La motivazione per la quale Orhan Pamuk ha vinto nel 2006 il premio nobel per la letteratura dice "che nel ricercare l'anima malinconica della sua città natale, ha scoperto nuovi simboli per rappresentare scontri e legami fra diverse culture"
Il mio nome è rosso narra proprio di uno scontro tra due diverse culture, due diverse visioni del mondo in cui la differenza è il posto che l’uomo occupa nel creato. Ma non solo questo, Il mio nome è rosso è anche la storia di un assassinio e della ricerca del colpevole; è la storia di un uomo e di una donna che devono affrontare i fantasmi del passato per potersi rappropriare del proprio presente.
La vicenda si svolge a Istanbul nel 1591; l’oggetto della contesa è un misterioso libro che il Sultano, in gran segreto, sta facendo illustrare utilizzando le tecniche pittoriche europee. Attorno questo misterioso libro si muovono tutti i personaggi: Raffinato Effendi (doratore di talento e vittima di un efferato omicidio che trova il movente proprio nel libro segreto), Zio Effendi (che, per conto del Sultano, supervisiona la realizzazione del libro), maestro Osman (capo miniaturista del laboratorio reale che disprezza il metodo europeo), i maestri miniaturisti (Oliva, Cicogna e Farfalla, tra i quali si nasconde l’assassino, che in gran segreto aiutano Zio Effendi nell’illustrazione del libro), Șeküre (la bella figlia di Zio effendi, legata dalla legge a un marito probabilmente morto in guerra da diversi anni e alla di lui famiglia), Nero (nipote di Zio Effendi e da sempre innamorato di Șeküre), l’ebrea Esther (venditrice di corredi ma soprattutto sensale di matrimoni), gli stessi personaggi del libro segreto che non perdono occasione per dire la loro su tutta la faccenda del metodo migliore per raffigurarli.
Si tratta di una materia affascinante che, però, rende la vicenda “densa”: ogni parola, ogni frase deve essere pienamente compresa per poter procedere nel percorso tracciato dall’autore. Il mio nome è rosso è un libro che va assaporato lentamente come un vino pregiato per poterne cogliere le sfumature, i rimandi continui alla cultura e alla storia turca, alla concezione dell’uomo nella religione islamica. È una vicenda che richiede approfondimenti sull’arte della miniatura per comprendere e, soprattutto, vedere quei disegni che Pamuk descrive in ogni pagina. Internet è un supporto necessario alla comprensione di questo libro e, per fortuna, dentro al rete possiamo trovare quasi tutto: le immagini delle miniature del periodo ottomano e quelle delle epoche successive (soprattutto quelle più vicine a noi) per comprendere come questa forma d’arte si sia modificata in seguito alle influenze occidentali; gli articoli sulla storia della miniatura che illustrano le diverse scuole con la loro tecnica e la loro estetica; i compendi di letteratura che ci fanno conoscere l’epoca d’oro degli autori bizantini e ottomani.
Date queste premesse, scrivere su questo libro è veramente difficile perché, leggendolo, mi sono resa conto di non conoscere quasi nulla della storia turca e, soprattutto, della religione islamica, nonostante il mio continuo ricorso a google e wikipedia (non voglio affermare che sia questo il modo migliore per acquisire nuove conoscenze, ma in mancanza di altri supporti è già qualcosa). Per fortuna Pamuk conosce e utilizza molto bene anche i fondamenti filosofici della cultura occidentale e quindi alcuni aspetti penso di averli compresi, o quanto meno di avergli dato un senso e una mia chiave di lettura. So bene che non riuscirò a scrivere tutto quello che ho trovato dentro questo libro, ma questo non è male sia per evitare recensioni fiume (anche se questa lo è) sia per suscitare qualche curiosità e spingervi a leggere il libro, che, per me, è un vero capolavoro.

La questione intorno alla quale dibattono tutti i miniaturisti del romanzo è, fuori da ogni metafora, il ruolo dell’uomo nel mondo e il suo rapporto con il creato. Gli europei pensano che l’uomo, fatto a immagine e somiglianza di Dio e salvato da un Dio che si è fatto uomo, debba stare al centro dell’universo e possa esercitare il suo predominio sul mondo che Dio gli ha donato, come scritto nella Genesi:

[27] Dio creò l'uomo a sua immagine; a immagine di Dio lo creò;
maschio e femmina li creò.
[28] Dio li benedisse e disse loro:
"Siate fecondi e moltiplicatevi,
riempite la terra;
soggiogatela e dominate
sui pesci del mare
e sugli uccelli del cielo
e su ogni essere vivente,
che striscia sulla terra".

La filosofia europea (l’umanesimo e tutto quello che segue) mette l’uomo al centro del mondo e i pittori interpretano alla lettera questa superiorità di posizione rispetto all’intero creato mettendo le persone ritratte al centro della tela. Non solo, i grandi maestri europei ricreano sulla tela la realtà così come la vedono, utilizzando la prospettiva e il colore nelle sue diverse gradazioni per riprodurre le distorsioni percettive che la nostra mente utilizza per avere informazioni sul mondo che ci circonda. L’uomo, come Dio, diventa creatore e sulla tela non si limita a riportare una figura umana ma riproduce uno specifico soggetto (in genere il committente) che in questo modo diventa immortale, riuscendo a superare i limiti di tempo e spazio per farsi ammirare dalle generazioni successive.
I miniaturisti islamici invece sanno che al centro dell’universo c’è la volontà di Allah.

n  Devo dirvi che tutto quello che ci accade può venire narrato in un libro, ma disegnarlo non si può, e non lo possono fare neanche i miniaturisti più esperti. Proprio come il Corano – che non si intenda male, Allah non voglia! – la forza sconvolgente di un libro dipende anche dal fatto che non può mai essere narrato attraverso i disegni. Temo che non abbiate capito. n

La rappresentazione pittorica serve ad illustrare il testo, non può avere autonomia perché l’uomo non può creare nulla, neanche come semplice riproduzione. Le immagini non devono diventare idoli come accadrebbe se avessero una loro intrinseca dignità e fossero appese alla parete per essere ammirate. Compito supremo del miniaturista è riprodurre il mondo come lo vede Allah, che con un solo sguarda abbraccia tutto il creato: oriente e occidente, passato e presente. Tutta la vita del miniaturista è volta verso la conquista della visione di Allah, trascendendo l’ingannevole visione che del mondo gli forniscono gli occhi e la mente: per tale ragione, il massimo dono che Allah fa ai miniaturisti è la cecità, il buio totale grazie al quale è possibile accedere a quelle categorie universali che sono la vera essenza del reale.

“Si, sono cieco – gli disse – Ma ho in mente tutte le meraviglie del libro che ho dipinto in questi ultimi undici anni, ricordo ogni tocco di penna e di pennello e la mia mano sa disegnare a memoria senza che io debba vedere. Mio Khan, io posso dipingere per te il più bel libro mai visto fino a oggi. Perché i miei occhi ormai non possono più soffermarsi sulle brutture di questo mondo ed esserne distratti, posso disegnare a memoria e nel modo più puro le meraviglie di Allah”

Per illustrare la sua tesi, Pamuk ci descrive migliaia di miniature che, nella maggior parte dei casi, hanno sempre lo stesso soggetto, ma ciascuna delle quali serve ad aggiungere un tassello alle diverse tesi riportate nel libro. Sicuramente questo rende la lettura del libro più lenta, ma (per me) assolutamente interessante e senza un attimo di noia perché in ogni descrizione ho cercato di coglierne il senso.
È chiaro (o almeno lo è per me) che da queste due antitetiche visioni dell’uomo, discendono una serie di conseguenze che sono ancora oggi sotto i nostri occhi. Estremizzando e semplificando, la posizione occidentale ha, gradatamente, portato l’uomo a separare la religione dalla politica e dalla regolamentazione sociale (almeno ufficialmente c’è una separazione tra Stato e Chiesa). La posizione islamica, almeno nelle sue forme fondamentaliste, subordina sempre l’operato dell’uomo alla volontà di Dio (sia ben inteso, la volontà di Dio come gli uomini la recepiscono e la interpretano).
Quindi meglio l’Occidente dell’Oriente islamico? Pamuk, almeno mi sembra, suggerisce che esiste, deve esistere, una terza via che è la contaminazione e la possibilità di accogliere i fermenti che giungono da altre culture.

n  Ad Allah appartengono l’Oriente e l’Occidente. Allah ci protegga dai desideri di colui che è puro e non si è mescolato.n

È impossibile fermare i la contaminazione, ma esplicitandola è possibile governarla. Il rischio, viceversa, è quello di essere sopraffatti e di non riuscire a valorizzare il proprio patrimonio culturale.

Trovate questa conclusione banale? Se è così è perché io l’ho resa tale: solo leggendo il libro si può cogliere la bravura di Pamuk che riesce a mescolare tutti gli aspetti e a calare queste complesse discussioni filosofiche nella quotidianità dei miniaturisti del Sultano, utilizzando uno stile non privo di ironia, per cui i personaggi del libro sono consapevoli di essere parte di una storia e non esitano a rivolgersi al lettore per conquistarne la benevolenza. I diversi protagonisti sono ben caratterizzati e non sono delle semplici voci di una posizione filosofica. Ne è la prova che mentre leggevo cercavo continuamente degli indizi per capire chi fosse l’assassino, mi arrabbiavo (al punto che l’avrei picchiata) con Șeküre per l’incapacità di assumersi la responsabilità delle sue azioni, provavo sincera ammirazione per la capacità di mediazione di Esther e la sincerità dei suoi sentimenti.
Se siete arrivati sino a qui, siete persone curiose e pazienti, avete tutti i numeri per sfidare Orhan Pamuk e conoscere il Rosso.

رغم طول الرواية وتفاصيل النقش والرسم والتلوين والتهذيب فقد استمتعت بها .
وأرى انها تحفة ولا اعرف اذا فاز بجائزة نوبل للاداب على هذه الرواية ولكن تستحق الفوز .
لولا انها رواية تاريخية لاعتقدت ان الكاتب يعمل نقاشا .
وصف الصراعات الداخلية عند شخصيات الرواية ملهم ويثير العجب وكأنها شخصيات من العصر الحاضر وهذه من عظمة هذا الكاتب.
شكرا اورهان باموق

I am in two minds about this book.

Obviously, it is an important work. It showcases the miniaturist tradition of the Islamic world, and uses the cloistered world of miniaturists to explore the difference in philosophies between the East and the West. It was all the more interesting to me because I have been fascinated by this difference ever since I began viewing paintings with serious interest. In the East, "perspective" does not exist: the painting flows seamlessy over space and time whereas in the West (especially since the Renaissance) the painting is the reproduction of a particular moment in time (we are not talking of abstractions here). The miniaturist paints the world as God sees it: he does not sign the painting, nor does he have an individual style, because he is unimportant. He continues painting (in fact, he paints better!) after he inevitably goes blind. The Frankish painters, in contrast, paint the world as we see it, which is blasphemy according to some of the miniaturists.

I was captivated by the sweep of the book as well as the way it was presented: short chapters, each from the viewpoint of a different character, as though we were looking at a book of miniatures which tells a different story on each page. Moreover, it is a murder mystery in which the victims as well as the murderer directly speak to the reader! It bears a certain resemblance to "The Name of the Rose" in this regard, although Eco's book is much more powerful according to me.

Coming to the minuses: the writing is cumbersome and a task to wade through. I do not know if this is a problem with Pamuk's writing or the translation. The characters are flat: the protagonist (Black) is too weak and cowardly: the heroine (if we can call her that!) too self-centred and manipulative. Maybe the author intended them to be like that, but it does lose reader interest.

I was also rather put off by the amount of lust bubbling on each page. Apart from normal sex (including homosexuality), there is incest, paedophilia, bestiality, fetishism... simmering just beneath the surface. Young boys are regularly presented as objects of lust. Men kiss each other passionately, even when one is about to kill the other! I have heard that Turkey was the centre of "deviant" sexual practices during Ottoman times, so maybe it is a true picture, but it did not vibe with me.

(Edit to add: a person has commented that this paragraph is likely to give the impression that I am attacking LGBTQ people, and on reading it again, I find that there is some substance to the accusation. So I have edited it suitably. The whole idea of putting "deviant" in quotes was to highlight the dubiousness of the label. However, it was the lust that disturbed me and not the sexual preference. Maybe it is my personal problem, that is why I have noted it down subjectively.)

So...adding the negatives and positives, I will go for three stars.

(review in English below)

Este livro é provavelmente uma obra-prima, mas não me cativou.

Fiz um esforço para chegar à página 100 - acabei por ficar na 101, por ser o final dum capítulo - mas nem o facto de o tema principal ser a pintura, nem os capítulos curtos, conseguiram manter-me interessada.

Aborreci-me a maior parte do tempo, com as vozes demasiado parecidas dos vários narradores, com os contos e as suas "morais", com tudo, enfim, e acho que assim não vale a pena.

Vou ler qualquer coisa divertida para desanuviar!

This book is probably a masterpiece, but didn't captivate me.

I struggled to get to page 100 - I stopped at 101 because it was the end of a chapter - but neither the fact that the main subject is painting, nor the short chapters, managed to keep my interest.

I was bored most of the time, by the overly alike voices of the different narrators, by the several tales and its morality, by everything, really, and I don't think it's worth it.

Now I'll go read something funny to unwind!

ترکیبی زیبا از هنر، فرهنگ، تاریخ، تاریخِ هنرِ عثمانی و صفوی و همینطور داستانی عاشقانه، معمایی و رازآلود و کمی هم جنایی.... البته کمی هم چاشنی سورئال.
ریویوو نوشتن برای این کتاب سخته، در همین حد کافیست.!

کتاب با روایت یک جسد که ته چاه افتاده شروع میشود و با پیدا شدن قاتل به سرانجام میرسد.

هر قسمت از داستان را یکی از شخصیت ها روایت میکند تا جایی که سگ، اسب، قلندر، شیطان و حتی مرکب سرخ نیز راوی میشوند و چیزی روایت میکنند.


اوایل کتاب بود که متوجه شباهت زیاد فضاهای مختلف داستان با «بی کتابی» محمدرضا شرفی خبوشان شدم
- فضای تاریخی و دربار پادشاه زمان
- ماجرا و سرنوشت کتابهایی که به دربار شاهان اهدا میشوند
- و حتی معمای قتل!

قبل از خواندن کتاب اصلا انتظار نداشتم که نام من سرخ بشه یکی از کتابهایی که از این به بعد به دوستان پیشنهاد میکنم.
خیلی خوشحالم که همچین کتاب خوبی رو با صدای آقای سلطان زاده گوش کردم.
موسیقی ابتدا و انتهای ترک ها خیلی جذاب بودند و با حال و هوای داستان همخوانی فراوان داشتند.

نکته جالب توجه اینکه در طول شنیدن کتاب اصلا احساس نکردم که این کتاب خارجی است. به قدری از شاهنامه ی فردوسی و خسرو و شیرین نظامی حرف به میان آمد و به قدری به نمازهای صبح و ظهر و شب و صدای اذان که در خیابان شنیده میشود اشاره شد که خیلی احساس نزدیکی به داستان رو به شنونده (خواننده) ایرانی میداد. کتاب های ایرانی که تا به حال خوانده‌ام هیچ کدام انقدر در وصف شعرا و هنرمندان ایرانی خوب ننوشته اند و هیچ کدام شاید حتی یک بار هم در حالت عادی و زندگی روزمره از صدای اذان و مسجد رفتن و نماز خواندن چیزی ننوشته‌اند!

گوش کردن این کتاب تجربه ای بس دلنشین بود.



https://taaghche.com/audiobook/30538

My Name is Red is a novel on a grand scale, set in 16th century Istanbul, a tale that is complex, wondrous & at times humorous but which also represents an occasionally frustrating blend of Turkish history, autobiographical detail & ultimately a murder mystery that sweeps the reader into the late medieval Muslim world of miniaturist art & the lives of those devoted to creating it.



Orhan Pamuk's masterful work of fiction can be compared to Herman Hesse' Magister Ludi (The Bead Game) and Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose.

The first person narrative includes the primary miniature artists, including Olive, Stork, Butterfly & Black but also extended to their mentor & head illustrator, Osman, Black's beloved, Shekure, a tree, a horse, a dog, a corpse, Satan & two dervishes. The elaborate cast of characters stating their case even includes the color red, becoming akin to an active character in the novel.

In an attempt to describe how these many divergent voices interact with each other, I would suggest that My Name is Red functions as a kind of morality play pitting opposed forces against one another--good vs. evil; east vs. west, with Istanbul as crossroads; traditional Muslim miniaturist art vs. the encroaching force of Venetian or "Frankish" (western) art that is more representational & more personal; and even Persian military strength & Chinese influence arriving via the Silk Road, viewed as a threat to Islamic art, to the Koran & to the Turkish interpretation of history.

However, of the many infidel or non-Islamic incursions, the greatest peril occurs when the sultan sends envoys to Italy to view Venetian paintings that are far different from traditional miniaturist art in terms of style, use of color, the manner in which the characters are personalized & even the employment of the artist's signature on the painting, all of which are seen by some as a distinct threat to Islamic values.

For, traditional miniaturist art is representational only in a vague manner, most certainly never portraying specific or recognizable faces rather than generic figures. It is declared by a renowned Islamic historian from Herat in present-day Afghanistan that "the greatest sin of the devil is to say I". Alas, there are a great many "infidel influences", coffee among them. Here is just one view of the way in which the work of a miniaturist is viewed:

We mistakenly assumed that these stories arose out of words & that illustrations were painted in service to these stories. Quite to the contrary, painting is the act of seeking out Allah's memories & viewing the world as he sees it. A miniaturist united with the vision & landscape of Allah's immortal time can never return to the manuscript pages meant for ordinary mortals.

My Name is Red is exceedingly dense at times, introducing Turkish history & rarefied words dealing with miniature art that have a particular meaning only in the context of the story, while at the same time conveying a rich tapestry of detail that with each page causes the reader to become increasingly invested in this amazing jigsaw puzzle of novel.



One of the considerable allegorical tools used by Orhan Pamuk in My Name is Red is countering the illumination of visual detail via illustration with blindness. The author does this very adeptly throughout his novel. Miniaturists are so devoted to their craft that eventual blindness is seen as a gift.

They accepted the work, the endless drawing & staring at pages by candlelight for days without break, as the pleasurable labor that delivered the miniaturist to blindness, with some seeking out the most appropriate moment for this most glorious of approaching eventualities, either by purposely hurrying blindness through the painstaking depictions of trees & all their leaves on fingernails, grains of rice & even on strands of hair, or by cautiously delaying the imminent darkness by the effortless drawing of pleasant sun-filled gardens.

Some of the miniaturists of the old style look upon blindness as the greatest virtue of Allah's grace & they are embarrassed by growing old but not blind.

Later in the novel, a miniaturist intentionally blinds himself in order to "preserve his vision" of art within his consciousness, while not being called upon to adjust to a changing style, while another artist is blinded by a rival. The questions arises as to whether the measure of a miniaturist's talent is to depict everything with perfection or to introduce into the picture that which no one else can see.



Always, art is driven by an intense life-force which can either "force the most devout man to renounce his faith or bring the most hopeless, unrepentant unbeliever to Allah's path". For, if an artist draws a horse differently, he begins to see the world differently, with the ensuing personal style seen as leading to damnation.

What attracts us to writing, illustrating & painting in bound up in a fear of retribution. We also want those we have forsaken to see & appreciate the inspired pictures we've made, even if they should call us sinners.

Genuine painting is hidden in the agony no one sees & which others will call bad, heretical or blasphemous. Oh the suffering this brings upon the painter of genuine talent, a frightful, nerve-wracking experience! The birth of a new style vs. imitation of an old one results in years of disagreements, jealousies & rivalries.

There is murder embedded within My Name is Red but to even hint at the complexity to this aspect of the novel might come close to revealing the mystery that is at the heart of Orhan Pamuk's master work.

What constituted for me much of the beauty of this expansive novel was the author's attempt to have the reader see the world through the eyes of the characters in a miniature painting, to drop back in time as it were & to visualize Istanbul in the 16th century, with each element of this mosaic of characters having a distinct voice, even if the reader is a Frank (non-Islamic) spectator "committing the error of looking at the world with his naked eye & rendering what he saw."

As with the title of the Pamuk novel, red is more than just a color in the miniaturists' palate but has a metaphorical & symbolic role to play, merging bloodshed with a dominant, forceful color, as when a character intones, "we imagined how we watched with pleasure the slow spread of a deadly red seeping from a bronze ink-pot that had cracked over a page 3 illuminators have labored on for 3 months."

Likewise, there are frequent references to the early 11th century Persian epic, the Shahnameh ("Book of Kings") by Ferdowsi & to the tale of Husrev & Shirin, a 12th century Persian work by Nizami. There are elements in My Name is Red that bear witness to these classic stories & others that are drawn from the author's own life.



I have chosen to focus on the craft of painting & illustration in my review because it was through a long consideration of the process of painting that Orhan Pamuk was able to distill his knowledge of miniatures into the tale that eventually became the novel.

However, in this way, I can also avoid dealing with spoiler alerts & leave the solution to the novel's great mystery component to future readers. My Name is Red represents a fusion of words & colors, of narrative tale & miniature art + the fairy tale-like material derived from classical Islamic literature, all in all, a magical blend.

The author's very personal introduction in my Everyman's Library/Alfred A. Knopf version of the novel is extensive & stands as an overview of the gestation process for My Name is Red, 6 years in the process of writing but reflective of the author's lifelong interest in painting in general & specifically in the world of miniature art.

*The translation from the Turkish was by Erdag Goknar. **The map & historical chronology were also quite helpful. ***Within my review are 3 photo images of Orhan Pamuk + an example of the Ottoman/Turkish artwork the author cherishes.

This book is as much about art as it is a historical novel.

First the novel. A tale of miniaturist painters in Istanbul during the late 1500’s. The deceased master’s daughter is in a religious and political limbo: her soldier husband has been missing for four years, but with no body and no witnesses to his death, she can’t get a divorce and move on with her life. She wants to find a new husband and a father for her two young boys and get away from the amorous intentions of her husband’s brother. And there's a murder mystery.

Enter a man called Black, an administrator of sorts who has returned to town after twelve years in distant lands. He still carries a torch for the beautiful widow from his days as a youth. Can he find her father’s killer, keep the brother-in-law at bay, help her get a legal divorce, and win her hand in marriage? Along the way we have blended into the text what are really mini-essays about horses; dogs in the Koran: what it’s like to be a murderer; Satan; the path of a counterfeit coin, etc.

At least half of this lengthy work is about art. (I say lengthy because the 500-page paperback I read was tiny type, so this is a 700- or 800- page book in normal font.) Miniaturist painting was imported into the Ottoman Empire from Persia. Most of the painting was done as pictures in books and to illustrate the borders of pages of books, accompanied by elaborate calligraphy. (Think of the Irish monks’ manuscripts such as the Book of Kells.)

Ottoman miniaturist painting was highly stylized. Pictures were drawn from the viewpoint of Allah, from the top of a minaret, and did not use what the West thinks of as true perspective. Armies lined up symmetrically in battle scenes; horses always had the same foreleg raised; a finger placed in a mouth always represented surprise. In accordance with religious concerns about idolatry, faces were generic, not individualized. Who would dare place an identifiable individual at the center of a painting? Man can copy; only Allah can create. The painter tried to portray the ideal horse or chair as Allah created it (think Plato’s “ideal chair”), not the individual variant before them. Is individuality expressed by a traditional miniaturist painter “style” or a “flaw?” Does it offend God?



Compare all this to the European masters at the time such as da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael (the Turks called them “the Venetians”). So a lot of the book is about East meets West in the art world. All in all, an excellent book from the Nobel Prize-winning Pamuk. The story kept my interest and I enjoyed learning about Ottoman art, even when the sections where the miniaturists talked about the philosophy behind painting got repetitive at times.

You know when you’re in the hands of a master when you are presented with a story that is so different to anything you’ve read before – AND the author makes it stick.

This is a historical fiction love story AND a whodunnit AND an educational piece on Islamic, Frankish and Venetian art. The art component of this book was a surprise and was the reason for me reading this at a snail’s pace. It gets complicated, heavy at times, but fascinating. The miniaturist was the most fascinating member of the illustration team – these guys used the hairs from a cat’s belly for their brushes. I hope the cat wasn't killed in this process.

Each chapter is delivered as a first-person narrative. Which is brilliant, as you’re not sure who to trust. There are chapters narrated by a dog, a corpse, inanimate objects, such as a coin, or even a physical phenomenon like the colour red. Amazing.

We’re in 1591 Istanbul. The all-powerful Sultan has commissioned a bunch of artists, illuminators, calligraphers, miniaturists, and writers to create a book that depicts him and his reign in a different artistic style to that of traditional Islamic art.

This is controversial as Islamic art is not supposed to depict images in a realistic way – such as the European paintings we are familiar with – which can be almost photolike. The only one who can create real-life imagery is Allah. For mere mortals to do otherwise is blasphemous.



An example of 16th century Islamic art. As you can see it’s hardly realistic. The creation of realism – well, that’s the job of Allah. Notice the lack of perspective. Da Vinci would be rolling in his grave



An example of European art (realistic images) – this of Sultan Murat III – during whose rule, the events in this book take place

The first chapter of this books is narrated by a corpse. The product of a savage murder, he’s found at the bottom of a well. This chapter is called “I am a Corpse.” There’s the start of our whodunnit.

Concurrently, we have a man called Black, who returns to Istanbul after a twelve-year absence, and finds he is still attracted to a beautiful woman he knew when both were children, called Shekure. Shekure's husband has not returned from the battlefront for a four-years. Black is in love with Shekure and wishes to marry her. Shekure’s brother-in-law also has the same desires. Drama and intrigue ensue. There's the other complexity involving the challenges involved in divorcing a man who may still be alive.

There are over twenty narrators in this book. Believe me, it doesn’t get confusing, the format helps and creates a feeling of ‘being there’.

There’s one other thing about Pamuk, he can be bloody funny at times, and he also drops in the occasional explicitly erotic scene, something to keep the blood rushing through the reader’s veins. Not this reader of course, I’m above all of that!

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

I really have too much to say – so I had better stop.

I highly recommended this book. I initially gave this four-stars, but after dwelling on how good this was for a couple of days, I had to re-grade it to a thumping fiver-stars!!!!

5 Stars

Un roman important despre o lume închisă, de stereotipuri și cutume străvechi, leneșă, obligată brusc (la sfîrșitul secolului al XVI-lea) să se deschidă și să țină seama de obiceiurile apusene. Și nu numai în ceea ce privește pictura, caligrafia și desenul.

Două cărți mi-au venit în minte în timpul lecturii: Secretul culorii pure a lui Federico Andahazi, o povestire modestă despre două școli de pictură rivale în Occident (florentină și flamandă). Dar, mai presus de orice, Numele trandafirului de Umberto Eco.

Stilul lui Pamuk amintește, în schimb (nu știu de ce nu mă miră deloc acest fapt), de stilul lui Borges. Iată o frază care sună perfect borgesian: „Am zăbovit vreme îndelungată, fără să mă clintesc din loc. Am privit lumea. Totul”.

Și încă una în care Pamuk repetă verbul „a vedea” așa cum face Borges în povestirea El Aleph, dar și Roberto Bolaño în Detectivii sălbatici:

„N-am vorbit deloc, vreme îndelungată. Am văzut bufniţa care se aşezase pe acoperişul unei bisericuţe greceşti, în aşteptarea nopţii. I-am văzut pe mucoşii din mahala cum se uitau la straiele şi la bocceaua mea şi rîdeau. Am văzut un cîine rîios care se tot scărpina în vreme ce cobora voios din cimitirul cu chiparoşi în stradă, ieşind în întîmpinarea nopţii”.

Aș mai vrea să adaug ceva. Stilul lui Orhan Pamuk nu este deloc manierist (cum au găsit unii cronicari). E bogat, mlădios, liric, asta da. Manierist? Cîtuși de puțin. Metaforele lui Pamuk au o mare prospețime. Iar prospețimea lor dezminte manierismul. Fiindcă, în opinia mea, manierismul înseamnă uscăciune, absență a trăirii.

Citez: „[Își închipui] o frumuseţe din Kazvin, cu pielea ca arama şi gura vineţie”.

Sau: „Tăcerea s-a întins asemenea unei flori care se deschide fără ca măcar să bagi de seamă”.

Dacă nu aveți romanul lui Orhan Pamuk sau, vai vouă!, încă nu l-ați citit, dați buzna în librării și puneți mîna pe el. După ce-l terminați, dați-mi și mie un peșcheș, un plocon, un bacșiș, că v-am îndemnat să-l cumpărați. Polirom a scos mai multe ediții...

P. S. Mă numesc Roșu NU este un thriller :)

I loved this book. It's passionate, provocative and intelligent, surprisingly bringing the field of 16th-century miniaturist painting to bear on aesthetic and ethical issues that seem urgent (at least for artists) today. The main concern is with the notion of 'style' in art: is it desirable to have a personal style as an artist or are traces of style simply evidence of faults? In the process of investigating this question we discover the more fundamental question: what constitutes 'style'? Characters in the novel approach these questions philosophically, but the characters' positioning within a story makes for a much richer account than a philosophical treatise on the subject could give. The characters have their views on style, but at the same time they are actors – fiercely competitive ones – and any account of their actions according to their philosophical beliefs would be mere theorizing. Two murders and one wedding occur alongside such diverse attempts at explanation by the participating characters as to defy rational accounts of motivation.

Each chapter shifts the first-person narrative to a different character in the story, some of whom even conceal their own voice while narrating. The opening chapter 'I Am a Corpse' gives just the bold shock needed for a book on the seemingly genteel subject of miniature painting.

Hope to read the whole book again, among other reasons in order better to learn the Middle Eastern history contained here from the perspective of Turkey.

Lots of people must like this book (it won a Nobel Prize), but I put it aside after less than 50 pages. It seems to me that this, like WOLF HALL, was written more to please the author than his readers.