Orhan Pamuk'un nakkaşlar üzerine bunaltıcı detaylarına rağmen zevkle okuyacağınız bir kitap.

I could not help but think of the film "Daisies" (“Sedmikrasky,” dir. Vera Chytilova), that shameless classic of the Czech New Wave while reading Ohran 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.
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“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.
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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.

این کتاب جامونده از نمایشگاه کتاب پارسال بود و خب قطعا بخاطر حجم بالاش حوصله و زمان مناسب می‌طلبید.
داستان در رابطه با هنر نقاشی در عهد صفوی و دربار عثمانیه، زندگی و کار و روابط نقاشان اون دوره و پرداختن به تاریخ نقاشی بخش عمده ای از کتاب رو در برمیگیره و به شخصه موضوع نابش رو بی‌اندازه دوست داشتم.
اما نکته‌ی خاصی که خیلی از قسمت‌ها درگیرم میکرد لحن و زبان عجیب شخصیت ها بود. اکثریت بخش ها لحن گفتگوها خیابانی و عامیانه اند و نامتناسب با سبک و سیاق داستان و آداب و رسوم اون دوره تاریخی.
برخی از شخصیت های اصلی خوب پرداخته نشده بودن و خواننده نمی‌تونست خودش رو با اونها همسو ببینه و به نحوی خودش رو جای شخصیت‌ها بذاره. (شخصیت شکوره کاملا برام غیر قابل درک بود)
و مسئله ای که خیلی برام جذاب بود؛ نزدیکی فرهنگ ایران به ترکیه، فضایی رو ایجاد کرده که انگار با یک رمان ایرانی طرفید نه یک اثر ترجمه.

I bought this book because the first line/page sounded original and intriguing. However I soon found this novel tedious and boring. It just wasn't my cup of tea.

My Name is Red plunges us into the universe of the miniaturist workshops of Sultan Murad III in the Ottoman Empire at the end of the 16th century. One of the gilder artists, nicknamed the Delicate, was sent ad patres by an illuminator colleague and then thrown into a well while the workshop to which he belonged was working on producing a prestigious and secret book at the address of the sultan. This work seems to contradict the canons of Islamic art and the rules enacted by the masters of the school of Herat.
The story presents colorful characters who each take on a part of the narrative in chapters that fit together cleverly and use the recurrence of narrative motifs. We will ignore the implausibilities of the language used by the characters, which does not mainly provide the period covered. We must remember that we are in an oriental tale where all the licenses and wonders are possible, such as prosopoeia. Unfortunately, the story could be more balanced and laboriously drags on. Weariness quickly wins.

Am recenzat deja ediția de la Curtea Veche (2009). Aici voi face o descriere generală și o mică remarcă.

Mă numesc Roșu este o poveste cu miniaturiști derutați, cu amoruri năprasnice, cu mult exotism levantin, cu rodii, curmale și chiparoși, cu ieniceri, imami și spahii, cu cadîne și caice, cu șalvari, feregele și pilaf. Și cu un ucigaș în serie. Un ucigaș destul de emotiv, de timid, de sfîșiat lăuntric. Seria lui cuprinde două cazuri. Este un serial killer minimalist :) Definiția spune că un ucigaș în serie începe să existe cu adevărat doar de la trei crime în sus...

Aș vrea să fac o mică precizare. Cînd au discutat cartea, criticii au observat multitudinea naratorilor. În primul capitol, vorbește însuși defunctul. Într-un capitol ulterior, însăși Moartea. În altul, o monedă calpă (un sultanin). În altul, o culoare. Și așa mai departe. Povestitorii lui Pamuk sînt adesea lucruri neînsuflețite, făpturi necuvîntătoare, însușiri, stări, imagini.

Iată discursul unui ban fals:

„Nu sînt cu adevărat un sultanin otoman de douăzeci şi două de carate, ieşit din tarapanaua de la Coloana Arsă. Sînt un ban calp. Am fost bătut la Veneţia, din aur cu titlu scăzut, adus aici şi strecurat pe piaţă ca galben otoman. Vă mulţumesc pentru înţelegerea pe care mi-aţi arătat-o. Am fost ascuns în pungi de catifea, sub perne, între ditamai sînii, în izmene, şi toţi mă pipăiau în somn, ca să vadă dacă mai sînt acolo. Am fost tăinuit într-o cizmă... etc. etc.”.

P. S. În Istoria unui galbîn, „veselul” Alecsandri pune galbenul să se certe cu o para...

Exceptional and mind-boggling!!

يدخل أورهان باموك عالم النقش والرسم في اسطنبول القديمة عاصمة الدولة العثمانية
فن الرسم والتذهيب والتلوين.. تاريخه وموضوعاته وأساليبه وحكايات عن لوحات وكتب وأساطير
ووصف لتفاصيل غاية في الدقة عن الرسومات بكل نقوشها وألوانها
السرد مميز يتوزع على أكثر من راوي, كل فصل على لسان أحد الشخصيات أو الأشياء
الرواية فيها بعض الإثارة والغموض, تبدأ بجريمة قتل ولا تخلو من قصة غرام طويلة
لكن الموضوع العام عن فن النقش بكل جوانبه هو الأهم وكتب عنه باموك بحرفية كبيرة
في بعض أجزاء كانت كثرة التفاصيل سبب في شيء من الملل

تا جایی که یادم میاد از اورهان پاموک چیزی تا الان نخونده بودم. چند هفته پیش جایی یه کامنت از کتاب دیدم در مورد خدمت کتاب به فرهنگ ما برای همین با یکم شک و شبهه رفت توی لیست کتابایی که میخوام بخونم.
کتاب زمان سلطنت پسر سلطان سلیمان در ترکیه اتفاق می افته. نثر روان و خواننده به عنوان مخاطب گفت و گو دایما مورد سوال قرار میگیره. خرافات و خرفتی جامعه ی شهر استامبول اون زمان( نمیگم جامعه ی مسلمان چون جاهای زیادی به خرافات یهودی ها ام اشاره میشه) بارها و بارها عصبانیم کرد. در زمان روایت داستان عثمانی ها با صفویه ها در حال جنگ اند و به خاطر این چنگ در سال های گذشته وضعیت خزانه چندان جالب نیست .این وسط نزدیک شدن جامعه ی عثمانی با دولت های اروپایی ( ونیز یا انگلیس) یاعث برخورد فرهنگ و هنر این دو تمدن میشه. در طول کتاب با دغدغه ی نقاشان دربار عثمانی درگیر شده بودم. چیزی که برام جالب بود با این که زمان جنگ با دولت صفویه بود چیز بدی پشت سر عجم ها گفته نشده بود.
اطلاع نویسنده از هنر و فرهنگ ایرانی ستودنی بود به عنوان کسی که چند سالی از عمرم را نقاشی کار کردم بازم چیز های جالبی توی کتاب خوندم که نمیدونستم.
در نهایت چیزی که متعجم کرد بارها و بارها اشاره به شاهنامه, خسرو و شیرین و لیلی و مجنون و شعر های سعدی بقیه تاب های ایرانی(میدونم لیلی مجنون داستان عربیه) پرداخته شده بود درحالی که هیچ اشاره ای به این دست اثار ترکی (زبان و ادبیاتی که کاملا با اون بیگانه ام) نکرده بود. برای همین شک کردم که نکنه ادبیات زبان ترکی از لحاط تاریخی از گنجینه های کمتری نسبت به ما برخوردار باشه؟ جواب این سوال را احتمالا دوستانی که دارن مطالعه میکنن میتونند بهم بدن
اخرین کتاب سال 2017 بود و یکی از بهترین کتابای این سال

ষোড়শ শতাব্দীর ইস্তাম্বুলে কুয়ার ভেতর থেকে কথা বলা এক লাশের জবানে কাহিনির শুরু, সেই কাহিনি এগিয়ে নিয়ে গেলো একযুগ পরে শহরে ফেরা ব্ল্যাক, যুদ্ধে স্বামী হারানো শাকুর আর তার বাচ্চারা, শহরের সেরা শিল্পীরা। কাহিনি বলে গেলো দেয়ালে ঝোলানো ছবির ঘোড়া আর দরবেশ, কাহিনি বলে গেলেন সু���তান আর তার প্রধান চিত্রশিল্পী।

সাম্রাজ্যের গুণগান বর্ণনা করে একটি বই লেখা হবে, সনাতন রীতি অগ্রাহ্য করে সেখানে ঝলমলে সব ছবি আকা হবে ইউরোপীয় প্রথায়, এই খায়েশ সুলতানের। কিন্তু যেহেতু ধর্মে নিষিদ্ধ, কাজেই প্রথমে বিরুদ্ধ রটনা আর পরে সরাসরিই আঘাত আসতে লাগলো শিল্পীদের ওপর। খুনী লুকিয়ে আছে শিল্পীদের আশেপাশেই। কী করে খুঁজে পাওয়া গেলো সেই খুনীকে, তা নিয়েই এগিয়েছে গল্প।

কিন্তু, গল্পের উত্থানপতন বা ঘটনার চমকে নয়, এই উপন্যাসকে মনে রাখতে হয় পামুকের বর্ণনায়। গল্পের ভেতর গল্প, কাহিনির ভেতর কাহিনি, হেয়ালির ভেতর হেয়ালি, ইতিহাসের ভেতর ইতিহাস টেনে নিয়ে পামুক ক্রমাগত সরিয়ে নিয়েছেন আমাদের দৃষ্টি, অথচ মূল গল্পের ভেতর থেকে পাঠককে সরিয়ে নেন নি একবারও। গভীরতর অন্তর্দৃষ্টি নিয়ে পামুক চারশো বছরের পুরনো ইস্তাম্বুলের দিনলিপির আড়ালে ক্রমাগত প্রশ্ন করে গেছেন মানুষের চিরায়ত দর্শন।

আর, না বললে চলে না, তার আশ্চর্য ভাষাটির কথা। শরতের আবহাওয়ার মত মৃদু সে ভাষায় কোথাও শিকারীর রুঢ়তা নেই, কিন্তু ঝরঝরে মিষ্টি প্রেমের কাহিনি অথবা শ্বাসরোধী রহস্যের মুহুর্তেও সে ভাষা আনন্দদায়িনী, অননুকরণীয়, উঁচু দেয়াল না হলেও ফুলগাছের বেষ্টনীতে ধরবার বাইরে।

পামুক, সত্যিকার অর্থেই, একজন কথাশিল্পী।

[বিস্তারিত প্রতিক্রিয়াটাও সংযুক্ত করে রাখলাম আগ্রহীদের জন্যঃ https://shuhanrizwan.com/2019/03/16/b...]

Orhan Pamuk won the Nobel Prize for literature this year. Described as “part murder mystery, part love story,” I found this to be an absorbing novel, but what most interested me, and the reason that I recommend this book to you, were the passages which attempt to describe the late sixteenth-century Istanbul miniaturists’ attitudes towards art. My Name is Red, though it seems to be only loosely based upon historical fact, deals with the repercussions of the meeting of two visual worlds: Venetian portraiture and Islamic illustration.

Also, Pamuk writes some of the most fascinating lists I’ve read. I must admit that when I encounter lists in novels I usually skim them, but I found Pamuk’s lists engrossing throughout. I have typed out a few passages that I found especially significant, but they work better in context, of course.

Describing a painting of a horse.
“It is a handsome horse: a horse of the Ottoman line. It is a symbol that would demonstrate to the Venetian Doge Our Sultan’s wealth and the regions under his control. But on the other hand, as with everything the Venetian masters depict, this horse was also to be more lifelike than a horse born of God’s vision, more like a horse that lived in a particular stable with a particular groom in Istanbul so that the Venetian Doge might say to himself, ‘Just as the Ottoman miniaturists have come to see the world like us, so have the Ottomans themselves come to resemble us,’ in turn, accepting Our Sultan’s power and friendship. For if you draw a horse differently, you begin to see the world differently [emphasis added]. Despite its peculiarities, this horse was rendered in the manner of the old masters” (266).

Note the clever implications regarding Pamuk’s own novel.
Did a painting become legendary for what it was or for what was said about it? (266).

The musings of one of the Istanbul miniaturists.
My paintings reveal what the mind, not the eye, sees. But painting, as you know quite well, is a feast for the eyes. If you combine these two thoughts, my world will emerge. That is:
ALIF: Painting brings to life what the mind sees, as a feast for the eyes.
LAM: What the eye sees in the world enters the painting to the degree that it serves the mind.
MIM: Consequently, beauty is the eye discovering in our world what the mind already knows (281).

اسمي محمد، وأنا نادم على عدم إتاحة الفرصة لباموك من قبل. كونت عنه فكرة أنه شديد اﻷسهاب، كلاسيكي حد الإملال، لم أجد ذلك صحيحا البتة، ففي هذه الرواية بدا لي النوبلي التركي قاصا مبدعا بناء على الحيثيات التالية:
1- أنه طرح موضوعا شديد الخصوصية ولست مهتما به، ومع ذلك تمكن من إثارة فضولي وحملني على إتمام الرواية.
2- أنه روى الأحداث على ألسنة شخصيات متعددة. وهذه الرواية الوحيدة التي وجدت هذا الكم الكبير من القاصين فيها: أكثر من 10.
3- أنه لم يقتصر على الشخصيات البشرية لسرد اﻷحداث بل جعل للحيوانات والجمادات واﻷفكار ألسنة ينطقون بها كالحصان، الموت، والحبر اﻷحمر الذي اختير اسمه عنوانا للرواية.

لا شك أن الرواية طويلة وثقيلة نوعا. هناك أفكار معينة أصر الكاتب على تكرارها بنوع من ثقل الدم. أذكر منها المضاهاة بين أسلوب اﻷساتذة الغربيين في رسم الوجوه مقابل التمسك التركي برسم الأشخاص في إطار قصة. صحيح أنها من اﻷفكار الأساسية للرواية لكن تكرار الطرح بهذا الشكل يذكرك بأسلوب العسكر العثماني في فرض اﻷوامر.

يفترض أن للرواية جانب بوليسي مثير، لكن لم أنسجم معه حيث أنني لم أستطع انشاء كيانات مستقلة لكل من النقاشين الثلاثة، ففاتني أهم عناصر العمل البوليسي وهو تخمين شخصية المجرم.

على العموم، أرى أنها رواية تستحق القراءة وأتطلع لقراءة عمل آخر لباموك حتى أكون عنه صورة أوضح.