You know you're in the hands of a master when presented with a story so distinct from anything you've read before, and the author makes it all work.

This is not just a historical fiction love story, but also a whodunnit and an educational piece on Islamic, Frankish, and Venetian art. The art aspect of this book was a pleasant surprise and the reason I read it slowly. It can get complex and heavy at times, yet it's utterly fascinating. The miniaturist was the most captivating member of the illustration team, using the hairs from a cat's belly for their brushes. I sincerely hope the cat wasn't harmed in the process.

Each chapter is told in the first person, which is a brilliant choice as you're never sure who to trust. There are chapters narrated by a dog, a corpse, inanimate objects like a coin, or even a physical phenomenon such as the colour red. It's truly amazing.

Set in 1591 Istanbul, the all-powerful Sultan commissions a group of artists, illuminators, calligraphers, miniaturists, and writers to create a book depicting him and his reign in a style different from traditional Islamic art. This is controversial as Islamic art isn't supposed to depict images realistically like European paintings. Only Allah can create real-life imagery, and for mere mortals to do so is considered blasphemous.

The first chapter is narrated by a corpse, the victim of a savage murder found at the bottom of a well. It's titled "I am a Corpse", setting the stage for our whodunnit.

Simultaneously, we have a man named Black who returns to Istanbul after a twelve-year absence and discovers he's still attracted to a beautiful woman named Shekure, whom he knew as a child. Shekure's husband has been missing from the battlefront for four years. Black is in love with Shekure and wants to marry her, but her brother-in-law has the same desire. Drama and intrigue unfold, along with the complexity of divorcing a man who may still be alive.

With over twenty narrators in this book, it might seem confusing, but the format actually helps and creates a sense of being there.

One more thing about Pamuk, he can be hilariously funny at times and also includes the occasional explicitly erotic scene to keep the reader's blood flowing. Of course, not this reader, as I'm above all that!

Pamuk managed to build the suspense, keeping me guessing until the very end who the murderer was, all while educating me about sixteenth-century Islamic art.

I have so much more to say, but I'd better stop. I highly recommend this book. I initially gave it four stars, but after reflecting on how good it was for a few days, I had to upgrade it to a resounding five stars!!!!

5 Stars

On-a-high version:

I am called Black, and for twelve long years, I have longed for my dearest Shekure.

I, Shekure, am not quite sure what I am doing in this story.

I am called Butterfly, and I was the one who drew the Death, and Mia thought I was the murderer.

I am called Stork, and I was the one who drew the Tree. Butterfly always envies me as I am more talented without the help from our master.

I am called Olive, and I was the one who rendered the Satan and drew the exquisite horse.

I am your beloved uncle, and I was preparing a book for our Refuge of the World, Our Glorious Sultan before being murdered by one of my apprentices.

It is I, Master Osman, and I wished to follow the path of Master Bihzad who blinded himself with a needle.

I am Esther, and my eyes were eternally at the windows and my ears were eternally to the ground.

I am a corpse, and I was Elegant Effendi before being murdered by a fellow painter.

I am Mia, and I read this book from page 1 to 508 whilst crawling and bleeding to death. So please would someone explain what the heck is this book about?

Jackie Chan: Who am I?

Sober version:

An interesting story regarding Istanbul in the 16th century. One day I'll visit the amazing Blue Mosque that a good friend of mine, Eddie, always talks about.

But seriously, though this book is amazing, I can't get into it. Totally not my rocknrolla thing.

***

One of the blue put this book on my desk. Got no idea which one though they pointed their fingers to each other lol.

"Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight."

I have an intense adoration for this book. It is not just a love story but also a philosophical thriller that is deeply immersed in the life of miniature painting within the Ottoman court. The very first time I read it, I was completely spellbound by its prose. And now, upon the second reading, my admiration has only grown. Nobel-prize-winning Turkish author Orhan Pamuk has a style that brings to mind the likes of Borges, Proust, and Nabokov. A soulful and dreamy quality seems to emanate from his sentences and chapters. They read like an epic poem, while also illuminating with their vibrant storytelling. There are numerous poignant and poetic phrases, such as "I don't want to be a tree, I want to be its meaning," "to paint is to remember," and "time doesn't flow if you don't dream."

"My Name is Red" is set in the 16th century Ottoman Empire and chronicles the lives of a workshop of miniaturists who have been commissioned by the reigning Sultan to complete a book of paintings. Tragically, two of the members are murdered, and the main narrative follows the trail of discovering the culprit. It is both a philosophical thriller and a love story. One of my favorite passages from the book is: "Tell me then, does love make one a fool or do only fools fall in love?"

At times, the book contains the most intricate details about miniature painting and multiple narratives that switch with each chapter. There are a total of twelve narrators, including the main characters, but also Satan, Death, a Tree, and a Dog. The book has its own original form, almost like a miniature painting in itself, and delves into the life of 16th century Islamic miniature art in a way that few books can manage. Orhan Pamuk himself won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2008. His writing enchants and leaves me breathless every single time. He has written a number of novels, essays, and a beautiful memoir about Istanbul, the city where my father was born and raised. I have read several of his books and eagerly look forward to reading the rest of his oeuvre.

Some critics may claim that the novel is dead, but "My Name is Red" is a shining example of how the novel is very much alive. Here is a living, breathing piece of life and art. It is truly a masterpiece. A contemporary classic, if such a category exists, for we know it will surely go into the canons of great literature.

My Name is Red takes us on a captivating journey into the intricate universe of the miniaturist workshops during the reign of Sultan Murad III in the Ottoman Empire at the close of the 16th century.

One of the gilder artists, affectionately known as the Delicate, meets a tragic fate. He is sent ad patres by a fellow illuminator and then callously thrown into a well. This occurs while the workshop he belongs to is engaged in the painstaking task of creating a highly prestigious and secret book for the sultan.

The work in question appears to flout the established canons of Islamic art and the rules set forth by the masters of the Herat school.

The story is populated with a vivid cast of characters, each contributing a unique part to the narrative. The chapters are cleverly interwoven, and the recurrence of narrative motifs adds depth and coherence.

While we can overlook the implausibilities in the language used by the characters, which may not accurately represent the period, we must remember that we are in the realm of an oriental tale where all manner of licenses and wonders are possible, such as prosopoeia.

However, unfortunately, the story could benefit from more balance. At times, it laboriously drags on, causing weariness to quickly set in.

Overall, My Name is Red offers a rich and engaging exploration of a bygone era, despite its few flaws.

Undoubtedly, it is Orhan Pamuk's most read book, but I will be very honest when I say that I did not find it very innovative in terms of narrative construction. However, I cannot but recognize Pamuk's great genius as a storyteller.

Just like in Elif Shafak's The Forty Rules of Love or Naguib Mahfouz's 1001 Nights and Days, here we are dealing with a multifaceted storytelling in an Arab way, "in a frame", whose value is given not so much by the pretext narrative consisting of a series of crimes (as in Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose), but by the wealth of information about the Oriental art of the miniaturists at the Court of Sultan Murad III.

At the end of the 16th century, the conservative art of Ottoman miniaturization is put in danger and corrupted by the new Venetian painting techniques, by the technique of perspective and the technique of portraiture, which will give birth to the conflict between Westernization and the Oriental tradition in painting.

This conflict will prove to be precisely the engine of the series of crimes around which the novel is constructed, crimes that, however, do not transform it into a detective novel in the least. As has been said before, to assert that My Name Is Red is a detective novel is like asserting the same thing about The Brothers Karamazov.

Overwhelming, excessive, sometimes tiring in the archival arabesques about the traditional Ottoman miniaturists and their works, Pamuk's book has, in the end, a great merit: it enriches you spiritually with an enormous package of details about Oriental art, of which you had hardly any idea when you started reading it.

A rich layer cake of a novel, "My Name is Red" presents a complex and intense exploration of ideas. Given its depth, I often wished Pamuk had adopted a more Proustian, plotless approach rather than shoehorning it into a murder mystery. The examinations of art and ideas were truly fascinating, and I became deeply invested in the complex main characters, Shekure and Black, and the tumultuous path of their love. However, the middle of the book suffered from a lack of momentum. Over-writing was a contributing factor, but the most significant drag was the distracting ruse of solving a mystery. I simply didn't care who the murderer was! The three suspects remained rather one-dimensional, serving more as a framework for exploring art and ideas, such as the religious, sexual, and power dynamics that underpin great art.

Pamuk seems particularly adept at exploring mixed feelings, ambivalence, and multivalence. He delves into the ideals versus the perceived realities of love and marriage, the paradoxical effects of religious repression and competition with the West, and the contradictory ideas about representation in art. The apprentice system, which both nurtured great art and enabled rampant sexual abuse of boys by their teachers, also features prominently, along with the conflicted memories of those artists.

One notable flaw is that the discussions of Venetian versus Ottoman art appear to be based on inaccurate understandings of Western art history. Perhaps Pamuk intended to represent only how the Venetian tradition was perceived by Ottoman artists at the time, but it still comes across as a misrepresentation. For one thing, the influence between East and West was mutual, not a one-way street from West to East. Moreover, Venetian art, even in its rediscovery of portraiture and female nudes, was rich in religious, mythological, literary, and cultural iconography within the Western and Christian traditions. It was never simply an attempt to paint exactly what the artist saw, as the novel implies. Nevertheless, the points Pamuk makes about realistic individual portraiture, a "new" and controversial concept, are fascinating and seem valid, even the conflict that existed (in the Christian West as well) about whether this was or was not something God would approve of.

Regarding the characters, I found the women to be the most interesting and complex. Shekure, a beautiful, intelligent, and somewhat spoiled rich girl, must find a way to assert her power in a world where she is legally at the mercy of men. Esther, the Jewish trader and message carrier, enjoys a measure of freedom and autonomy but faces a difficult social position. I also wondered why Hayriye, the servant and concubine, was the only significant character who was never given her own time or voice.

This was my first Pamuk novel, and I'm not sure if I'm interested in trying another. I might be more inclined to explore his memoir of Istanbul.

In the airport, in the queue for boarding the plane, I saw Orhan Pamuk. I went up to him and told him about my admiration for him and that I had read all his books. I said I wanted to take a photo. He smiled and said, "I'll give you a test then." I nervously said okay. He asked, "In 'My Name Is Red', who was the murderer?" Although I had read it 15 years ago, for some reason I still remembered and gave the answer. He was a bit surprised and seemed pleased. There was a queue to board the plane and since we had some time, we had a chance to chat a bit. We talked about some of his books. He asked me questions about his latest book related to a strangeness in my mind, whether I liked it or not, etc. It was a very pleasant chat and finally he said that I was a good reader and so on. Of course, it was very nice to receive such praise from Orhan Pamuk. This is such a moment :)

It’s not a historical novel, though there is a touch of history in it (Istanbul, Ottoman Empire, 1591). The mysterious death of two master miniaturists doesn’t make it a murder mystery novel either. It’s not a philosophical novel though there are numerous discussions about European-style illustration concerning perspective and traditional Eastern illustrating, which views the world in the way Allah would see it.

What astonishes me is how Pamuk has taken a currently forbidden discussion and transported it five centuries back to establish a better context for discussing taboos regarding the distinctions between Islamic states and Western Europe. It's about how the so-called Islamic style of illumination lost its values to the so-called Frankish mode of painting, which focuses on depicting earthly wealth rather than images of what God creates on earth. In other words, demonstrating the creative abilities of the artist (European style), which Enishte effendi finds fascinating, is forbidden in Islam as if it were a form of competing with God in creation. That’s why some other master miniaturists kill him to not lose their stability and honor as artists. It means that those who don't see the reality of life and human beings (idealists) are going to lose their style and power. This novel describes the restrained violence of cultural clashes that are highly relevant to our world today through the allegory of artistic expression as the European manner of representing the world and that of the Islamic faith.

Although the events of the story take place during the Ottoman period (1591), it can't be said to be a "historical" novel. It's not a crime novel either, although events around two murders occur. And although the discussion mainly focuses on the comparison of two artistic styles, the miniature of the Islamic world and Venetian or French school painting, it's not a novel about the philosophy of art either. That is, it's not that much about history, nor philosophy, nor crime. The essential importance lies in the second layer of the novel, just as in "Snow", another novel by Pamuk. Pamuk's intellectual concern is the current issue of our time, the comparison and confrontation between the Islamic world and tradition on the one hand and the Western world and modernity on the other. An issue that occupies the minds of many intellectuals in the Islamic world. The choice of two forms of image-making in the two worlds, due to the philosophical ideas underlying the structure of the miniature (its one-dimensional nature and avoidance of the recreation of the world) and Western painting (the artist's three-dimensional view of the world), is a very clever and masterful choice by Pamuk to show the confrontation between two kinds of thinking in the contemporary world, one traditional and powerful and the other modern and democratic. One that forgets humans in the face of God and the other that emphasizes humans as the core of human society. By choosing a historical time in the past, Pamuk has given himself the opportunity to freely and with complete freedom talk about many of the "taboos" in today's Islamic societies.

I could not help but think of the film "Daisies" (“Sedmikrasky,” dir. Vera Chytilova), that shameless classic of the Czech New Wave while reading Orhan Pamuk’s My Name is Red.

That brilliant & psychedelic film of the 60’s portrays two incessant, silly girls who seem to want to emphasize their existence by playing pranks on other people and being undeniably obnoxious. They are terrified at the idea of being forgotten—of not existing. Similarly, in Pamuk’s epic novel of conspiring miniaturists, of love and death, the reader is confronted with the theme of existence. There is an unknown presence which strives to be part of the reader’s consciousness—which, like the two unremitting, adolescent & undeniably-alive individuals of the film, tries its hardest to appear, to become known & acknowledged.

My Name is Red has a radical structure. As I read more and more books, it becomes increasingly clear that some writers take an enormous amount of effort in establishing a frame, a “cabinet of curiosities” (in the same tradition as MVL’s “Chinese boxes” and “communicating vessels) in which to properly display their creations. For example, A. S. Byatt, in her Booker-prize winning novel "Possession," a novel that is more poetry book than a novel, creates several frames in which to place all the poetry which two poets keep exchanging as tokens of their love. Byatt obviously wants to make her poetry accessible, and gives it further clout by giving each poet his or her unique voice—by fully creating two different minds. Pamuk also uses the novel to display his craft, establishing a museum in which to showcase his “paintings”: his cabinet of curiosities includes, not poems, but individual vignettes, brush-stroke tableaus which represent but one facet of a full universe. The conglomeration of these makes up the bulk—gives the reader the voice, the theme & style—of the novel.

“If I could only,” the nameless murderer tells Enishte Effendi, “see the last picture in its entirety” (158). Both the character’s expectations and the reader’s match—their journey is, therefore, genuinely entwined. The reader wants to know what all these different vignettes will culminate in. The wants of a fictional character and those of an actual live reader are the one and the same—this is the main catalyst which moves the narrative to its awesome conclusion. The reader is prepared to sift through the surplus of stories, images, and motifs to get to the bottom of this radical love story/murder mystery. Enishte Effendi admits: “They say we’ve committed an unforgivable sin by daring to draw, from the perspective of a mangy street dog, a horsefly and a mosque as if they were the same size” (158). Virginia Woolf’s literary sense of character democracy, of consciousness-equality, is pretty much Pamuk’s own. By depicting various POVs, by making them authentic and articulate, Pamuk seems to rationalize like many of the great writers that every tiny aspect of the plot is essential—only with all of these different takes on the same thing (the murder of Elegant and the love story of Black and Shekure) can the reader get a faithful interpretation of such enormous complexity and chaos.

There is a consciousness which ties the characters together, and it is perhaps the force of life itself. The crazy girls perturb the status quo when they admit that they want to live (live!) in Daisies. The different entities (whether they be annoying Shekure or the talking picture of a dog, or literally, the color red) all possess life and they indulge the reader in their personal and unique elucidations on life in 16th-century Istanbul. The added element, that is, all the writer’s own beliefs in art (writing is aptly compared to painting) are present in Red, and the work transcends not only the rules of storytelling by having such incredibly different characters in it with such unique voices, but also because it dabbles with the postmodern idea of reading about art within a work of art.

All that being said, there is a grave problem with the pacing of the book--it took me forever to complete this (and lets face it, Gone With the Wind this is not). Also, there is a ceaseless amount of repetition of events, a constant reassurance that seems extraneous-- a recompilation of different occurrences voiced by the different (though extremely intriguing) characters. The themes, rich in the context of the production of art, are very appropriate and very revolutionary. This is a postmodern work which of course still lingers on the romantic, and then plays around some with the detective novel genre.

Orhan Pamuk's novel, which won him the Nobel Prize this year and has gained worldwide fame, translated into 24 languages, is a story set in the Ottoman era among illuminators. Through it, we are transported with Pamuk's skill, knowledge, and care to the world of Islamic art, its history, themes, colors, paintings, images, and famous tales like Khosrow and Shirin, Leila and Majnun, and Maqamat al-Hariri across the centuries.

I read this 605-page novel in two days, yet it took him ten years to write, research, and fill the manuscript with details. I'm still not sure what to say about it. On one hand, his strange narrative style intrigued me. He tells the story through many things and people, including criticism, the devil, a tree, and even the color red. Each chapter starts with "I am a tree" or "I am the killer" or "My name is red." It's truly a different, strange, and amazing way.

On the other hand, in the depth of my feelings, I felt deceived by his narrative. He made me a victim without my realizing it until his joke was left in my heart. I'm not sure if he intended to deceive the reader or not. But I can't find a better comparison than to say it's like the sharp, strange, "beautiful" needle described in the novel that takes away the light of the eyes in a way similar to "hypnosis." His way of writing is like what the Orientals saw in the East, where horror, oddity, conspiracies, and fleeting desires are the source of his charm and strangeness. But he doesn't mention this just for pleasure and entertainment like the Orientals did; he has his own philosophy.

The combination and unity that he insists on in every corner of his novel between the majesty of beauty, love, and the soul on one hand and ugliness, filth, oddity, and horror on the other hand greatly disturbs me. He shows them as if they are necessarily intertwined, as if this is the nature of things. He almost convinces you and beautifies them for you as if they are one thing. He mocks words like beauty, love, happiness, values, life, and death with a sarcastic and malicious care, comparing them with their opposites to make the reader despise them and desire them at the same time. He beautifies ugliness to make you desire it? Just like a skilled Chinese chef who knows how to make a delicious dish from what the soul rejects.

Therefore, I said that it's like that needle because it makes a person lose his view of the nature of things as they are after a while, and it blinds the eye gently and slowly, just like that needle. All of this is far from the talk about that absolute red as the source and end of all existence and life? And his hidden sarcasm towards the believers!!! Pamuk's philosophy tires me. It tires me in my struggle with myself to keep my view of ugliness as ugliness in his novel without being charmed by his magical words. His intelligence and cunning tire me. His disgusting sarcasm towards everything tires me. His devilishness tires me.

When I wanted to look at some of the paintings he mentioned to see how they look, and I searched for some of this art on the Internet, I discovered that from now on I won't be able to enjoy it without it dirtying my pages and disturbing my imagination of the "ugly" environment and circumstances in which they were painted. And thanks to Mr. Orhan... And to not be too unfair to Orhan, let me admit that these miniatures have always, and still do, send shivers and fear through my body, especially those with Chinese facial features, and I don't know why.

In any case, one should always be aware that this "beautiful needle that takes away the light of the eyes in a way similar to hypnosis" is in reality and far from the enchanting and magical expressions, a sharp and terrifying needle used to blind the eye in a horrible and simple way, so that a person loses his sight after it. Can you imagine how ugly this act is? And how much uglier is the talk about it? So what can be said about beautifying it and trying to polish it with malicious expressions that make the reader enjoy its ugliness if not to desire it? I can only think that it's uglier than ugliness itself.

And this is the novel. In short, my opinion of the novel is that it's different and devilish. It's tiring to the extent that I lost my cheerfulness when I finished it. They say Pamuk is talented. He is truly talented, but like a devil.

Corpse
My death hides a terrifying conspiracy against our religion, traditions, and the way we view the world.
Black
The earthy scent of mud combines with memories.
Tree
I don't desire to be a tree; I long to be its meaning.
Black
It is crucial that a painting, through its beauty, calls us towards life's richness, compassion, respect for the colors of the realm God created, and towards reflection and faith.
Black
Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight.
Stork
Painting is the act of seeking Allah's memories and seeing the world as He does.
Esther
Does love make one a fool, or do only fools fall in love?
Esther
Haste slows down the fruits of love.
Shekure
Just as those who know how to read a picture, one should know how to read a dream.
Red
Color is the touch of the eye, the music of the deaf, a word from the darkness.
Red
Wherever I am spread, I witness eyes shining, passions rising, eyebrows arching, and heartbeats accelerating. Behold how wonderful it is to live! Behold how wonderful it is to see. Behold - living is seeing. I am everywhere.
Red
Colors are not known but felt.
Uncle
What I called memory held an entire world - with time stretching infinitely in both directions before me.
Uncle
From now on, nothing was limited, and I had boundless time and space to experience all eras and all places.
Uncle
What is the meaning of all this, of this world? Mystery, I heard in my thoughts, or perhaps, mercy.
Enishte
Don't paint like yourself; paint as if you were someone else.
Master
He would force them to recall nonexistent memories, to envision and paint a future they would never want to live.
Black
For men like me, that is, melancholy men for whom love, agony, happiness, and misery are just excuses for maintaining eternal loneliness.
Murderer
Painting brings to life what the mind sees, like a feast for the eyes.
Murderer
It was Satan who first said "I"! It was Satan who adopted a style.
Satan
I believe in myself, and most of the time, I don't care about what has been said about me.
Satan
The opposite of what I say is not always true.
Satan
Was it not You who instilled pride in man by making the angels bow before him?
Satan
Men are worshiping themselves, placing themselves at the center of the world.
Shekure
I felt how my words were piercing his flesh like nails.
Black
They have emerged from Allah's memory. This is why time has stopped for them within that picture.
Woman
When you are a woman, you don't feel like the devil.
Woman
I wanted to be powerful and the object of pity.
Stork
An artist's skill depends on carefully attending to the beauty of the present moment.
Butterfly
The illuminator draws not what he sees but what Allah sees.
Black
He taught me that the hidden flaw of style is not something the artist chooses voluntarily but is determined by the artist's past and forgotten memories.
Olive
Time doesn't flow if you don't dream.
Murderer
I feel like the devil not because I've killed two men but because my portrait has been made in this way.
Shekure
Love, however, must be understood not through a woman's logic but through its illogic.

“Il mio nome è rosso” is a captivating novel by the Turkish Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk, published in 1998. Set in Istanbul in 1591, it weaves a complex and mysterious tale through the alternating voices of its protagonists. The story begins with the voice of a dead man, Raffinato Effendi, a talented miniaturist killed by a colleague. We are drawn into a whirlwind narrative that follows the tradition of storytellers, with stories within stories in a continuous framework.

The world of miniaturists under the Ottoman Empire is at its peak, with Sultan Murad III commissioning important works and exalting their art. However, a secret book being worked on by the most skilled miniaturists引发了越来越明显的亵渎指控. Three suspects, known by the nicknames given by their Maestro - Oliva, Cicogna, and Farfalla - are on one side, while Nero, who returns to Istanbul after twelve years, is on the other.

The voices of women and men, as well as unexpected protagonists like a dog, a tree, or a coin, tell this story. It is the designs that these men strive for, as they seek to reconcile art and religion. The color red dominates, symbolizing strength and will. Istanbul is the emblematic city of the encounter and conflict between the West and the East. Fanatical groups, then as now, see evil and filth in everything, even a cup of coffee.

The accusation is that of imitating European art, where the designs center on man and his vision of the world. The Muslim eye, on the other hand, can only be an instrument to show the only possible vision: that of Allah. This is why there can be no perspective in miniatures, and everything remains flat. The Muslim artist is also denied a personal style and the ability to sign their work, as it is considered an act of vanity. Thus, thoughts are divided between those who want to continue following the old masters and those who, inspired by the Europeans, want to find a way to reconcile different views on reality.

Fanaticism coexists with a more devious and material aspect: greed and ambition. What drove the hand of the assassin? Was it the thirst for revenge of one who craves success or the desire for justice of one who considers only the old precepts sacred? This is a story that combines the disputes that have truly animated the artistic environment with the age-old questions that have always tormented human beings, asking: “Who am I?”

“ Disegnano tutto quello che l'occhio vede, come l'occhio lo vede. Loro disegnano quello che vedono, noi invece disegniamo quello che guardiamo.”







“... non dimentichiamo che «artista» nel Corano è un attributo di Allah. Nessuno deve tentare di competere con lui. Che i pittori tentino di fare quello che fa Lui e affermino di essere dei creatori come Lui è il più grande dei peccati”



“ Il miniaturista ha un suo stile personale, un suo colore, una voce? Li deve avere?”