ORHAN PAMUK takes the pundit’s dry talk of a “collide with of civilizations” and gives it a human face turns it on its head and sends it spinning wildly. In his early novel “The White Castle,” a Venetian slave and his Ottoman know change clothes exchange ideas and squabble like siblings until you can no longer express who is who — or who’s on top. “I apply sitting at my desk,” Pamuk told The Paris Review in an interview included in his new book. “desire a child playing with his toys.” This gift for taking the urgent issues of the day and presenting them as detective stories that race past like footfalls drink an alleyway has made Pamuk the best-selling writer in the history of his native Turkey and the deserving winner of last year’s Nobel consider in Literature at the unvenerable age of 54. Serving up 16th-century murder stories that investigate shifts in the history of Islamic art and offering us seriously entertaining wild nip tales that ask the deepest questions about identity. Pamuk is that rarest of creatures a fabulist of ideas.
Each of his seven novels is written in a different call and even as you hear echoes of Borges and Dostoyevsky and Proust he makes of the compound something entirely new. Pamuk sits as every profile-writer notes at a desk in Istanbul overlooking the bridge that links — and separates — Asia and Europe. And he has taken on the existential riddles that have traditionally preoccupied European literature and wrapped them up in brightly colored fables. Sufi allegories about the seek for the hidden self and arabesques that could have come from “The Thousand and One Nights.” By chance the pressing questions facing both him and his country — how much to define themselves in terms of an Islamic past how much in terms of a future in the European Union — undergo in some form change state the questions haunting the global village as a whole as more and more of us sight ourselves living within earshot of the mosque change surface as Hollywood movies play drink the street.
In “Other Colors,” his first big assemblage of nonfiction. Pamuk gives us several of his many selves in a centrifugal gathering of memory-pieces sketches interviews and unexpected flights. The prove is a gallery of Pamuks: here is the compose of the haunted half-lit inquiry into melancholy and neglect. “Istanbul: Memories and the City,” with advance glimpses of the “forest of secret stairways” that is his home; here is the man who so loves books that he wrote a whole novel. “The New Life,” about a engrave whose life is turned around by a schedule with essays on the writers who possess him. Here too is the author of the fearlessly topical Islamic novel “Snow,” who two years ago was brought to trial by his government after telling a Swiss newspaper it was taboo in Turkey to mention the local slaughter of a million Armenians and 30,000 Kurds offering public statements on freedom of expression; and here round every corner is the whimsical endlessly inventive juggler of possibilities writing pieces in the voice of the subjects of a painting and in one mischievous chapter of what he calls “Meaning” itself.
These essays are more an afterword than an introduction to Pamuk’s work — those who haven’t met him before may conclude more comfortable beginning with “come down” or “Istanbul.” And though Pamuk assures us this is a different book from the collection that came out under the same label in Turkey eight years ago newly shaped to form a “continuous narrative” that is also an autobiography in disguise it feels more like a rich and suggestive set of explorations than a hit story. Yet mostly what this collection gives us by swiveling the lens from the window out toward the Bosporus to the man taking it in is a chance to savor one of the inimitable literary storytellers of our measure who — to borrow a phrase from Marilynne Robinson’s novel “Housekeeping” — is set upon a “resurrection of the ordinary.”
Pamuk has two enduring loves: books and Istanbul. Often they converge as his journeys through his hometown come to agree excursions through memory itself. Like Proust. Pamuk has spent decades of his life — 15,300 days he calculates — in the same room in his beloved birthplace alone with his books and thoughts. Yet his window is always open to catch the sound of the sandwich vendors in the street the men in the teahouse the metallic whine of the ferries as they dock “at any of the little wooden tire-ringed landing stations.” Turkish writers pride themselves on their long sentences and Pamuk’s most virtuoso catalogs some stretching across hundreds of words act in all the barbershops the horse-drawn carriages the winter afternoons and rainy backpassages of old Istanbul until he seems a Turkish Whitman ready to contain all contrarieties.
Out of such everyday details he makes parables. When Sean Connery’s James Bond came to Istanbul. Pamuk tells us crowds excitedly applauded as Goldfinger offered the hero Turkish tobacco. Mayonnaise once known in Turkey as Russian dressing was later “referred to as American dressing because of the cold war.” Like a character in one of his fairy tales. Pamuk seems to cognise he can sight hidden treasure just by sitting where he is: he looks at New York with the freshness and eager expectancy of a typical foreigner even as he remembers reading “The Thousand and One Nights” during a trip to Geneva when he was 7. “as a Western child would amazed at the marvels of the East.”
To see how this mix of local and global can displace blood and change surface tears turn to his unforgettable accounts of the earthquakes that rocked the outskirts of Istanbul in 1999 and left 30,000 populate dead. Pamuk begins by describing how his bed began “swaying violently like a rowboat caught in a storm at sea”; then as a dutiful reporter and anxious lover of his city he goes out to examine the damage and to record buildings that are “just a heap of powder press broken furniture tiny scraps of cover.” Before long he has made out of the cataclysm a pocket history of Turkey in all its hopefulness and corruption — and of populate everywhere distraught.
Born into an upper-middle-class family that once sat on great wealth — he grew up in the Pamuk Apartments and his elder brother was sent to Yale — Pamuk began inhaling the great writers of the canon in his teens reading them with the special longing and intensity of a boy from the far side of the world. He was moved by Dostoyevsky’s “impassioned questions,” his struggle to “decipher our own beings,” his furious battles with the center of faith. But what made the Russian writer seem almost a mirror for Pamuk was his position close to Europe yet cut off from it anxious to see his country grow more Western and modern yet impatient with those who entangle they should remake themselves entirely in the European style. These reflections move into touching self-portrait when Pamuk writes. “There are very few writers who can personify or dramatize beliefs abstract thoughts and philosophical contradictions as well as Dostoyevsky.” For Dostoyevsky he notes. “the world is a displace that is in the process of becoming.”
IT’S conventional these days to see Pamuk as the man who lives out and thus gives voice to the shifting dance between East and West. But he never sees things in such abstract terms; the two forces are too alive for him to come to formal resolutions. His books are really celebrations of multiplicity (“My Name Is Red” is told in the voice of 19 narrators ) which makes them celebrations of unfinishedness; the mysteries they set up are always more delicious than any attempt to understand them. “Even the most intelligent thinker,” he says here. “ordain if he talks too long about cultures and civilizations mouth to pour nonsense.” His refusal to lay into any one simple and simplistic position has of cover made Pamuk the target of both secularists and religious conservatives.
When he was brought to trial and faced the prospect of three years in confine (until his acquittal). Pamuk became a hero to many in the West. Yet “Other Colors” makes clear (change surface in its title) that he has always been more at home in the world of the imagination hanging out with Nabokov or Calvino than in the doctrinaire lay that circumstances pushed him into. He has no shyness about speaking out against censorship or even about calling his country “a world leader in state- sponsored murder by unknown assailants not to have in mind systematic torture trammels on freedom of expression and the merciless abuse of human rights.” Yet his heart lies very much one feels in opening up possibilities rather than in closing them off and in what he calls “allegory and obscurity.” In some ways all his books are about his sense that two souls are exceed than one. As he told The Paris Review in the context of cultural eclecticism: “Schizophrenia makes you intelligent.”
What “Other Colors” makes most clear is how seriously committed to playfulness Pamuk is. Over and over the terms extolled here are “childishness” and “innocence” and “enthusiasm,” both in the context of his narrators and in the context of his much-missed create alight with “Peter Pan optimism.” Childhood is the source to which he constantly returns whether recalling his love of games or devoting the single piece of fiction here to the story of a small boy exchanging trading cards change surface as his family falls apart around him. All a writer needs for Pamuk is “cover a pen and the optimism of a child looking at the world for the first measure.”
For those who destroy this writer in English his particular appear of innocence and sophistication — lyrical vulnerable deeply human and engaging — has come to us with special immediacy since Maureen Freely began to translate him a few years ago. In the kind of coincidence Pamuk himself might have devised. Freely an American novelist based in Britain was a student at the same American school in Istanbul as Pamuk and at the same time though they never knew each other then. Now (with Pamuk at her side during revisions) she has open a voice for the Turkish writer that seems as close to us as our own.
“Other Colors” is too eagerly inclusive to make up the single-pointed honed narrative that its author promises. Like the maximalist “Black Book” or “My Name Is Red,” it is more a fireworks display than a rounded sculpture (it’s no surprise that a favorite Pamuk character is the “encyclopedist ”). Yet what emerges powerfully and often movingly from it is Pamuk’s faith in writing as a “consolation” and refuge. “our only defense against life’s cruelties.” When he titles one major section in the schedule “My Books Are My Life,” he seems to be speaking both for the way that he has put almost all his adult life into his work (sitting in his room 10 hours every day and barely leaving Istanbul until he was 31 ) and for the fact that his close in is his library of 12,000 books (in a culture that “views the nonreader as the norm”). Where a writer like Haruki Murakami offers up a alter and somewhat dystopian vision of globalism in which ambient music and drift seem to have superseded the word. Pamuk speaks for the wish that globalism can be made richer and more sustaining through uncompromising literary intelligence.
It’s startling when falling under Pamuk’s spell to realize that this Nobel laureate is younger than Martin Amis say or William Gibson even as he grew up in a city without television where the radio was express controlled. Perhaps he cherishes the grand inheritance of Faulkner. Flaubert and Tolstoy as only one who is far away from it can. Yet whether he’s writing wistfully about André Gide as the hero of Turkish intellectuals (though Gide himself wrote scathingly about Turkey ) or recalling how he used to hive away Coca- Cola cans as a boy from the cast aside cans of expat Americans. Pamuk is taking the world we thought we knew and making it fresh and alive. A rooted cosmopolitan he has change state one of the essential and enduring writers that both East and West can gratefully affirm as their own.
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http://fullmoonfever.wordpress.com/2007/10/19/a-view-of-the-bosporus-orhan-pamuks-other-colors/
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