more of a dark dream than a description of a person with two reflections. With the addition of other personalities divided by Celal's marginal notes, it will turn into a game of being:

"The black book that the painter hands to a blind jester with a sweet joke turns into a book that is divided into two in the mirror, has two meanings, and has two stories. When it is turned to the first wall, it is understood that the book is a single book from beginning to end, and its mystery is also lost inside."

While my thoughts about this black book, which I am afraid to reveal its mystery with any extra word, have entered an unending queue in my head, with the sentences that I will keep to myself without doing any injustice to any letter, I will live as if I am still inside the book for a while longer. Perhaps one day I will read such a novel again; perhaps it will make me feel that I am reading a novel in some places like an epic drama, perhaps it will give marginal notes between the sections, perhaps it will scatter from history to science, from science to literature in many places, perhaps with a writing like the marginal note named "Kiss," it will make me say to the author, "You are a complete p.çs!" at an unexpected moment, perhaps it will make me ask the questions "What is this?" "Will my heart be at ease if I don't look this time?" every five minutes, perhaps it will make me make a plan to wander around Istanbul in a confused way, perhaps it will make me wait for the arrival of a dark winter and the snow to fall, perhaps perhaps perhaps I will read such a novel again.

Bitti, bitti, bitti, bitti, bitti, bitti...

In fact, I never wanted it to end. Truly.

When I started reading Pamuk last month, I didn't actually think I would want to read every book of his. But this month (and even more so as the first book of the month), I started "The Black Book" with a thousand and one desires. I sat down in front of it without any review or criticism. However, when the book was only on its 50th page, a tweet that landed on my home page on Twitter, which had no need and was out of place, caused me to form a prejudice about the book without my intention. All of this happened in three seconds. I only saw two sentences from Tahsin Yücel's article about the criticism of this book. What some people say is inevitably taken seriously. I was very afraid that I wouldn't be able to finish it and that I would make criticisms like Yücel until the end. Therefore, the first words I wrote consisted of "bitti". Anyway, I have thus seen that I didn't take the people I "took seriously" as seriously as I thought. But still, I can't shake my head with peace of mind and say that the book deserved five stars until the end. Some pages were so five-star worthy that it can be said that I gave it because of the abundance of these pages. But Galip was also a character that I sometimes wanted to give up on. For some reason, I couldn't get myself out of this thought. I'm sorry (from such words that were said). Celal was the character I was most curious about in the book. I said that I wished we could read his story from his eyes (even though the book seemed like Galip's story, we read Celal's story from beginning to end). Maybe if I was that close to him, I might have been curious about Galip too, I don't know. But Rüya... I never wondered what or why she did something. Did the author want this, or did I just happen to be in a game that was going on in the back rooms of my mind?

When I read the "story of the writing of the novel" that the author attached to the end of the book in 2013, I brought to life in my mind the period when he wrote the novel, his crisis, the tables he mentioned, the landscapes... I think that this section made the book even more realistic than the movie that was going on in my mind. It may be ordinary for many people, but being able to know such things makes me strangely happy.

Finally, I'm quite sure that "the secrets of The Black Book" will never be read by me as I am now, that I want it to remain as I understood it, and that perhaps the things he saw on top of the iceberg will already -as I live- increase. With unnecessary self-confidence, I'm running away from here for now.

All of Orhan Pamuk's novels are actually parentheses opened in "The Black Book".

Although there is always a possibility that you may love any one of them more than the whole of "The Black Book" from within those wide parentheses, if you are going to read only one Orhan Pamuk novel, then of course it must be "The Black Book".

"The Black Book" holds a special place in Pamuk's literary oeuvre. It is a complex and multi-layered work that weaves together elements of mystery, identity, and the search for meaning.

The novel takes the reader on a journey through the streets of Istanbul, exploring the city's rich history and culture.

With its vivid descriptions and engaging narrative, "The Black Book" invites readers to lose themselves in its pages and discover the hidden depths of Pamuk's fictional world.

His wife has left him, and he now wanders the streets of his vast and elusive city.

He is desperate to solve the mystery of her departure, hoping to find answers in the urban landscape and the faces of strangers.

From the start, he suspects that解开这个谜团并不会给他带来任何解脱。然而，这或许能让他更接近了解自己是谁。

This novel is like the city it is dedicated to. It cannot be easily confined to a specific category.

It is a love story, or perhaps more accurately, the story of longing for love.

It is a search, but it is not straightforward to determine what for.

Comprised of a myriad of illusively connected tales, it is clearly inspired by 1001 Nights and the rich tradition of Eastern storytelling.

Here, the overall plot thread is not as crucial as the atmosphere that keeps these stories alive.

On the other hand, it treats the city as a metaphor for human thoughts, meandering and complex.

This reminds one of Modiano Patrick, as Pamuk does for Istanbul what Modiano did for Paris.

Those who love the city will not regret immersing themselves in its streets through this book.

The novel is preoccupied with the question of how to preserve one's self.

How to坚守自我in the face of external influences and internal changes?

Is it even possible? And is it a good thing?

This is not just a question about an individual but also about a city as it grapples with constant change.

It is a question of a nation (albeit a term the author dislikes).

Is the only way to be oneself to shut oneself in an empty palace and burn all the books to avoid being influenced by foreign thoughts?

Or does one need to completely merge with another personality and replace one's own selfhood?

And where are those famous boundaries?

The shadow of the 12th-century Sufi poet Farid ud-Din Attar looms large in the background.

Famously, he wrote a story about 30 birds in search of the magic Simorgh, the god and king who would solve all their problems.

After a long quest, they reach the mountain Qaf, only to discover that they themselves are the Simorgh.

The symbolism of this poem, with reflections as shadows and mirrors revealing something deeper than appearances, spills into the novel.

Pamuk has managed to bridge the Western and Eastern storytelling traditions.

Moreover, he challenges the existence of this artificial separation.

Rumi, Hurufism, Dostoyevsky, and Proust share the pages in these stories.

The writing is unique, detached yet moving and highly lyrical, almost a poetry in prose at times.

There is an anxiety in the novel about something irreversibly disappearing, melting away.

The author believes we all feel this at times.

It is often replaced by something new, but it doesn't feel the same.

"It seems that to see how the world has changed, it is sufficient to understand that you yourself have become a different person."

Istanbul is one of the places on this globe where the author feels this transience more acutely.

This novel is steeped in memories and nostalgia for something that has not yet happened but is in the process.

It is sad to learn that some museums that were once churches centuries ago are again being converted into mosques, starting another cycle of time.

Nevertheless, the author thinks they know how these places have survived for so many centuries.

They keep changing, but stubbornly preserve something that other cities have long lost.

The Black Book is one of the few books that can change the world.

Through this mysterious journey, Orhan Pamuk teaches us the way to know ourselves (of course, it is enough to read it three times, just like the three stories of "The Story of the Prince" by Caliph).

This book takes the reader on a captivating adventure, filled with hidden meanings and profound insights. Pamuk's writing style is both elegant and thought-provoking, drawing the reader in and making them question their own identity and perception of the world.

As we follow the protagonist's quest, we are led through a maze of emotions and experiences, ultimately arriving at a place of self-discovery and enlightenment. The Black Book is not just a book, but a journey of the soul that has the power to transform the way we see ourselves and the world around us.

This book had the potential to be so much better. It started off with a very promising beginning, but unfortunately, it really lost its momentum as it went along.

The blame for this most likely lies with both Pamuk and Freely, the translator. In the Afterword (which really should have been the Foreword, as most Forewords give away the entire plot and should be Afterwords instead), Freely describes the translation process, making it seem as if Turkish is extremely difficult to translate into English. She also mentions how beautiful Pamuk's prose is, but that beauty simply doesn't come through in the translation. Instead, his writing appears overly wordy and his ideas seem pseudo-significant. One can't help but wonder how much more enjoyable the novel would have been if the translation had been of a higher quality. (Unfortunately, this is supposed to be a new translation that is "improving" on a translation from the 1990s!)

You get the impression that Pamuk is a graphomaniac, more interested in the act of writing itself than in writing about anything meaningful. This is a common affliction among contemporary writers - all brains and no heart. It doesn't help that the genre is "deconstructionist detective fiction" from the 1980s. It's not as bad as "City of Ass" by Mr. I'm P. Auster, but the ending is almost equally unsatisfying. It's completely ironic that a novel about the life-affirming nature of storytelling can lack all the elements that make a story worth reading. For example, I never felt any connection to any of the characters. They never seemed like real human beings; their motivations and reactions felt false, like the creations of a writer who is more concerned with having his characters talk about writing and the theme of "identity" than with creating believable, engaging characters. It's almost doubly offensive because Pamuk puts the characters in highly emotional situations, forcing the reader to feel things unnaturally rather than allowing the characters we care about to go through these dramatic situations and organically evoke emotions within us.

I think I would have been more lenient with the book if it hadn't been so long. The middle is so dull and repetitive that I probably wouldn't have finished the novel if I hadn't been stuck in a room with nothing else to do but read the one book I had brought with me. I seriously believe you could skip the first three-quarters of part two and not lose anything of value. (Well, the chapter entitled "The Executioner and the Weeping Face" is worth reading.) I also think that Maureen Freely could have halved every one of Pamuk's sentences. The sentences just bombard you with useless detail. I don't think I've ever read so much pointless detail. Pynchon, for instance, might throw a lot of strange details at you, but they're not useless - they're humorous. Pamuk, or at least Pamuk in English, has no sense of humor at all.

However, it's not as if the book is completely without merit. As I mentioned earlier, I really liked the beginning of the book. It had a great setup and you truly thought he was going to take you on a special journey (the car running out of gas). The concept of chapters alternating between the plot that the characters are living and the columns that the characters within the plot are reading was novel and refreshing. The stories within these columns were some of the best parts of the book. And if you've been to Istanbul, it's interesting to see all the different parts of the city mentioned in various places. But unfortunately, this wasn't enough to save the book.

In conclusion, this book is not the reason he won the Nobel Prize. Or at least, I hope not!

Kara Kitap might have somewhat confused my mind. Now I can understand why it is placed in a different position from other books. Whether it is successful or not is debatable, but Orhan Pamuk is always a writer who loves to try new things. In this regard, every text he writes contains unique features within itself. For example, the way Kafamda Bir Tuhaflık is written like a reportage book and focuses on the varoş neighborhoods of the city, the way Veba Geceleri is written like a history book, and the politicization of the text with Kar, etc. It is obvious that Orhan Pamuk is a writer who really tries different things. However, Kara Kitap holds a different place within this differentiation. Maybe this is because this book is the place where he can best display this effort.

Firstly, as Orhan Pamuk's basic story is described in the statement made by the Nobel Committee when awarding the Nobel Prize: "while following the traces of the melancholic spirit of the city, finding new symbols for the clash and interweaving of cultures...", we can say that he is someone like this. Especially if you are someone who loves Istanbul despite everything like me, Orhan Pamuk's novels will have a special value for you.

In this novel too, we take an Istanbul tour with Galip. Our central point is Pamuk Apartment, just like in Masumiyet Müzesi and Cevdet Bey ve Oğulları, but we are not limited to that. We go through the city literally from top to bottom. The character of Galip is one of the best examples of how you can love Istanbul because Istanbul is an endless journey and exploration. It is a place where when you set out to find something, it never leaves you empty-handed. Istanbul is full of good or bad surprises. Galip, while looking for his wife and Rüya and his brother-in-law, the corner writer Celal Salik, is actually like an Indiana Jones looking for the treasures of Istanbul. Sometimes, with Celal Salik's corner writings, we also go back to the past of the city, which presents us with the atmosphere of a fantastic land. Even starting from the name of the character being searched, you can think that you are in an interesting dream throughout the book. From the conscientious executioners among the Chakma Yeşilçam actresses, from the sultans walking around in their disguised clothes to the foreign tourists, a thousand and one kinds of people accompany you in this novel, and such richness seems possible only in a dream. Therefore, you may not be completely sure how you feel while reading. After reading, you may need to put the book aside and think about it, and digest the book for a certain period of time because, as the last sentence of the book also says: "Nothing can be as surprising as life, except writing."