Ungemein packend und anziehend ist die sprachliche Gestaltung diese Romans. Pamuk entfaltet ein Panorama des noch mittelalterlich geprägten Lebens im osmanischen Reich zur Zeit der (westeuropäischen) Renaissance. Verpackt als historischer Krimi (wie bei Dostojewskij) wird anhand von Theologie und Kunstgeschichte die Zerrissenheit von Orient und Oxident beschrieben. So ist der Roman thematisch brandaktuell.

So yeah, I expected to like this book a lot. I mean, I typically enjoy books from this setting. For whatever reason I find the Byzantine and Ottoman Empires fascinating. Maybe because they sit between East and West and end up with a fascinating mix of different cultures and ideas, maybe because they are both so long lasting, or maybe it is because they, like Rodney Dangerfield, don't get no respect. But, as you can tell by the rating, it miserably failed to live up to my expectations.

Whatever the reason this book's description, murder of a miniaturist (artist) that was working on a controversial book for the Sultan, spoke to that part of my book sensibility. I mean, Ottoman Empire + Murder Mystery = Awesome book right? Right?!? RIGHT!?!?!?!

Well, in theory yes, but not in execution, for a multitude of reasons.

The biggest was that I just didn't care about the characters one bit. I didn't find any of them interesting or particularly engaging. Their troubles seemed particularly petty and uninteresting to me. The murder investigation (if it can even be called that) was mostly in the background and didn't really rev up until the end of the book. Too much was dedicated to the dull "love" story between Black and Shekure that bored me to no end (it didn't help there was a large age gap and the fact that they were first cousins). The first person and introspective nature of their POV characters just made them even more insufferable. Finally, the frequent change in POV was detrimental to any sort of narrative inertia.

Which isn't to say there were not any interesting characters, it just so happened that the only chapters that were engaging were from the POV of the recently deceased or items a storyteller was speaking through (a counterfeit coin, a dog, a horse). They explored more subtle aspects of Ottoman society and culture with a rather irreverent tone that pleased me. Or maybe they just weren't the boring humans the endeared themselves to me, honestly that bar was pretty low for me by the end.

And this is a shame because the book touches on what I think is a fascinating discussion about art, style, artist workshops, cultural and religious relationships within art and the wider society. All told the examination of how "Frankish" art, one that has perspective and tried to perfectly mimic what the artist sees, was going to impact the Ottoman style, which was based on older masters and the philosophy that a painting should represent what Allah saw. The idea that the old ways, which had been preserved for centuries, might be displaced by a new style, a style antithetical to the old way and from infidels, is a rich concept to explore. But the same themes about this topic were repeated too frequently and killed any interesting expansion of these ideas.

This book could have been great. It could have dug deeper into Ottoman society (of which we barely scratched the surface). It could have more clearly plumbed the depths of the artistic style dynamics that drove the action of the story without beating it into the ground. It could have had interesting characters that were dynamic and not bogged down in petty, uninteresting love plot lines. It could have been so much more but it wasn't and that may be the biggest tragedy of the entire thing. I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed.

داستان از زبان شخصیت‌‌های متعددی روایت می‌شه و بیشتر در مورد هنر نقاشیه.
کتاب نیمه تاریخی، نیمه عاشقانه، نیمه هنری و نیمه معماییه.
نظر شخصی من در مورد این کتاب هم یه جورایی همینه! به عبارت دیگه، این کتاب با وجود حجیم بودنش، در همه موارد به همین صورت نصفه نیمه ظاهر شده.
نوع شخصیت‌پردازی کتاب حتی با وجود اینکه هر بخش از داستان از زبان خود شخصیت‌ها روایت شده، برای من منجر به شناخت بهتری از شخصیت‌ها و داشتن تصوری درست و درمون ازشون نشد. در واقع هیچ حس خاصی نسبت به هیچکدوم از شخصیت‌ها نداشتم. تنها کارکتری که به نظرم توی کتاب بهتر بهش پرداخته شده بود و می‌شد تصوری ازش داشت شکوره بود.
داستان برای من بسی کش‌دار و خسته‌کننده بود و به نظرم تمام این حرف‌ها رو می‌شد توی ۳۰۰ صفحه هم زد و بیشتر از نصف کتاب اضافه بود!
ترجمه عین‌اله غریب خوب بود و روون بودنش باعث شد تا انتهای کتاب رو بخونم.
با ارفاق امتیاز دادم!
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یادگاری از کتاب:
نکنه به همین زودی به نبود من عادت کرده باشن؟ آدم وقتی می‌آد این طرف و می‌بینه اون طرف همه چی داره روال عادیش رو طی می‌کنه خیلی ناراحت می‌شه. قبل از اینکه من به دنیا بیام زمان بی‌نهایتی از ازل شروع شده بود، بعد از مرگ من هم تا ابد ادامه خواهد داشت!
...
تا تو دلتون چهره عزیزی رو داشته باشین هنوز دنیا مال شماست.
...
سال‌هاست که به زنای زیبایی که تو کتابای بابام نقاشی شدن نگاه می کنم که همه‌شون خجالتی و محجوب، انگار که شرمنده‌ی کسی باشن زیر پاشون رو نگاه می‌کنن. تو هيچ نقاشی‌ای ندیدم که اونا هم مثل مردا سرشون رو بالا بگیرن و روبه‌رو رو نگاه کنن. مثل این که مردای نقاش، دنیا رو اینجوری دوست دارن.
...
دلیل اصلی تنهاییم اینه که نمی‌دونم مال کدوم قصه‌ام.
...
من نمی‌خوام خود یه درخت باشم، من می‌خوام مفهوم حقیقی وجود یه درخت باشم.
...
هر کی از جاش بلند می‌شه می‌گه وای و واویلا که دینمون در خطره و مذهبمون از دست رفت و ال و بل. این هم دکون خوبی برای نون درآوردن شده‌ها.

ترجمه اسفناک
بی‌شک نشر چشمه مشمول آیه‌ی شریفه‌ی ویل للمطففین ست

Historical murder mystery and reflection on religion, love and death: Mr. Pamuk is pretty ambitious, telling us the story of a man who returns to Istanbul after twelve years away, and is asked to undertake a very dangerous work, reconnect with a lost love and solve the mystery of a man’s death. But this is not simply a very unusual “whodunit”; it’s a complex portrait of a great city at a moment of intense upheaval at the end of the 16th century. The East and the West were becoming reacquainted with each other culturally and commercially, challenging their mutual worldviews and values.

In the Ottoman Empire, representative art was forbidden for religious reasons. The Quran condemned the reproduction of a living being’s image as idol worship, and to glorify the subject of the painting, or the individuality of the artist, was a grievous sin. But since the very nature of an artist is to see the world slightly differently, not all of the painters and miniaturists of Istanbul agreed with the idea of purely abstract representation. Some have traveled to Italy, seen the work of foreign masters and begun to think of their work and their world differently. But some deeply religious people will continue to think of representative art as sacrilege, no matter who commissions the work…

“My Name is Red” is built like one of the mosaics described in the story: like vignettes that would be meaningless by themselves, but that make a rich and grand picture once they are assembled. Each chapter is narrated by a different character; some that we encounter over and over again, and others that we only see once. This gives you a kaleidoscopic view of the story and while the execution is not perfect (and I’m not sure how much of that can be chalked up to translation), it is still a damn impressive literary device! And the little meta-wink at the end was a very nice touch!

The constantly changing POV can be a bit confusing. Again, maybe the original Turkish text was clearer on that, but in the French translation I read, some characters’ voices are hard to tell apart from each other. So if those characters get to rambling about specific cultural details that are not quite relevant to the plot it can get frustratingly tempting to just skim…

This book is really for art and history nerds. If you are not interested in the restrictions imposed by religion on artists to make sure that their work couldn’t be turned into idol worship by the people who would see it, you might find this tedious. If you think philosophical debates about the purpose of art are cool, and you like long conversations about stylistic differences, then you might find this book fascinating. I’ve heard it compared to “The Name of the Rose” in terms of complexity, depth of research and social commentary. I’ve also heard the same warning applied to both books: they are long, intricately detailed and can get very heavy and tedious. I don’t think that such criticism is too far off in the case of “My Name is Red”, but I don’t think that should discourage serious readers from diving in.

I rated it 3 and half stars because I won’t be tempted to re-read this one later (I tend to re-read books I have enjoyed reading, and I can’t say I was having fun with this one), but there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s an important book that deserves the effort.

I wasn't expecting to like it so much, but I did, although it's not an easy book to read.
The writing is flowing seamlessly, and I loved the structure of the book, with chapters from various POVs, some appearing only once, some multiple times, some VERY non-conformist and original.
I would have liked to read more about Istanbul and life in those times (1595 in the story, but previous periods are refered to), but that would be my only 'complaint'.

P.S. I loved the ending, where the author merges fiction with reality.

کتاب به اندازه ی کافی مشهور است و نیاز به معرفی اضافه ندارد غیر از 2 نکته به نظر من :1. نحوه روایت از زبان راویان مختلف مثلن جایی از زبان یک سکه پول،که جذابیت فوق العاده ای داشت و 2. یک جایی یک جمله می گوید که شخصا فکر می کنم بزرگترین و اصلی ترین تفاوت شرق و غرب است.مضمون جمله این است که چرا غربی ها از کشیدن پرتره لذت می برند و نقاشان شرق از کشیدن چهره هایی متعلق به فرشته ها و عالم بالا ؟ در ادامه می نویسد به این دلیل که غربی ها دنیا را آنگونه می بینند که هست و شرقی ها آنگونه که می خواهند باشد!

This was a joy to read.

I read a lot of good books: good stories, good characterization, good dialogue, good writing. It’s a rare treat when I can sit down and thoroughly enjoy a book because the writer has not just crafted a good book, but has gone on to create art, to invest his or her time and energy and creativity and genius into a wonderful work, something that is designed to be better than good.

Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s 1998 novel, this edition translated into English by Erdag M. Goknar, about sixteenth century intrigue in and around Istanbul is also about art, and artists, and culture and Islam and so much more.

As the novel begins, a miniaturist has been murdered and thrown down into an abandoned well. We know this because the victim tells us.

Each chapter in Pamuk’s tale is told from the perspective of a different character, a murder victim to begin with, other artists, the murderer, an art master, a tree, a painting of a horse, and so on.

In the author’s able hands, it is as if the narrator of the chapter sits on a stage and shares with us a conversation about his aspect of the story. Some are insightful and brimming with clues about the ongoing investigation, others are chatty and providing us with illuminating backstory about region or about the Ottoman Empire or about the other characters.

We get to know dozens of players in this act and all while learning who is the murderer and why the deed was done.

Masterfully created, this was an exceptionally well told story.

Even if you are away from your lover if a lover’s face survives emblazoned on your heart, the world is still your home.

An Impetuous response In October 2019
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If your name is red, my name is blue.
You can glide from my hand like sand; I will stick on your soul like glue.

This book is dispersed with such a sumptuous redness that after reading it my entire self was tinged with azure… Not with red but with azure… because the color changes color when it evaporates from the pages of a marvelous book and transpires into the imaginary eyes of a curious reader. I am beholden. I have turned resplendent, but not like you… O Redness! I admit that the shine is the virtue of the Sun and one name of the Sun is also red. But on the backdrop on which this redness sparkles, that since time immemorial is only blue!

A rapport was straightway established between your redness and my blueness. It was all at once since the very beginning when that corpse said

I am nothing but a corpse now, a body at the bottom of a well. Though I drew my last breath long ago and my heart has stopped beating, no one apart from that vile murderer knows what has happened to me.

The Validity of that initial upshot is intact in April 2021
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I jotted down these two short paragraphs immediately after I finished this novel in the month of October in 2019. This book was sitting bolt upright on the shelf for more than six years. It’s today only when I am getting time to write this review, I am recalling all my personal association with this book.

A memory
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I had bought this book years ago at Mumbai airport. I was sitting with my colleague (My senior obvious at my work) with whom I was traveling for the first time. We never had any personal interaction. He was busy messaging someone on his high-end smartphone and I did not want to bring out my phone. So my eyes were attentively examining the disorderly commotion of fellow travelers. While waiting in the waiting lounge for quite some time in absolute quietude I turned to the other man I broke the ice, “Excuse me! I will buy something.”

My senior at once replied pointing in a certain direction with his right thumb to me, “The bookstall is there!”

I looked into his eyes in surprise, grinned like a Cheshire cat, and moved on. I was thinking to myself how this man knows that I want to buy a book and not a burger. We never discussed books. We were first time together.

When I reached to the book parlor, my eyes fell on this title and this title seemed to me so quirky (How can someone’s name be red?) and when I read those lines stated by the corpse on the first page highlighted above, I bought it in a flash. I had not heard much of Orhan Pamuk then. This was probably the second book of my life which I immediately bought knowing nothing about the book and the author just by getting seduced by the title in a book outlet. The first such book was The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. I am beaming to declare that in both cases my all of a sudden infatuation with the title of a book ended up in rip-roaring reading experiences.

However, every time I think about this book this question keeps popping up in my head,

“How did he know that I want to buy a book and not a burger?”

The book
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Set in the Istanbul of the sixteenth century, this is a story of one ‘Black’ who after an absence of 12 years entered Istanbul, like a somnambulist, at the age of 36. He, 12 years ago had fallen helplessly in love with his young cousin. Many of his friends and relatives have died during this 12 years exile. Twelve years ago when he had declared his love for the Shekure, his declaration of love was considered an act of insolence by his uncle. He was exiled. He comes back and found that his love, with her two children, is living alone. Her husband, a soldier, has no clue of his whereabouts. And the brother of her husband, Hasan, has an evil eye on her.

While in the background, the Sultan commissions a great book secretly to celebrate his life and his empire, the work goes to the best miniaturists of the age. Meanwhile, one among them is murdered. As a consequence, in the foreground, it progresses as a story of a murderer, who feels and proclaims to the reader that he would not have believed he could take anyone’s life even if he had been told so a moment before he murdered that fool Elegant, who he feels was like a brother to him. He sometimes feels as if he has not committed any crime at all. He freely walks in the city of Istanbul, from one street to another looking at the faces of people.

As I stare at people’s faces, I realize that many of them believe they are innocent because they haven’t yet had the opportunity to snuff out a life. It’s hard to believe that most men are more moral or better than me simply on account of some minor twist of fate.

In essence, this book is a historical murder mystery. But there are so many themes and sub-contexts present. If you have encountered the term ‘postmodernism’ diving out from an edified tongue of a sagacious literary guy and you get confused what is this. Read this book, it is postmodernist in its approach, if I am not mistaken. Its meta-fictional traits are amazing and worthy of coming back to again and again.

This is a love story.
This is exotic and dreamy.

This is philosophical.
This is very reflective and ruminative in nature.

This is suspenseful.
I had to read it with bated breath.

This is about art and artists.
I saw the knack and prowess of the miniaturists.

This is about religion too.
Those ruminating parts in between are balanced on religion.

It plays wonderfully on human emotions.
That jealousy, that rivalry that romance, you will see.

You will also find real historical references and popular folklores and fables in the narration.

Personally, the most compelling things in this book for me were two.

The first one is the author’s take on art and artists in the plot. Miniaturists and calligraphers were frustrated by the wars and presence of Ottoman soldiers but hadn't yet left for Kazvin or another Persian City from Istanbul and it was these Masters complaining of poverty and neglect, it was commissioned to inscribe illustrate and bind the pages of the manuscripts. While depicting their learning of art and getting mastery and describing the prowess of these artists, the author has sprinkled pearls of wisdom through his philosophical rumination at many places. I liked the conversations between masters and disciples and their thoughtful talks inside their artistic hovels.

I am delighted now to see that Black has acquired another essential virtue. To avoid disappointment in art, one must not treat it as a career. Despite whatever great artistic sense and talent a man might possess, he ought to seek money and power elsewhere to avoid forsaking his art when he fails to receive proper compensation for his gifts and efforts.

One student asked a question.

My great master, my dear sir! what separates the genuine miniaturist from the ordinary?
Master responds that there are three traits

-Will he have his individual style?
-How will he feel when his work and pictures will be used in other’s books?
-Third virtue is blindness!

Second is the narration style of the novel with its suspense. Every major character of the novel narrates his or her story. The ultimate aim is to find the murderer. This murderer comes out in between and talks to the reader about how he did it and why he did it. But the reader is not able to guess who this bloody murderer is!

In my opinion, this book is a must-read for every book lover.

This is a scintillating blending of romance, suspense, history, art, and philosophy in a passionate and spirituous language of prose.

This is a perfect novel, I realised, quite a few years after I finished it.

It has art and crime and passion and plot and characters and style and all that jazz. And it appeals to grumpy people past prime as well as passionate adolescents discovering the universe of literature for the first time.

When a student of mine, aged 15, stormed into the library and declared this was the best book ever, I felt strangely sad I hadn't thought more about it since I read and loved it some years ago. When the same student grabbed the next Orhan Pamuk novel she could find on the shelf, an innocent brick of a museum novel, I even felt jealous, as I hadn't read that one yet and I bizarrely envied her the first touch of a Pamuk novel - while at the same time being incredibly grateful he writes and reaches the next generation. A rare gift. I remember developing a passion for miniature painting while reading My Name Is Red, and it has stayed with me since, even through the times when I barely remembered the book itself.

My next Pamuk is in the pipeline while my student is working her way through a museum of innocence, growing with each novel...

من خيلي خوشم اومد ازش با اينكه از اول نتونسته بودم باهاش ارتباط بگيرم.شايد دليلش اين بود يجورايي سبكش جديد بود واسم!

تذكرت، وأنا أقرأ الفقرة الأخيرة من الرواية التي تقول فيها شكورة " احذروا من تصديق أورهان، لأنّه ليس ثمّة كذبة لا يقدم عليها لتكون حكايته جميلة ونصدّقها" ، عبارة لغادة السّمان تقول فيها بأنها موجودة في كل قصصها التي تكتبها. ودفعني ذلك للتساؤل عن السبب الكامن خلف اختيار باموك أسماء مثل "أورهان" و"شوكت" و"شكورة" لشخصيات روايته وهي في الحقيقة ليست سوى اسمه، اسم شقيقه الأكبر، واسم والدته. وهل يحمل هذا الكتاب جزءًا من روح باموك وعائلته؟
يجيب باموك على هذا السؤال في كتابه ألوان أخرى" بأنه سرّب بعضًا من حياته في هذا الكتاب، كمشاجراته التي لا تنتهي مع أخيه الأكبر شوكت، ومغامراتهم الشقية التي تنتهي دائمًا بخلاف ودموع. هناك أيضًا بعضٌ من أمه في شكورة، إنها امرأة قوية ومسيطرة تعرف ماذا تفعل وماذا تريد، أو على الأقل هذه هي الطريقة التي تحاول الظهور بها. والطريقة التي توبخ بها شوكت، أخو أورهان، والطريقة التي تحنو بها على الأخوين .. إلخ هذه الأشياء وتفاصيل صغيرة كثيرة أخرى نقلها باموك من الحياة .. من حياته.
ماذا عن حبكة الرواية؟
رغم أن بامو�� برع في حقن روايته بعنصر الإثارة عندما طبعها بطابع بوليسي، إلا أنه يعترف في إحدى مقالاته بأن حبكة اللغز كانت مقحمة وأنه لم يكتبها بإخلاص نابع من قلبه. ويبرر استخدامها بخوفه من أن أحدًا لن يهتم بمنمنماته الجميلة إلا لو وجدت مثل هذه الأداة لجذب القارئ إليها، وهي في نفس الوقت تحمل، في رأيي، رمزية بالغة، فجريمة القتل التي راح ضحيتها النقّاش ظريف، كانت تعبيرًا واضحًا وصادقًا لعداء المتشددين لفنون التصوير، والجرائم التي اقترفوها ولا يزالون يقترفونها –بفتاواهم- في حق الفن والجمال والتعبير البصري.
وبعيدًا عن الجو البوليسي، فإن الرواية تدور في أعمق مستوي��تها حول الخوف من النسيان، الخوف من ضياع الفنّ. فقد فُقد هذا الفن الجميل بقسوةٍ وطواه النسيان؛ وكتابه كان لذلك عن آلام وتراجيديا هذا الضياع، وهذا المحو. إنه عن آلام وأحزان تاريخ مفقود!