Steve Reads

I finished this on a flight from Izmir to Istanbul. It’s a good thing I did: it provides an excellent preface to visiting that amazing city.

Pamuk has three guiding ideas in this book. First is that all Istanbullus share a sort of melancholy which Turks call huzun. The idea is that they all lament the decline of their city since it was the capital of the Ottoman Empire, and that they lament their servitude to the Western world. Secondly, Pamuk wants to harness this huzun and create an artwork that is distinctively Turkish — not Western, not Muslim, but a harmonious blend of the two. Thirdly, Pamuk believes that the city inhabits the man just as much as the man inhabits the city: Pamuk feels Istanbul’s moods and it feels his. Huzun is thus a strictly collective emotion. One cannot feel this sort of melancholy on one’s own; one can only experience it in a collective way along with one’s fellow-Istanbullus. (Indeed, it’s not clear to me that residents of any other city — Vienna, maybe? Pittsburgh? — can feel huzun; it may be a nostalgic melancholy that only Istanbullus are logically entitled to feel.)

I didn’t feel the huzun in Istanbul, but then I was only there for a few days; Pamuk doesn’t believe that anyone can understand his city without living there for ten years or more. It may also be impossible for a new generation of lifelong Istanbullus to feel the huzun : those born into today’s Istanbul may not realize that there’s anything other than the Western model to follow.

This is all his perspective as an insider to the culture. As an outsider to it, my perspective says something altogether different. When I visited Istanbul, there was at least one mosque, minaret, and muezzin per quarter square mile. One block off the main drag in Beyoğlu (Istiklal Caddesi), our cab had to stop to let a flock of sheep and their shepherd pass. One block off on the other side was a warren of little streets filled with conservative Muslims. I felt distinctly foreign there, both in nationality and in culture. If this is “the West,” Istanbul-style, then Pamuk has nothing to worry about.

At times — certainly over the last fifth of the book — Pamuk’s melodrama about huzun gets to be a bit much. He haunts the miserable streets of a lost empire, collar upturned against the snow, trying to shake off his own desperation at a lost love and make an art form that doesn’t just ape the West. On and on he goes, trying to beat us over the head with the idea that the city inhabits the man and the man the city: we cut back and forth between his furious wanderings in the streets and his fight with his mother over what he’ll do with his life. Pamuk thinks he is terribly clever. He wants us very much to know how clever it is; earlier in the book he drops hints about its “hidden symmetry.” This symmetry, so far as I can tell, is just the symmetry between the man and the city. So now you know. If you were paying attention during the first half of the book, you already knew. I’d rather not be bludgeoned with the Cleverness Stick.

Still, it’s a fun read. It’s peppered with (deliberately) black-and-white photos of old Stamboul, from an era when people flocked to the shores of the Bosphorous to watch the Ottoman pashas’ wooden “yalıs” (waterfront mansions) burn to the ground one by one. There’s great romance in this book, great love for the Bosphorous, and delicious history. Worth reading, but not worth owning.