This is the epitome of foreign books in translation that win international prizes. It uses an international genre - in this case the murder mystery - and uses it to peer into the world of the court painters of the Ottoman Empire in the the early days of the seventeenth century.

The tale is told from the point of view of numerous characters & non-characters including the colour red of the title as it takes us from the coffee shops and street life of Istanbul and past the distinct regional styles of painting a horse's nostrils while searching for the murderer.

What more can one hope for from a paperback picked up at Heathrow airport?

‘My Name is Red’ by Orhan Pamuk is a historical murder mystery in both its plot and its post-modern construction of characters who talk a lot using philosophy about Art in their narrative expositions. It took awhile before I realized authoritarian control of the Arts in a 16th-century Muslim miniaturist community in Istanbul is the main theme of this dense literary novel of many themes. I have always had a knee-jerk reaction to any sort of authoritarian control - enormous waves of anger and hatred sweep through me. I walked away from the book for awhile, gentle reader.

As a historical novel, it is well-researched and goes deep into the world of the Ottoman Empire of 1591. Each chapter is narrated by a character, including a drawing, a coin, the color red and Satan. The narration is chronological. A lot of the plot hinges on the religious philosophy of Islam towards the Arts, particularly in the correct religious way of drawing objects in respect to Allah’s supposed view of the object. Painting in the “Venetian style”, a new way of painting objects, is particularly causing heated argumentation. Introducing perspective in seeing Art is one of the main controversies. Yes, clearly Pamuk is using puns or, at minimum, the double meanings of words, in his book.

Pamuk has each character discuss the ongoing disputes about the ‘correct’ religious philosophy of Islam about painting and Art. Many of the characters take sides using violence. Superstitions of the Middle-East - fear of ghosts, jinns, curses - cause irrational decisions, confusion and chaos adding to the philosophical disputations.

There is an argument from traditionalists that using only memory from studying decorated books from hundreds of years ago to paint is correct. This results in simply copying the same paintings over and over for millennia in ornamenting texts. The new vision of doing Art is to actually use one’s eyes and look at an object. This philosophical division between the Old and New ways to paint is one of the causes of the most virulent fights. Also, painting accurate portraiture of real people instead of painting traditional fake faces with Chinese face attributes for Arabian and Muslim people is also a source of extreme rage. Plus, artists can be beaten into disability if they sign a work of Art. Every one of these arguments between the old methods of painting and the new ways to paint is about displacing or disrespecting Allah in His supposedly Creator’s pride of place as being First in all things. Artists cannot take any pride in their work or make any claims of creating anything - a great sin. However, the individual artists who are recognized as Masters can earn a lot of money.

The recognized Masters of miniaturist art sometimes start a school for apprentices. When these apprentices gain expertise, the school, the graduates, or the Masters hire themselves out to various rich folk and aristocrats to produce beautiful illustrated books. A miniaturist could earn a good living at decorating books. But during the time of this novel, traditional Islamic miniaturists were losing commissions to those artists willing to paint in the still forbidden and illegal ‘new’ styles.

The Sultan Murat III hires a miniaturist, Enishte Effendi, to create art secretly for a book decorated in the Venetian painter style. The worse thing about this is that the Sultan wants his exact representation in a portrait in the center of the artwork - totally usurping Allah’s supposed place in creation. Word gets out.

Another Master, Elegant Effendi, is murdered shortly after he publicly announces his own religious philosophy towards the Venetian style. Elegant thinks the new styles are sacrilegious. Who murdered him?

Meanwhile, Kara Black, Enishte Effendi’s nephew, returns to Istanbul after being away for twelve years. He still loves Shekure, his childhood love and his uncle’s beautiful daughter, but she married another man. This man has been missing for four years, but under Islamic law, there are a variety of hoops to jump through before she can be declared a widow. Once she is officially a widow, Hasan, the husband’s younger brother, intends to marry her. When Hasan becomes aware of Black’s interest in marrying Shekure, he begins a campaign of harassment and accusations of heresy against Black, aiming at getting Black arrested and punished for something, anything to stop his interference in his pursuit of Shekure.

The novel expresses a surprising amount of overheated hothouse extravagant passions over religious philosophies about Art, a revelation for this western reader! Many of the characters feel boiling burning excess of emotions over, to me, various stupid minutia of Art techniques, like whether a drawing of a horse’s nostrils is acceptable or forbidden by Allah. Religious assumptions about Allah feelings about Art are not considered as only a maybe, but these supposed understandings about Allah’s feelings are absolute facts for the different Masters. Despite that every Master has a different viewpoint on what Allah is thinking about Art, these supposed feelings must be taken into account or there will be consequences of severe punishment by the Masters or other legal authorities or mobs of outraged citizenry. Traditional stories passed down in Turkish culture and from other nearby cultures, such as the Persians and Chinese, and from extremely old illustrated books, are accepted as being Allah’s opinions, I guess. The older an illustrated text is or story is, the more religiously correct the Art which has copied it exactly is. To me, this is utter crap.

Creativity of any kind is a Sin to these Muslims of the sixteenth century. The clearly obvious creativity of artists of works passed down from hundreds of years ago, though, are understood as Permanent Models by Allah of what is permitted by artists to do. Many reviewers have noted this attitude of religiosity towards the flat primitive paintings of the long-ago past as being Perfect Representations Of An Object To Never Be Altered In A New Painting Of The Object Forever in newer works of Art as being similar to the philosophy of an Ancient Greek polymath, Plato. But Plato never suggested artists copy and copy and copy over and over and over these supposed Heavenly Original Forms of all objects on earth without any artistic creativity or reinterpretation! What a completely asinine belief!

*ahem*

Minds are also overwhelmed and overwrought, sustained for years!, from hearing romantic Middle-Eastern epics and poetry and storytelling of which many samples are included in the book. Sexual passions, using the stories as a foundation, are stratospheric to those sufferers of unrequited love. My opinion is today we consumers of movies, books, and TV shows have become much more immune to the power of stories and, yes, Romance.

The book is a Grand Literary Effort, but it is difficult to read. I don’t know if this is because it is a translation. It also is dense with the mention of real life characters and famous illustrated texts. There are arcane and very foreign ideas about Art constantly being discussed which I found difficult to grasp at first. To me, these violent philosophers of religious minutia were similar to those suffering from obsessive compulsive disorders who fight hard over whether shirts should be tucked into pants or worn outside of pants, or who come unglued because someone likes to stand with their hands inside of the pockets of a jacket. My buttons were pushed which created noise in my head, too. However. But. The book is unquestionably a literary masterpiece of multi-dimensional writing Art about Art (hehe). No reader who attempts the novel will come away without learning something about early Muslim culture and Art.

On-a-high version:

I am called Black, I longed for my dearest Shekure for twelve years;
I, Shekure, not quite sure what was I doing in this story;
I am called Butterfly, I was the one who drew the Death and Mia thought I was the murderer;
I am called Stork, I was the one who drew the Tree and Butterfly always envy me as I was more talented without the help from our master;
I am called Olive, I was the one who rendered the Satan and drew the exquisite horse;
I am your beloved uncle, I was preparing a book for our Refuge of the World, Our Glorious Sultan before being murdered by one of my apprentice;
It is I, Master Osman, I wished to follow the path of Master Bihzad who blinded himself with a needle;
I am Esther, my eyes were eternally at the windows and my ears were eternally to the ground;
I am a corpse, I was Elegant Effendi before being murdered by a fellow painter;
I am Mia, I read this book from page 1 to 508 whilst crawling and bleeding to death. So please would someone explain wth is this book about?
Jackie Chan: Who am I?


Sober version:

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

***

one of the bule put this book on my desk, got no idea which one though they pointed their fingers to each other lol

نوشته های اورهان پاموک را خیلی دوست دارم. اینکه تقریبا در همه نوشته هاش اشاره ای به ایران میکنه برام لذت بخشه. به نظرم این کتاب یکی از جذاب ترین کتابهای پاموکه

اسمي احمر - اورهان باموق

هذه ليست رواية عاديّة ...
رواية طويلة ومرهقة وتتضمن الكثير من القصص والتي بداخلها قصص أخرى وهكذا .. مع وجود العديد من الرواة والشخصيات المعقدة والكثير من الصراعات ..


النقش خانة (مكان) حيث يتّم النقش (المنمنمات أظن هو ما يقصد به النقش هنا)...
حين كنت أقرأ الرواية كانت تعود إلى ذاكرتي بشكلٍ مبهم تلك الصور التي رأيتها منذ زمن وهي ليست منتشرة أو شهيرة والتي لم تعرف في العالم العربي على الأقل لم تعرف على نطاق واسع - على ما اعتقد - .
هذا الفن الذي وصلَ الى الدولة العثمانيّة بعد حروبهم ضد المغول والهنود والصينيين .

تأخذنا الرواية في رحلة إلى اسطنبول القرن السادس عشر.. والثقافة الإسلاميّة ..
وصراع بين عدد من المدارس الفنيّة في عالم آخذ بالتغير.
بين من يريد صنع هويّة خاصة ومتفردة للنقش والرسم العثماني وبين من يريد الإلتزام بالمدارس القديمة ثمّ يأتي من يطالب بـ اتباع أسلوب (الفرنجة) أيّ الإسلوب الحديث في الرسم ....

هذه القصة الأساسية صراع بين التجديد والأساليب القديمة حيث تدور الشكوك بين النقاشيّن وتفضي إلى اتهامات بـ ارتكاب البدع والمروق عن الدين ..
شكوك واتهامات ستقود إلى جرائم قتل ويصعب التكهن بالقاتل عبر الصفحات مهما حاولت .
بالإضافة إلى قصة حب والكثير من التفاصيل عن الحياة في اسطنبول وعن عالم الكتب والمكتبات والكثير من قصص الحب والشجاعة التي خلدها النقش والرسم .
تجربتي الأولى مع باموق هنا كانت فريدة .

نام من سرخ اولین کتاب از اورهان پاموک است که کامل خواندم. کتاب بیشتر از این که داستانی باشد اثری‌ست تاریخی و هنری آن هم در ۷۰۰ صفحه.. نویسنده با جز‌ئیات زیادی فضاسازی نقاشی‌ها و شخصیت پردازی شخصیت‌های اصلی (به خصوص نقاشان) را بیان می‌کند. اوج داستان قطعا دو فصلی‌ است که استاد عثمان و کارا به خزانه داری رفته اند و استاد عثمان از نقاشی‌های شاهکار نقاشان ایرانی تعریف می‌کند. اما در کل نمی‌توانم بگویم کتاب شاهکاری است، خوب است خیلی خوب اما شاهکار نه.. چرا؟ اول بخاطر داستان‌ های افسانه‌ ای بیش از حدی که در هر قسمت روایت شده و دوم (که مهم‌تر است) پایان خوب و خوش و قابل حدس کتاب.. با اینکه اوایل کتاب نویسنده به راحتی هویت قاتل را قابل حدس کرده بود اما کاش پایان‌ بندی داستان تا این حد خوب و خوش نمی‌بود..
اما نتیجه اخلاقی مورد پسند من ازکتاب: دین خوب نیست و باعث عقب ماندگی همه‌ی تمدن‌ها شده.. پس اصرار بیجا نکنید و به تاریخ مراجعه کنید..

Corpse

My death conceals an appalling conspiracy against our religion, our traditions and the way we see the world

Black

The earthy smell of mud mingled with memories

Tree

I don’t want to be a tree, I want to be its meaning

Black

It is important that a painting, through its beauty, summon us towards life's abundance, towards compassion, towards respect for the colors of the realm which God created, and toward reflection and faith

Black

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

Stork

Painting is the act of seeking out Allah's memories and seeing the world as He sees the world

Esther

Does love make one a fool or do only fools fall in love?

Esther

Haste delays the fruits of love

Shekure

Like those who know how to read a picture, one should know how to read a dream

Red

Color is the touch of the eye, music of the deaf, a word out of the darkness

Red

Wherever I'm spread, I see eyes shine, passions increase, eyebrows rise and heartbeats quicken. Behold how wonderful it is to live! Behold how wonderful is to see. Behold — living is seeing. I am everywhere

Red

Colors are not known but felt

Uncle

What I called memory contained an entire world — With time spread out infinitely before me in both directions

Uncle

From now on, nothing was restricted, and I had unlimited time and space in which to experience all eras and all places

Uncle

What is the meaning of it all, of this world? Mystery, I heard in my thoughts, or perhaps, mercy

Enishte

Don't paint like yourselves, paint as if you were someone else

Master

He'd force them to recall nonexistent memories, to conjure and paint a future, which they'd never want to live

Black

For men like myself, 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, as 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, pay no mind to what's been said about me

Satan

The opposite of what I say is not always true

Satan

Was it not You who instilled man with pride by making the angels bow before him?

Satan

Men are worshiping themselves, placing themselves at the center of the world

Shekure

I sensed how my words were driving into his flesh like nails

Black

They've 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 to be the object of pity

Stork

An artist's skill depends on carefully attending to the beauty of present moment

Butterfly

The illuminator draws not what he sees, but what Allah sees

Black

He taught me how the hidden fault of style isn't something the artist selects of his own volition, but is determined by the artist's past and his forgotten memories

Olive

Time doesn’t flow if you don’t dream

Murderer

I feel like the devil not because I've murdered two men, but because my portrait has been made in this fashion

Shekure

Love, however, must be understood, not through the logic of a woman, but through its illogic

My fickle heart longs for the West when I'm in the East and for the East when I'm in the West.
My other parts insist I be a woman when I'm a man and a man when I'm a woman.
How difficult it is being human, even worse is living a human's life.
I only want to amuse myself frontside and backside, to be Eastern and Western both.

This is Pamuk's enduring, never ending obsession. He's written fiction and non-fiction, journal articles and newspaper bites, and given endless interviews on this theme. He's even been thrown in jail and put on trial for the identity he has chosen. He's won the Nobel Prize in Literature for his commitment to expressing his deeply divided mind and spirit, and that (at least he and many others believe) of his country- Turkey. (I apologize in advance if this ends up being something of a ramble through the literary bramble, but I can only say that that would mirror the experience of reading this book.)

My Name is Red will tell you that it is a murder mystery, set in 16th century Istanbul, under the rule of the Sultan. But it will also tell you that it is about many other things, each of which changes, ephermerally, by the moment. The atmosphere of the story digs a little bit into Garcia-Marquez's garden, but storytelling would never be mistaken for his. Each chapter is told by a different voice- some of which are plausible members of a storytelling round, and some of which would really only belong in that category if you were on acid, but they all seem about equally credible, due to the fact that nobody is really credible, so one might as well be fiction or myth as fact. (For instance, we hear from the voices of the drawing of a horse, the fake voice of a woman who is actually a man, a gold piece and the color red.) It is ethereal, elusive, and there isn't one incarnation of the mind that can be trusted here. Don't fall into the trap of assuming that what you read has anything to do with anything other than the particular pyschology of the moment- Pamuk is a master of depicting the every day track of a mind, and how unreliable each feeling of a moment is- how everything important is changed by the fact that one just happens to feel hungry at a particular moment, or desperately horny at another. It is an absolute masterwork of insight on the psychology of a particular people at a particular time, and all the various reasons why they are that way, and yet he is able to make them as relatable as possible through it all.

What struck me the most throughout the entire book was how terrified, it seemed, that Pamuk was of missing something. While other authors might be striving to become masters of literature, masters of form, I think Pamuk wished that he could be nothing so much as a master of tapestry-making. I think he would die happy if he could have given this book to the theoretical Weaver in the sky and gotten it back as a divine scrap of worked fabric. There are lists upon lists upon lists of endless things that go on for pages, only to stop and start up once again. As a part of his contradictory feelings towards the West, in a culture whose stories and traditions often originated in the East... although he longs for the West, he's terrified, just as his characters are, that everything they know from the East will disappear. It seems like he can't stop himself- there's some sort of driving fear if he doesn't list everything about history and culture and myth, and repeat all the stories again and again to make sure we remember what they are, it will be gone forever. His expression of ambivalence towards Western culture perfectly expresses the mindset of illuminators in 16th century Istanbul terrified that their entire lives are about to become irrelevant.

The other absorbing, fascinating, and horrifying thing was how well Pamuk illustrates the idea that absolutely nobody speaks with their own voice, both through his painters, constrained by centuries of adherance to a perfect style that some random master brought out of Baghdad that depicts the "perspective of Allah." It is considered heresy and a fault to have a "style", and "signatures" are furitively hidden away as much as possible- the idea that blindness is the ideal to be obtained for these artists is just heartbreaking- at least to someone coming at it from a Western perspective, where seeing painters deliberately rob themselves of their sight, their most precious commodity, over and over again, in the course of obtaining a meaningless idea of perfection that is not their own. The murderer throughout this book strives endlessly to hide himself by speaking in a voice that does not at all resemble how we see him in other places. The majority of people who are speaking a themselves tell stories in order to express their feelings- in fact at the beginning all the suspected illuminators speak almost entirely in story form in order to answer any important question on any philosophical, religious, or even personal topic. Expressing one's feelings just isn't done. One doesn't go up to the pretty boy one would like to fuck and tell him so, one tells him a parable about a gorgeous boy in order to show your admiration for him. Much as the pictures are seen as the "perspective of Allah," it seems that there is only one way to speak, too, in the "words of Allah," or those stories which are sanctioned by the authorities as legitimate- the authority of Allah on earth. It was the ultimate tragedy of the book from the Western perspective, and the ultimate triumph of the book from the accepted ides of the time, all of these de-individualized people (as much as can be done or denied or pushed from sight) striving towards the goal of seeing as Allah does, ever in the correct way.

But everyone recognizes the end of the "Eastern" way of life coming from the West, in the guise of the "Venetian" ways that everyone will want to slavishly follow in the future, ways which reactionary preachers and religious people are protesting against before they've even made serious headway, trying to keep their way of life "pure." But the rest of the book poitns out again and again that there is no way that the culture of the Ottoman Empire was pure in any way- no constantly conquering culture with a large army and a long reach could ever be. No autocratic society that entailed artisans, craftsman and soldiers to pick up and serve someone else once their lord was defeated (if they weren't killed out right) could develop in isolation without any influence from the outside. He shows globalization already happening, back in the 16th century, and how deep the effects penetrate then and now.

I loved his Istanbul for his brilliant evocation of identity, living with a burdensome past and an uncertain future, for its poetry and its memory. My Name is Red accomplishes much the same thing, with more magic- but just enough dirt to bring it right straight home where it belongs in 2009.

Generally, when a book starts out with a chapter entitled "I Am A Corpse," you know it's going to be pretty good.

The novel is set up so that each chapter introduces a different narrator, including (but not limited to), Black, Black's uncle, Shekure, a dog, a horse, the murderer and various artists in the workshop. This type of structure for a mystery novel isn't new--Wilkie Collins, for example, employed it several times, most notably in The Moonstone--and it is an effective way to structure a story so as to hide the whodunit. Each character only tells as much as he, she or it knows and in Pamuk's novel even the murderer hides his or her identity.

The structure in "My Name Is Red," though is less designed to sustain suspense and more to allow room for the various philosophical discussions concerning the purpose of art and, perhaps more importantly, the distinctions between Islamic states and Western Europe. The Frankish mode of painting, particularly of portraiture--to glorify the subject, to paint him or her in terms of his/her earthly wealth and power, to distribute such an image openly as a show of control, to demonstrate the creative abilities of the artist--is at the center of these debates and discussions. Black's uncle finds such images alluring and fascinating while others see them as abhorent. Master Osman, for example, sees himself as being forced to choose between the centuries old Islamic traditions he venerates and the more modern and distinctly foreign style he despises. Such a choice is not made easily, as the artists themselves discover. The Frankish method celebrates the individuation of the artist--it prizes the signature of the artist as much as the commissioner of the image. This reverence for the artist, as much as for the piece of art, proves to be a great temptation to the men involved and leads directly to the murder.

The structure, however, also allows for a second discussion, not about art but about writing on art. As much as this is a novel concerning visual images, it is also a novel about ekphrasis--the verbal description of art. Ekphrasis has the effect of slowing down a narrative, of interrupting it. Thus, in Homer's Illiad, the great battle scene is suddenly punctured by a lengthy description of Achilles' shield. Pamuk plays with this model repeatedly. When the image of the horse, described several times in the novel, is given a voice of its own the narrative is not interrupted, but rather the description of the image becomes the narrative. And, moreover, as the image speaks it refutes the fundamental principles underlying Master Osman's devotion to Islamic traditions of art. Pamuk can hardly resist the joke--this is a novel about art in which not a single image appears, except the map at the beginning and the ones we create in our minds as we imagine the images described. But, are we creating an image of the ideal horse, the horse of God, or one we can actually touch, taste, and smell?

I tried very hard to really like this book. But, I suppose it's impossible to succeed in everything.

My Name Is Red is both historical fiction and a murder mystery. It takes place in 1591 (according to the timeline at the end of the book). The over-arching motion of the plot centers around the death of a master miniturist in the Sultan's court. The death is revealed in the first chapter, though the reasons surrounding the his death are much slower in being revealed. What is known, almost at the outset, is that his death is related to a book that the Sultan has commission that is to be illustrated in the European style, with respect to perspective and a view of the world as an actual person sees it (as opposed to how Allah would see it). Enishte Effendi, the person in charge of the manuscript, calls his childhood apprentice Black Effendi back from Persia to Istanbul to help investigate the murder and help him finish the Sultan's book. Within this overarching plot is the plight of Enishte's daughter Shekure, whose husband went to war four years prior and never came back. Black has been pining away for her during his twelve year absence from Istanbul, though he is not the only man who is interested in becoming her new husband. Amongst the plot and subplot, there are multiple discussions of style and individualism and what it means to be a father/father-figure, among other topics.

The story is told in a sort of Faulkner-esque fashion, with each chapter being told in the perspective of different characters in the story. These characters are sometimes alive, and sometimes dead (as in the first chapter entitled "I am a corpse"). Also, sometimes the chapters are told in the sort-of perspective of the drawing from Enishte's book - I say sort of, because they're really told from the perspective of a coffee house storyteller who is pretending to be what is depicted in Enishte's book. Are you confused yet?

The was my first issue with this book: at the beginning, it's very confusing. Not knowing a lot about the Muslim faith, it took many chapters before I figured out what exactly was wrong with the way Enishte wanted to illustrate his manuscript. My second problem with this book was all of the exposition. There is too much time spent on the exposition on topics like love and style that are obliquely connected with the plot. Certainly these expositions add greater depth to the different characters, but after a while it started to get a little tedious. Thirdly, Pamuk does not inhabit his different narrators in the way that David Mitchell (Ghostwritten, Cloud Atlas) manages to. As a result, the book feels a little bit flat. Fourthly, the subplot with Shekure adds very little to the book. I found her to be an incredibly unappealing character, and I found myself wishing that the murderer would murder her next.

All of that being said, the book does have a certain flair to the writing. Some of the exposition is really thought-provoking. I also thought that the stories told from the perspective of drawings and corpses and even colors were interesting additions to the plot. In sum, I'm not sorry I read it, but I was expecting more out of it.

This is a fantastic book by Nobel Prize winner Orhan Pamuk which explores the relationship between art and religion ad between imagery and idolatry. Set in the 16th century, we are transported into an Istanbul of the Ottoman empire with a murder mystery told in the voices of the characters (and sometimes these are drawings in the books or just concepts) that inhabit the story. Its primary characters feel very real and the buildup to the big reveal at the end makes the book a real page turner. I think that the story told here is still more than relevant to our world of today given the problems stemming from reading religious texts word for word and building violent systems of repression or terror based on individual interpretations of those readings. Unfortunately, some things have not evolved enough in the last 400 years...A must read.

‘To God belongs the East and the West’ – Al-Qur’an, Al Baqarah ayat 115.

I had abandoned My Name is Red for how long I can’t remember. The brilliance of it was untouched, what a shame. But after reading Other Colours (an amazing essay collection also by Orhan Pamuk), I thought I should give Mr. Pamuk another shot, and boy, how much I enjoyed the novel! And I understand why Pamuk deserves the Nobel prize. He’s the kind of writer that can bring out the cultural richness but at the same time using it to promote world peace.

My Name is Red is a brightly rich novel. The main plot is a murder mystery of a miniaturist in Turkey, but what makes this novel is different is that Pamuk mixes it with other interesting elements: a passionate love story, devotion to art and the cultural clash between the East and the West. At first, I didn’t think the love story was significant enough, but well, it turns out the love conflict has an important role for the ending.

Still not interesting enough for you? Well, let’s see. Inspired by Virginia Woolf, Pamuk loves to make an unusual plotline. The story is delivered through many points of view. Not only the humans, Pamuk also gives voices to unliving things, like a gold coin and a corpse. In fact, it is the corpse that opens the story of the novel. Now you won’t call it ordinary, eh? Pamuk even gives a chance for the murderer to say something. This technique might tire some readers, however it provides the thriller until the end.

The thing that kinda bothers me is that the last chapter of Shekure. I personally think the chapter isn’t too strong to close the novel. If I were Pamuk, I would close it by using Master Osman’s point of view. I’d like to know what his reaction is after knowing who the killer is. But all in all, My Name is Red is a splendid work of art. I just hope no one will make a film of it. I truly believe it won’t capture the magnificence of this novel.