The dividing line between Being and Nothingness was sound. This was because everything that transitioned from the spiritual to the material world had its own unique sound. Even the 'quietest' objects produced a distinct sound when they were knocked together. Naturally, the most advanced sounds were words. Words were the magical building blocks of the exalted thing we referred to as speech, and they were composed of letters. Those who desired to understand the meaning of existence, the sanctity of life, and witness God's manifestations on earth simply had to read the letters hidden in the faces of men.

However, at the end of the day, there was little to be gained by reminding people that everything that had ever been written, even the greatest and most authoritative texts in the world, were about dreams, not real life. These were dreams conjured up by words.

For nothing could be as surprising as life. Except for writing. Yes, of course, except for that sole consolation, writing. It was writing that had the power to capture the essence of life, to bring dreams to life on the page, and to offer a form of escape and understanding in a world that could often seem chaotic and unpredictable.

Tek teselli yazı hariç…

Ne yazsam eksik kalır, etkisinden bir süre çıkmam pek mümkün değil. Her kelime, her düşünce gibi bir parçası vardır ve bu parçalar bir bütün oluşturuyor.

Son cümlesiyle, bir rüyadan uyanmış gibiyim. O rüya içinde, tüm dünyanın önümde açılmıştı. Her şey mümkün görünüyordu. Ancak, uyanınca, gerçeklik karşımıza çıktı.

Peki, bu yazıdan sonra ne olacak? Belki de bir süre daha etkisinde kalacağım. Belki de başka bir şey bulacağım, başka bir yol bulacağım. Ancak şu anda, sadece bu yazının içinde kalmak istiyorum.

Tek teselli yazı hariç…

I don't know what the other 9 are, but it is definitely one of the top 10 works of Turkish literature.

If the subject under discussion is truly literature -

This statement emphasizes the significance and high status of the work in question within the realm of Turkish literature.

Although the specific identities of the other 9 works remain unknown, the fact that this one is considered among the best 10 indicates its exceptional quality and importance.

When it comes to literature, it is a field that requires in-depth exploration and appreciation.

The works that stand out are those that have the power to touch the hearts and minds of readers, to convey profound emotions and ideas.

This particular work seems to have achieved that, making it a worthy contender for a place among the top 10.

It is through such discussions and evaluations that we can better understand and appreciate the rich and diverse world of literature.

The Black Book is a captivating story that delves into the themes of losing and searching. It's a journey of constantly seeking but never quite finding. The Black Book is not just a regular book; it's a book that explores the realms of memory and oblivion.

As the author recalls, there was a pit right next to the building. This pit was a source of terror, not only for the author but for all the children, girls, and adults living on the various floors. It was like a scene from a fantasy tale, filled with bats, poisonous snakes, rats, and scorpions. The author had a hunch that this was the very pit described in Şeyh Galip’s Beauty and Love and mentioned in Rumi’s Mathnawi. Sometimes, when a pail was lowered into the pit, its rope would mysteriously be cut. And there were rumors of a huge black ogre lurking down there, as big as a house.

The past, it seems, is like that bottomless pit. Everything that has happened disappears into it without a sound or a trace. It's a place where memories fade and are forgotten, leaving only a sense of mystery and longing. The Black Book invites us to explore this complex relationship between the past and the present, and to question what we truly remember and what we choose to forget.

Red is my name - in fact, after that - the black book is considered one of the most beautiful novels in Bohemia and one of the most important works of fiction in history. The book initially appears as two separate paths - a story mainly about a vision and the columns of Gala "then mainly" - but much in the story of mainly cannot be unravelled except through the columns of Gala. And the "interesting" problem does not lie when the columns precede their allusions in the story but when the story precedes the columns that unravelled their allusions. And for this reason alone, with Faulkner and "to some extent" Conrad, the second reading of Bohemia is a new, unique and unrepeatable pleasure.

Regarding the columns, each of them is an independent artistic work. Gala is mainly the greatest journalist I have ever read. For example, the eighth chapter or the titled column "The Three Armed Ones" is a verse in beauty, and the way of presenting the three books of advice to Gala is excellent - try reading it aloud.

The black book is almost the only novel in which its main heroes do not appear and yet you feel - at the end of the novel - that you know everything about them, even imagining their faces and souls. The vision is my favourite, which I have not seen and which did not even appear in the novel.

Finally, it should be noted that there is a Turkish film about this novel! I don't know how they presented it on screen and one of its main heroes is written columns.

In this land of the frustrated and the unfortunate, to be means to be someone else.

This is not a "philosophical mystery" as the insipid fourth cover of the Italian edition claims.

Rather, it is a bitter and laborious reflection on literature, on its maleficent and viscous power to create uncertain identities, to split people, to transform fiction into something believable and plausible.

A tiresome theme, picked over by the great postmodern authors, recently revisited in the decline of autofiction, but still not understood by the mass of the public who, as soon as they are confronted with the fact that literature is nothing but artifice, unreality, fiction, a lie (like all art, in the end), wrinkles their nose and prefers to plunge back into false realism.

So much so that this is perhaps Pamuk's masterpiece, a fascinating and in-depth dual construction of the path towards the loss of identity of a writer. The protagonist Galip is clearly Pamuk's alter ego, if only for the episode in which "the intellectual with the obscured face" is taken over by his personal experience - and personal is also the reflection on assuming different identities, on losing the security of oneself, on constructing existential labyrinths with no exit, which is the talent (and curse) of every writer.

It is the very structure of the book that strikes this chord, with the alternation of pieces by the journalist Celal (the second alter ego destined to merge with the first) and chapters dedicated to Galip's loss in a highly effective literary construction that adds existential unease while evaporating every meaning of an irrelevant plot, a true and proper excuse to write about much more serious things than a missing wife. To this unique atmosphere contributes an Istanbul painted with almost abstract brushstrokes and a wonderful historical expedition into the mysteries of hurufism, a Muslim cabala according to which the letters of hidden messages are legible in faces.

We are in a literary space that can recall the boundless explorations of Borges or the inimitable constructions of Malerba - in any case a book that presents itself as a complex and stratified object, a testament to Pamuk's qualities as a writer capable of constructing new spaces.

All that has been written does not concern life but, for the simple reason of having been written, a dream.

One of Pamuk’s first novels, it presents a captivating world from the very beginning. The opening page is filled with beautiful writing that draws the reader in. Ruya lies facedown on the bed, lost in the warm darkness beneath the quilt. The sounds of a winter morning seep in, creating a vivid backdrop. Galip, her husband, gazes at her, filled with a mix of love and fear. The story doesn't have a complex plot. Galip, a lawyer in Istanbul, searches for his missing wife, Ruya, who has left a brief note. He wonders if she has gone back to her first husband or run off with his uncle, Celal, a famous columnist. Instead of a traditional search, the book delves into Galip's mental process as he tries to figure out where she is, using mystical clues from Celal's columns. As he searches, Galip starts to assume Celal's identity, writing his columns, wearing his clothes, and living in his secret apartment. He even imitates Celal's voice on the phone. This leads to various consequences, including a persistent caller threatening his life.

The book also contains essays about life in Turkey and Turkish culture. We learn about the country's Westernization process and its impact on society. There are themes of identity, love, and the search for oneself. Many characters in the story want to be someone else, highlighting the complex nature of human desires. Galip's love for Ruya, whom he grew up with as cousins, is a central theme. The references to American films and movie stars add another layer to the story, showing the influence of Western culture on Turkey. The mystical clues Galip uses, such as reading letters in people's faces and maps, are tied to ancient sects and add an element of mystery. Overall, this is a long and thought-provoking book that offers a deep exploration of various topics. Pamuk's writing is engaging, and despite its length, it never feels repetitive or loses focus. I highly recommend it to anyone interested in Turkish culture, literature, or a good love story.

Second, I read Orhan Pamuk. I thought I started with the wrong book and excitedly read "The Black Book" thinking that I had done it with his last book, "Fever Nights". But it didn't happen, our star couldn't find peace. Maybe it's because my expectations were high. While reading, I found myself comparing it with the novels of Oğuz Atay and İhsan Oktay Anar. The style, starting points, theosophical and historical traces are enjoyable. But... There is a huge but in me. Something seems to be missing. That thing that enables me to enjoy a fictional work... I don't even know how to define this thing well. Let me try this way; while Celal wants to tell with his marginal notes, the struggle that a society enters with its cultural structure and that impossibility, in other words, the state of breaking away from itself with the panic of Westernization and not being able to be original, the book seems to have fallen into the same handicap. The story can never be put together. While saying "I will be original", it forgets why the anxiety of being original burns and keeps telling. It is surely not the unity of the event that we are looking for, but it can never create the unity of feeling either. "The General of the Words" is not always so mysterious. Our main character Galip sometimes says Enel Hak, but it is not clear on what basis. There is this strange mystery that is constantly emphasized and is inconsistent with the end. There is a detective story atmosphere, but there isn't. It seems like it could have been a very good book but couldn't. Orhan Pamuk seems to be referring to this in the article where he tells the writing story of the novel, saying that state of turmoil he experienced while writing. Well... of course it's not bad, it's good but not very good either. The Nobel jury said that they were very impressed by this book of Pamuk's. Ahh, I wonder what those who can't hold it would feel if they read it, and I end this strange comment.

One of the critics, in describing the book "The Black Book", says that "

If one day I am asked what writing has suffered from, my answer will be: the creation of a work like 'The Black Book'.

- What kind of feeling is it when you completely lose the closest people in your life by accident, but when you go in search of them, you find yourself?

- Galip has married his cousin Ruya and they live in Istanbul. Ruya, who is interested in reading crime stories, has left home without prior notice with a short handwritten note that ends with "I'll let you know". When Galip thinks about it and examines the past, he realizes that Ruya always behaved as if she wanted to escape from him and go to another world. Galip's search for the closest person to Ruya begins with Celal - who is one of the most important journalists in Turkey and Ruya's older and foster brother - but there is no trace of Celal either, and the newspaper that publishes a piece by Celal every day has suddenly started reprinting his old writings. Galip, considering that Celal needs someone by his side and they disappear at the same time, guesses that they are together wherever they are. Galip, who is a die-hard fan of Celal's writings and has all of them in his mind with details, starts to review Celal's writings and his shared memories with Ruya in the hope of finding a clue to find them. Without knowing the disappearance of Celal and Ruya, he starts to search the city and go to places where they might be. Celal's writings are full of stories where the characters seem to be escaping from themselves and Ruya is like someone else, someone better than them. For Galip, this eternal Ruya of Celal's becomes more and more interesting and charming to him. Through the constant questioning in the city and the encounter with strange people who are similar to Celal's writings, Galip is faced with more fundamental problems, the crisis of identity, a question that becomes more colorful with the progress of the story, a big and essential crossroads: are we satisfied with ourselves and our lives, or do we always think in our minds that there is a completely different and stronger version of ourselves that is a copy of the one we always admire and seems infinitely dear to us? Is it better for each person to be happy or to be constantly burning in the hope of becoming like someone else?

Galip's questioning continues in this way until finding Celal and Ruya becomes less and less important from one place to another.

- The book is full of short stories, allusions to various historical and cultural themes, from the Crusades and Sultan Mehmed the Conqueror to the relationship between Mevlana and Shams and the Hurufi sect... It's as if while reading this book, you are also reading a very attractive collection of short stories. These stories, which are Celal's writings in the newspaper, are placed in separate parts and among the main story.

- Pamuk says that when he had trouble advancing the text of the book, he started making aimless lines in his notebook. Now that he reviews those plans again, he realizes how much they are like the back streets of Istanbul and the central library, a labyrinth that seems endless...

- The naming of the characters in Pamuk's stories is always done with precision and delicacy. Galip, as the main character of the story, seems to be suffering from a kind of dizziness and restlessness, and as he goes on the path of finding his wife, he becomes himself and finds his true self. His wife, Ruya, whose name is chosen for her, is someone who has been of interest to Galip since childhood and is always in his mind as an almost unattainable ideal, but after marriage, he loses her again and searches the whole city for her. Perhaps after this, she can only be found in Galip's mind, an eternal and endless ideal. Celal, who has always been and is the object of Galip's admiration. Celal, who means glory and magnificence...

- This book is written so interestingly and structurally that perhaps some of its parts need to be read carefully and several times, but it is a relatively short book that, after the completion of the study, helps you to better understand the story.

The secrets of the book "The Black Book", which delves into the writing process of Pamuk and has interesting points in it, are recommended.

- Pamuk's writings are full of pleasure and beauty for me. With every book I read of his, it's as if I'm going on a long and meaningful spiritual journey, and when I return from the journey, I'm definitely not the same person before. I have become much bigger and have a wider view of my surroundings. But among Pamuk's works, "The Black Book" has a special place for me. In simpler terms, it is the best book I have read so far, and I don't think I will find a rival for it now. I'm happy to be in a period of my life when Pamuk is still alive and still writing. I hope he has a longer life and surprises me again!

"I looked in the mirror and read the letters and words on my face one by one. The mirror was like a sea, calm and peaceful. And my face was helpless and unable to prove to you that there is also a world without heroes, a world that I accept, my world, me. I, who could never prove to you that all those heroes are empty, they are structures, created by the mind of a writer, only writers who have always had the heroism complex on their hearts. I, who could never prove to you that if you take the pictures in those magazines and make them colorful and lively, they will become like the rest, like me. I, who could never prove to you that you too can believe in a world without heroes like me, or at least a world where... a world where I was the hero."

You can easily ignore the black book.

Engage in a mindless and nerve-wracking pastime that leads you to Pamuk's other book, "A New Life".

The book is actually a draft that anticipates Pamuk's future masterpieces such as "My Name Is Red" and "Snow".

It is an important work that shows the evolution of Pamuk's writing style and themes.

Readers can gain a deeper understanding of his creative process and the ideas that inspired him.

"A New Life" is a must-read for fans of Pamuk and those interested in modern Turkish literature.

Painfully beautiful, this story is not only intriguing but also an absorbing, labyrinthine one. It offers so many pleasures that I will read it once again before I can make any smart comment.

One story within the story is about a Prince who discovers that the most crucial question in life is whether one can be oneself. This idea is, on another level, reflected in the protagonist's search for his vanishing wife, which forms the main plot of the novel.

Sometimes, it feels like I'm reading a detective story, trying to solve the mystery of the wife's disappearance. At other times, it's like reading a philosophical novel, similar to Sartre's Nausea, as I grapple with the profound question of identity. Then there are moments when it seems like I'm learning about writing by reading a biography of a columnist, observing the author's masterful use of language. And most of the time, it's like watching a documentary about the street corners in Istanbul, vividly imagining the city's atmosphere.

Sheepishly, I admit that I've started to feel a strong urge to visit Istanbul. The book has painted such a vivid picture of the city that I can't help but be drawn to it.

ALLA FINE SI CONFONDONO I RICORDI CON LA REALTÀ TUTTO SI MESCOLA IN UN MARE NERO

Pamuk spent nearly 5 years writing this novel and in the end couldn't manage to finish it. So he secluded himself in an old palace in Istanbul, cutting off any contact with the outside world, like a craftsman searching with a file and chisel for the inspiration that often eludes like a demon.

Is Il libro nero a book about Istanbul? Yes and no. Yes, because on the other hand, there would be no Pamuk without Istanbul and perhaps vice versa, because without Pamuk, its singer, Istanbul would be mute or even more silent. But the ambition of the novel transcends the boundaries of this unique city with its illustrious past as the capital of two empires, the Eastern Roman and the Ottoman, and its multifaceted and chameleon-like nature, even in its name which history has changed many times over the centuries, from Byzantium to Constantinople and now Istanbul. A city straddling two continents, a bridge thrown across the Bosporus to unite East and West.

And it might seem that Pamuk always writes the same book because in his works he is constantly seeking a definition of Turkishness or Turkish identity. That is the constant feeling of not yet being fully Western, despite desiring it greatly, that nostalgia for the East that never dies, even while winking at the West, and that emanates from the eastern shore of the Bosporus, a physical and interior nostalgia, like feeling in a suit two sizes too small. The Turkish man feels incomplete, unfortunate, and frustrated. Oh... the infinite debate about what the West has stolen from the East, even in literature....

But the theme of the search for (Turkish) identity transcends national boundaries because it becomes for Pamuk a universal ontological theme. It is the pivot around which the pages of the novel turn, which begins with the disappearance of Galip's wife, a young lawyer who, in his labyrinthine search through a surface but also underground, almost carnal Istanbul, is gradually swallowed up into the personality of a journalist, a famous columnist loved and hated, who publishes weekly articles eagerly awaited by all his readers, Galip's wife's stepbrother, also mysteriously disappeared. (It's difficult for me to resist cases of mysterious disappearances).

What surprises in this novel is how the desire to be someone else, to live in the life of someone else, does not represent for Pamuk a devaluation, a loss of self, but becomes an existential state. Everyone does it but in the same instant that they do it, they deny it. Banally. When we love a person who doesn't love us back but loves someone else, we would like to become that person, to have the caresses that are denied us, to be the object of that gaze that rests elsewhere.

But in the end, when do we really feel like ourselves? Think about it. What was the exact moment when you felt like yourself, where were you, with whom were you? We will be eternally grateful to those people who allow us to be ourselves, even for a little while. In every moment of our existence, we compete with the presence of the second person we carry within us, with whom we live like a twin. Pamuk actually does not imply that there is a fragmentation of the self. He has a dual vision of reality. In fact, if you look closely, in every part of the world there is a double of ourselves who is perfectly identical to us.

An extremely complex book to read, summarize, and review. Citati defines it as a monstrous book, in a positive sense. Nobel Prize-winning Pamuk is a tortuous and often tiring author, very cultivated, drawing on Eastern philosophies, religious and poetic mysticism, the Kabbalah, past history, 1950s cinema... I had already noticed his difficulty of reading with another novel, Il mio nome è rosso, and I was tempted many times to give up, but then pages of almost intolerable beauty (like those on "the day the Bosporus will dry up", or "on the advent of the apocalypse", or the wonderful chapter on Galip's love for Ruya - which I would have liked to quote in its entirety) would pull me back like a contracting elastic or like the fisherman's winch that retrieves his bait. Despite the hard test, he is an author to whom I will still give credit. I have two titles that I still keep.

In any case, blessed is he who has been and visited Istanbul, blessed is he who will go, and blessed, also, is he who will only have the beauty of reading about Istanbul through its eternal singers.