Just Finished Reading: Istanbul – Memories and the City by Orhan Pamuk (FP: 2005) [333pp] 

On reading this interesting memoir by the Nobel Prize winning Turkish author I was pleased that I had read a history of modern Istanbul beforehand. This is, however, no criticism of this work. The previous history of the city gave me a good – indeed excellent – foundation to understand the deeper context that pervaded this work. The author was born in Istanbul in 1952 (around the time that the previous history book ended its narrative) so grew up in a city in the midst of change – from ancient to modern, from East to West, from religious to secular. It's not surprising that such a transition moulded and transformed the other into someone, in effect, living between two worlds and being nostalgic for a world that had been ‘lost’ (and was indeed crumbling or actively burning down around him) whilst struggling to exist in an officially sanctioned modern western looking world that was unfamiliar to him. It's odd how the official focus was very much directed at the west as an icon to look up to and emulate whilst the countries, and cities, rich Ottoman history was officially ignored, sidelined and sometimes actually denigrated. I think that would confuse anyone – never mind a sensitive soul searching for himself whilst walking the streets of an ancient city full of a rich culture from across an extensive fallen empire. I wasn’t at all surprised that his first impulse was to paint in order to reflect what he saw every day on his youthful wanderings. 

This was a memoir of painful honesty. The common theme throughout was the deep melancholy he felt growing up in a place that had not only seemed to forget its own history but had effectively been ordered to do so. Looking back was frowned upon. Wanting to look back, needing to look back to make sense of things was questionable and quite possibly disloyal. The only way to face was forwards and westwards. The authors quest for who he was and where he fitted into the grand scheme of things – especially within a Turkish historical context – was complicated (to say the least!) by his families emotional and financial slow-motion collapse throughout his young life. Despite being born into a moderately wealthy family (from money accumulated by his grandfather) his father continued to make bad financial decisions throughout his life bleeding money and slowly impoverishing the extended family. On top of this the authors father was often away from home and all too often with women other than his wife. This added complication was woven into the narrative almost as a microcosm of the city itself as it progressively crumbled, collapsed and was neglected into picturesque rubble. 

Apart from the often-beautiful writing (you can certainly tell why he won the Nobel Prize for Literature) the thing that I really liked about this book was the many photographs scattered throughout the text. Many of them were good and quite a few were simply excellent – sometimes breathtakingly so. I was MOST impressed. This book gives a great feel to the city of the author’s birth. He makes it seem exotic and familiar, dilapidated and picturesque, crowded and abandoned, timeless and ephemeral. I found it quite haunting. I look forward to reading more by this author and will likely be returning to him later in the year. Definitely recommended for anyone interested in the liminal spaces – in more ways than one - between the west and the exotic east. 

Translated from the Turkish by Maureen Freely