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Summary: Maybe I just dreamed that I read this novel....
Comment: With his langorous and beautiful prose, Orhan Pamuk has calmed me to the point of oneness with my pillow, filling my head with cloudy surreal images of far-off lands. At least once I scanned a few (or ten) pages ahead to see if anything was going to happen...not much does, but it's an enjoyable ride down a peaceful river of images.
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Summary: Labyrinthian inquiry into the Turkish identity
Comment: This is a fascinating novel. To be sure, if you have read other books by Pamuk, you will recognize the themes: the void that Attaturk's reforms could not fill (after the collapse of the Ottoman Empire); the continuing crisis of the Turkish identity that plays out in politics; and the extraordinary richness, humor and melancholy of the current culture. These are wonderfully sketched out in Pamuk's memoires, Istanbul, but also in the switching identities and interminable conflicts in his other novels. What makes this book interesting for hard fans like me is that it is his first, hence the source, of these later masterpieces of genius. It is serious, complex literature, that the reader can plumb for years in the imagination.
First, there is the plot and setting. A beloved wife has disappeared, and her seemingly hapless husband embarks on a search for her, grief stricken to the point that his sanity is shaken. This offers a wonderful portrait of the unknown, banal corners of Istanbul, just prior to the coup d'etat in the early 80s. Chaos is mounting, amidst the usual joyous cacophony of people and everyday struggle. It is warm, funny, and moving.
Second, there is the culture and identity. Turks are uncertain if they belong to the East or the West, which they mimic in Pamuk's eyes to an absurd extent. To fill this void, they turn to writers, such as the lawyer's mysterious cousin, a famous columnist. In my reading, his loyal readers are searching for themselves through his eloquence and culture, as he retells old tales as well as finds new ones, which he expresses through his own brand of mimicry (or transmogrification). The Lawyer studies him as the key to the secret of his wife's disappearance, eventually taking on much of his identity.
Third, there are the interactions, both with history and similar people in the present. It all mixes in a kind of Nabokovian dream, where there are real and imagined threats and relationships. The mind of the lawyer, seemingly so mundane, is revealed here with great depth, layers that peel away repeatedly.
My interpretation of the book is that it is about the internal narrative of our lives - the stories we tell ourselves about who we are - that is the basis of personal identity and even cultures. In ascendant, self-obsessed countries like the US, this narrative goes largely unexamined in our presumption that everyone should want to live like us. This novel offers a strikingly different vision of this narrative, one that is wounded by history and in search of words and concepts to re-make itself. I think this is a great human dilemma, from which Americans can learn to better see themselves as well as empathize with other peoples, particularly in the current crisis of the Moslem world.
The translation is very vivid, though of course I cannot read it in the original. There is also a fascinating translator's note, in which she discusses the complexities of Turkish. It makes me wish I had learned Turkish.
Warmly recommended for serious students of literature. This book requires effort, but it is worth every bit of it. I would compare the achievements of this writer with the best work of VS Naipal, full of pathos and empathy for characters unusual for an American or western audience and yet sparkling with humor in the darkest moments.
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Summary: At some point imagery and storytelling become too much
Comment: In a nutshell, "The Black Book" is a series of stories within stories within stories, all loosely based around a somewhat weak and unexpanded plotline. Orhan Pamuk has the storytelling aspect of writing down - each miniature story within story within story is well-written, vivid, and full of gorgeous, picturesque images.
There are just too many of them.
Half of the "article" stories were really cool. They told neat, interesting stories and gave the story a mysterious feel. The other half were so utterly dull that I found myself flipping pages without even reading, then forcing myself to flip back to find out what I'd "missed". Storytelling can add a lot to a book, but only to a certain degree. There were so many things in this book that just didn't interest me that I couldn't really appreciate it.
The main plot, the central story, is pretty much undeveloped. The most interesting parts (the only time I ever read intensely, curious to find out how things develop, and then ending up somewhat disappointed) was at the very end, the very final pages of this thick novel. And even then it is not so impressive.
Perhaps many of the things I didn't understand were cultural things. But it seemed to me that the ending left so many questions unanswered and that the main point (what IS the main point? Storytelling will save us all?) could have been summed up within 100 or so pages. A good edit, a snipping of the numerous subplots and unnecessary stories, would have made this read so much easier and better.
The novel is still somewhat intriguing. The journey is interesting and the use of storytelling to get us there is nice, but it fails to impress. It simply does not end up working as well as it could have, had this book been shorter and more to the point. At some point it became too much.
This book may (and will) appeal to some. The cultural aspect is pretty cool, but needs a pretty solid background knowledge of the Ottoman Empire and Turkey. Some of the internal stories are really good, and some just aren't to certain readers taste (but may be to others, for those interested in random philosophy). On the whole, it's a mediocre book - too long, well-written, undeveloped plot, and good internal story-telling. An original tale as well, but as already mentioned - it could have been much more.
A 2 3/4 rating. Think hard before approaching.
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Summary: Devastating poetry
Comment: I read each page of this book twice, to come back again and to read it for a third time. It is one of the most beautiful prose I have ever read.
As he describes so well, Orhan Pamuk is a "picturesque writer" and the poetry in his imagery so devastating. There is so much melancholy and a deep sense of tragedy in this piece that it is beyond my imagination.
I had already read Snow and his memoire Istanbul. But "The Black Book" is my favorite.
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Summary: A review by Philip Spires, author of Mission
Comment: I have visited Turkey, but not Istanbul. It's one of those iconic places that keeps cropping up in travel plans, but then gets overlooked, possibly because its name fits so easily into my thoughts that I convince myself I have already been there. Having just read Orhan Pamuk's The Black Book, that illusion will be orders of magnitude stronger. Orhan Pamuk won the 2006 Nobel Prize for literature and this seems to have spurned new translations of his work, new versions which hopefully can widen his readership in the English-speaking world.
The Black Book is a gigantic work. And, in the way that I suspect most readers might understand the term, there is no plot. Suffice it to say that Galip wakes up one morning and his wife has disappeared. He assumes she has gone off to seek out her first husband, Celal, a well-known newspaper columnist. Galip sets off to find Celal and, he assumes, his wife, but strangely the journalist has also disappeared. As a means to help him track down the two missing people, Galip immerses himself in Celal's life, his writing and, gradually, his very identity. Effectively he becomes the person he is seeking. He re-reads his past work and discovers unknown things about his own, his wife's and her former husband's past. By then, however, we cannot be sure if we are dealing with reminiscences of Celal, Galip's interpretations of them, Galip's reworking of them, or, indeed, Galip's own words presented as if they were those of Celal.
But the plot in The Black Book is almost irrelevant. It's not a book that one reads to discover what happens. It's a book that's replete with flavour, experience and history, and the reader feasts on vast helpings of all three.
Byzantium, Constantinople, Istanbul - let's face it, there is no other city on earth that has been named three times and where, on each occasion, that name has passed into language as an expression of political, strategic, religious and economic pre-eminence. It's a city that bridges continents, ideologies and faiths. Nowhere else on earth has a greater claim to the very quintessence of humanity than Istanbul. And yet modern Istanbul is a Turkish city, and perhaps its most fascinating aspect is its potential to mirror contemporary debates on religion versus secularism, tradition versus modernity, imperial past versus global present.
The Black Book has thirty-six chapters, each having its own title and prefacing quotation. The form, at least in part, is its content, in that each chapter could be read as if it were an article written by Celal or by Galip impersonating Celal. There is no linear narrative. We experience what inspired the writer and there is no ordering of time or place. But we feel we are in that city. We feel we are living its history, whatever that might be. And we feel we are experiencing contemporary debates on its and its people's identity. The city is central to everything in the book, with its multiple histories and allegiances mixed into the melting pot of its contemporary form.
Throughout, Galip finds he gradually becomes his quarry, Celal. He trades identities and roles, but never permanently, never for sure. In this way the characters become the city, whose sense of place and multiplicity of identities pervade all, thus mirroring the apparent confusion of its - and humanity's - complexity. But the people eventually are always welcomed by some aspect of the city's - and humanity's - multi-faceted nature.
The Black Book is a work that demands to be re-read, but not because it is in any way a difficult or impenetrable read. I have never been to Istanbul, but like the book, I feel it will be an experience that, once tried, will demand to be re-visited.
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