It is nearly impossible to discuss this book without disclosing its ending (or at least what one might perceive as its ending). This peculiar work claims to be a 17th-century manuscript discovered by Faruk Darvinoglu in 1982. We learn that in the manuscript we are about to peruse, '... some events described in the story bore little resemblance to fact', yet the 'truth' of the general knowledge of that period appeared to be accurate (p.2). On page 3, Faruk reveals that a professor he consulted informed him that 'in the old wooden houses on the back streets of Istanbul there were tens of thousands of manuscripts filled with stories of this kind'. Faruk tells us that the manuscript we are about to read is his own rendition into contemporary Turkish. He then writes: 'Readers seeing the dedication at the beginning may ask if it has a personal significance. I suppose that to see everything as connected with everything else is the addiction of our time. It is because I too have succumbed to this disease that I publish this tale.' The dedication he refers to is: 'For Nilgun Darvinoglu/ a loving sister/(1961—1980).' One assumes, therefore, that this dedication is by Faruk, not Pamuk (or is it?). In between this dedication and Faruk's Preface is a quotation allegedly from Marcel Proust (with no reference as to where in Proust's work this quotation is to be found) but with the qualification 'from the mistranslation of Y. K. Karaosmanoglu'. All this is at the beginning before the actual story itself... We are clearly in some murky territory here...

The manuscript itself is a rather straightforward account of a strange tale, told by an unnamed Italian narrator about his capture by Turks and his adventures in Istanbul where he becomes the servant of/collaborator with one Hoja (a name which apparently means'master') who is a few years older than him but who apparently looks exactly like the narrator. The first ten chapters detail almost obsessively the relationship between the narrator and his 'double', a kind of love/hate relationship, where gradually the differences between the two men become indistinguishable, until, at the end of chapter ten, when the assault on the Polish Doppio Castle (the White Castle of the Title) fails, and Hoja dons the narrator's clothes and identity and disappears from the story. Hoja becomes the Italian; the Italian becomes Hoja. It is from these ten chapters that all the 'discussion' about self-identity, self/other distinctions, slave/master relationships, and even the relationship between East and West stem from: but I would suggest that these come more from the readers than from the novel itself. By the way, is it just a 'coincidence', or merely an example of seeing everything connected to everything else, that the name of the White castle is 'Doppio' (the Italian word for 'double')?

It is really only in the final chapter (Chapter eleven) that one becomes embroiled in the complex literary trap that this novel truly is, for it is here that the distinctions between the two men are, I believe, deliberately blurred, so that in the end one is no longer certain who is who. Stories of 'Hoja' as the Italian are mentioned; narratives by the Italian, which point out his ignorance of Italian cities are cited; 'Hoja' is referred to as He and Him (with capital letters), and the sultan refers to Him as being the Italian captive while he is talking to the Italian (believing him to be Hoja) — or does he? The narrator, whoever he is, also seems to think his childhood memories, exchanged with Hoja earlier, are indeed his own. There are numerous puzzling associations and confusions in this final chapter, and they all resonate with the general undermining of the narrative provided in the Preface by 'Faruk'.

A complex example is provided on page 141 of my Faber 2009 paperback edition: The Italian (?) narrator is wishing that he might once more dream of'my childhood in Edirne' (which is supposed to be Hoja's childhood) '... of the first time I saw Him (Hoja(?)) unbearded at the pasha's door, of the chill down my spine.' Going back to the beginning of Chapter two, we are told that 'The resemblance between myself and the man [Hoja] who entered the [pasha's] room was incredible! It was *me* there...'; then later in the paragraph: 'Then I decided he didn't resemble me all that much, he had a beard;...' So there is no way, really, that we can even say that the overriding images of the similarity of the two men more or less insisted upon throughout nine chapters is anything more than a delusion of the narrator... or if not, is Hoja bearded or unbearded? Any attempt to unravel the unravellable is bound to frustration. There is no way anyone will be able to find out. The novel resolves itself into a trick which, because of its paradoxical nature, cannot be resolved: so many of the images of the novel remain in the mind, never finding any peaceful resolution. This also means that any arguments about self/other, slave/master and East/West are also not able to be resolved. Whether this is a good thing is problematical (precisely because of its internal paradoxes).

The final image of an old man, looking out through a window to his garden, remembering, is perhaps the best image to rest on at the end. It is a sad image, a suggestion that our memories are only what we make of them, of the narratives we tell ourselves — these are what ultimately provide us with meaning, regardless of whether they are true or not.

3.5 Stars!

At night, we would spend the majority of our time waiting. We were waiting for the wind to cease or the snow to stop. We were also waiting for the last cries of the peddlers who passed by in the street late at night. Additionally, we were waiting for the fire to die down so that we could put more wood in the stove.

During this time, I came to a realization. I learned that life was meant to be enjoyed rather than simply endured.

The book had its flaws. It was a little repetitive in some parts. However, overall, it was still interesting. The character Hoja, whom I couldn't stand, reminded me of the character "Olive" in "My Name is Red". This similarity added an extra layer of depth to my reading experience.

Despite its imperfections, the book managed to convey some important messages about life and human nature. It made me think about how we often take things for granted and how we should strive to find joy in the simplest of moments.

Overall, I would rate this book 3.5 stars. It had its good points and its bad points, but it was definitely worth reading.

Di Pamuk had already read and appreciated My Name Is Red, so I was prepared for his particular style. And this novel, although more modest both in size and in its intentions, has proven to be equally original.

The central theme is that of the double. In fact, the two protagonists spend their lives tormented by a fateful question: why am I me? They will never find an answer, and indeed the concept of identity will assume increasingly blurred contours for both them and the reader. The dualism between the Ottoman Master and the Venetian slave is obviously a metaphor to analyze the dichotomy between the East and the West, a theme particularly dear to the author and in general very felt in all of contemporary Turkey, torn between these opposite poles. The thesis sustained in the book according to which two identities can merge and be confused is the way chosen by Pamuk to show us that perhaps they are not so opposed.

The writing is the same as I remembered: intricate, poor in descriptions and rich in philosophical and abstract digressions. In short, a prose that gives nothing away and that requires a constantly high level of attention, yet endowed with a disturbing charm that will know how to win over anyone who is not discouraged at the first difficulty.

It is not a book for everyone: for me it has been a very different reading experience from those I am used to, for better or for worse.

What is actually in an endless succession of boxes?

Looking into a mirror to see who you are and looking into a book to see who somebody else is - two very similar actions but with results that differ. This novel, "The White Castle", felt like several boxes inside one another. You enter, or maybe fall through one after another, not having comprehended exactly where you were before making the next move.

At the end, I understood that I had thought about many themes. It made me imagine fantastic, dream trips across frozen steppes. It twisted me around in my mind till I felt like a sick dwarf. And it left me wondering who could have written such a strange, powerful novel. And why? I admired this writer, Orhan Pamuk, who I had not read before, because of this power.

The story as such is not that found in a usual "novel". It is a Kafkaesque parable. It reminds people of Borges (even on the book jacket), but is not so much like him. It is calmer and deeper. Pamuk asks who anybody really is and how do you know? At another level, his parable is of relations between the Ottoman Empire and the West, between those who came up with victorious technology and those who attempted to learn it.

"..we had in hand not a grand plan that would save us from ruin, but only the dream of such a plan." If you want to call this theme "historical fiction" then OK, this is an historical novel, but I would not call it that. The question of what kind of background is needed for scientific discovery might be a sub-theme, but not the major point. The book is in no way about Islam, unless you want to point a finger at that religion for not inspiring science. Accusations of that sort are a stupid activity if there ever was one.

Can one person be another? Can you change your life for one you'd rather have? These are universal questions and "The White Castle" is above all a universal novel. Read it. Make your own conclusion. I can't say I understood everything, but it's a hell of an intriguing book.

I listened to this book in audio format to get acquainted with Pamuk and see if I was interested in reading the rest of his books. It was about 3 hours of quotation listening.

It was a very touching, deep and with an Eastern theme story that settled in my heart :).

This experience of listening to the audio book was quite unique. It allowed me to immerse myself in the story while on the go. The narrator's voice added an extra layer of charm to the tale. As I listened, I could vividly imagine the scenes and characters described in the book. The Eastern theme gave it a distinct flavor, making it stand out from other books I've read or listened to. I found myself completely engaged in the story, eagerly waiting to hear what would happen next. By the end of the 3 hours, I was left with a strong desire to explore more of Pamuk's works and see what other wonderful stories he has to offer.

That's the first book of Pamuk that I've read.

I am extremely enthusiastic about uncovering this writer who has received such positive remarks from the critics.

The beginning of the novel really appealed to me. It brought to my mind the enchanting tales of A Thousand and One Nights. However, as I delved deeper into the reading, the thought of giving up constantly haunted me, just as the idea of suicide haunts a prisoner.

But then, I said to myself, thinking of this rather Rabelaisian metaphor that a reader clings to a book like a dog with a bone, determined to extract every bit of marrow. I told myself that I must finish this book, and thus I launched the challenge.

Finally, I had this truly magical feeling that I had just read one of the greatest novels. I was actually despondent when I saw the last page! It's as if this extraordinary novel has come to an end, yet you emerge from it feeling smarter and more enlightened.

Boring,

That's the word that comes to mind when I think of this book. It is filled with all the cliche symbolism and overused themes that one can imagine. From the very beginning, it felt like I was reading something that I had already seen a hundred times before.

The characters were one-dimensional and lacked any real depth or complexity. The plot was predictable and unoriginal, and there were no real surprises or twists to keep me engaged.

It was a chore to finish this book. I found myself constantly looking at the page count, wondering how much longer I had to endure it. By the time I reached the end, I was relieved to be done with it.

In conclusion, I would not recommend this book to anyone. It is a prime example of what not to do when writing a novel. There are so many other great books out there that are worth reading, and this one simply does not measure up.

This book is truly like a remarkable and enchanting labyrinth, or perhaps a hall of mirrors that confounds and intrigues.

As we delve into its pages, we are constantly confronted with the question: what is real and what is imagined? The boundaries between the two seem to blur, leaving us in a state of uncertainty and wonder.

Can we ever truly know the truth of something or someone? This is a question that lingers in our minds long after we have finished reading.

The author's masterful storytelling and vivid descriptions draw us in, making us feel as if we are a part of the story itself.

In a word, this book is brilliant. It is a literary masterpiece that will leave you breathless and eager for more.

3.75
Read in Turkish Week

In this week dedicated to Turkish, a total of 3.75 units of something were read.

It's an interesting statistic that gives us a glimpse into the activities and progress during this specific period.

Perhaps it was a collection of Turkish literature, articles, or even textbooks that were devoured by the eager readers.

The number 3.75 might seem a bit unusual, but it could signify a partial completion of a larger work or an average of multiple readings.

Regardless of the exact nature of what was read, this figure shows that there was a significant amount of engagement with the Turkish language and its related materials during Turkish Week.

It's a great achievement that showcases the enthusiasm and dedication of those involved in exploring the rich world of Turkish culture and language.

I don't know, but perhaps my literary taste has been affected by my habit of not reading for a period of time. Or maybe this novel is just about a group of "mediocre people" written in a moment of folly. At first, I thought there was something similar between it and "The African Lion" by Lamia, but as I read beyond the first few pages, I realized it was far from that. The narrative method is boring, and the bad translation has made it even worse. The composition of the characters is strange, not to mention weak. I expected more from this novel.

I have always been an avid reader, but lately, I find myself less interested in some of the books I pick up. This particular novel was a disappointment. The story seemed to lack depth and originality. The characters were not well-developed, and their actions and decisions often felt forced. The translation also had its flaws, which made it difficult to fully engage with the text. Overall, I was left feeling unfulfilled and wishing for a more engaging read.

I read My Name Is Red and The New Life by Orhan Pamuk after a very long time interval. I couldn't read The Black Book. It wasn't that I couldn't finish it, but rather I truly couldn't read it. I resisted reading the book but couldn't. Maybe one day I'll pick it up again, who knows. The White Castle was my favorite among the Orhan Pamuk books I read.

What I liked:

1. I really like the themes of twins, doppelgangers, similar people, etc. in literature. This book also tells about two similar people who turn into each other and become one person in an original way at the end. The theme is not original but the way it is handled is.

2. It is easier to read compared to other Pamuk books and the characters in it have nice touches, like the detail of Evliya Çelebi.

3. The text that Pamuk added at the end explaining the process of writing the book is definitely worth reading. We can see how a story is created moment by moment. It's good that he wrote that part.

4. Towards the end of the book when the events are being resolved or getting even more complicated (depending on how you look at it), you can see a difference in style and fluency that doesn't spread throughout the whole book.

What I didn't like:

1. The book could definitely have been shorter, especially what was the need for the descriptions in between? The parts that came after the impressive mirror scene almost spoiled the rhythm of the book.

2. One of the language mistakes that I also noticed in Orhan Pamuk's other books really annoyed me because it was repeated several times: "bazen". The man kept writing "bazen", but there is no such word in Turkish.

Still, overall it was a pleasure to read the book, it was an interesting read. If you are interested in the 17th-century Ottoman period, I think it is more accurate than fictional history "bazen".

White Castle seems to be a mirror image of Black Book.

In this story, an unreliable narrator unfolds the account of a master-slave duo or perhaps a dual personality.

Just like in his other novels, Pamuk continues to explore the East-West dichotomy.

The book is an easy read, but unfortunately, it didn't offer the richer intertextuality effect that I had anticipated.

It might have had some interesting elements, but it failed to fully engage me on that deeper level.

Perhaps I was expecting too much, but I couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed.

Nonetheless, it still had its moments and could be enjoyed by those who are interested in Pamuk's works and the themes he explores.

Overall, while it didn't meet my highest expectations, it wasn't a bad read either.