Orhan Pamuk's "Istanbul"

I grabbed this book off the shelf because I knew that Orhan Pamuk has won a Nobel Prize in Literature. I expected something really special. I was disappointed. The book was mildly interesting but too obsessive about his concept of hüzün that hangs over Istanbul. Too melodramatic for my taste.

I found the insight into his life mildly interesting. I did enjoy getting an appreciation of how the westernizing influence of his social peers interacted with the larger Turkish society. As for the neuroses and laments of the rich, I would rather read F. Scott Fitzgerald. Generally I have little sympathy for the rich trying to get my empathy. As usual, this book present the poor as 'just a backdrop'. You get no insight into their lives.

The pictures were interesting. But Pamuk's mournful mood meant that he selected the dreariest of pictures to reflect his mood.

The tale of his first love was presented as something precious and unique, but as I read it I kept thinking that this is the tale of 'everyone'. Similarly his complaints of his parents and his unhappiness with his mother's concern about his career choice struck me as a typical adolescent's struggle with hormones rushing in their veins to push them out of the nest.

While I wasn't particularly pleased with the book, there were bits that I enjoyed. Here's a sample where his mother is trying to guide him, and he like all youth ignores the plea:

I sensed the caution most keenly in my mother's constant entreaties to "be normal, ordinary, like other people." This plea carried a great deal of traditional morality -- the importance of being humble, of accepting what little you had and making the most of it, practicing the Sufi asceticism that had left its mark on the entire cutlure...

The advice was reasonable and right. And of course he ignored it. Funny how each generation makes the same mistakes over and over.