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3.66 AVERAGE
3.66 AVERAGE
It is impossible to describe how good this book is because it is a sum of all the stories written. One can find similarities with any piece of literature. Literature has been dissolved into pieces by Orhan Pamuk and sewn together again, forming a "black box"-esque masterpiece. Just as a black box of a flight involving all details, it is still a reader's job to solve the mystery and the mystery is whatever the reader chooses it to be, just as in Bandersnatch.
mysterious
reflective
slow-paced
A lawyer named Galip discovers that his wife, Ruya, has left a note to say she is leaving him. He keeps this information from his family and begins to search for her, in the process discovering that his uncle, Celal, a columnist for a newspaper, has also seemingly vanished. He understandably assumes they have run off together and he tries to piece together the cause of their disappearance by investigating their shared lives. Gradually he starts to read Celal's old columns for clues and slowly but surely begins to accumulate aspects of Celal's own life.
This started well and I was engaged but gradually, towards the middle, started losing a little of my interest. The problem here is there is no story to speak of, only a kind of vague exploration of identity and while that can be interesting (writers do seem to come back to this subject matter on a very regular basis) the writing style and the format of the book made it a little too broad for my tastes. The book is set up so that there's a chapter concerning Galip's investigation followed by a chapter which is one of the columns written by Celal (which we are presumably expected to view as a clue to the character's motivations and whereabouts). This process repeats itself throughout the book (chapter about Galip's investigations, chapter of one of Celal's columns, and so on, etc). While I was generally invested in Galip's story, the columns by Celal's added little and felt like red herrings (maybe they were). As the book goes along, you are showered in references to Turkish history and literature which, while interesting, feels a little obscure and unfamiliar, especially in the context of what is, on some level, a murder mystery. But, of course, it isn't really - but merely mimics one. I had similar issues when I read Snow (a more conventional narrative), about the west and east struggling to co-exist as a theme. But here it was harder to come to terms with.
Somewhat unsurprisingly, the book then explores the concept of the self and identity in general. Writer's do seem to love this theme. Towards the end of the book, Galip is the one now writing the columns and there is a sense that these two men might actually be the same man (I really did think at one point this was going to be the twist at the end). The two men seemingly merge, blur the lines of identity, and start to resemble each other very acutely as Galip essentially starts to live Celal's life. The ending is rather blunt and opens up avenues for new, more sinister interpretations (namely concerning just how reliable the narration is) since it involves not just Galip as a confused protagonist but also Pamuk himself.
Overall, the book is very good but too long and too dense. So much could have been removed. It didn't grab me the way Snow did perhaps because it didn't offer the same kind of conventional narrative but instead one which explored ideas that needed a better delivery system. Pamuk is a wonderful writer but this one just felt a little loose and vague. The big ideas he's looking at never quite succeed in being realised as something profound or entertaining; I was never really moved or gripped. It's definitely worth a read though.
This started well and I was engaged but gradually, towards the middle, started losing a little of my interest. The problem here is there is no story to speak of, only a kind of vague exploration of identity and while that can be interesting (writers do seem to come back to this subject matter on a very regular basis) the writing style and the format of the book made it a little too broad for my tastes. The book is set up so that there's a chapter concerning Galip's investigation followed by a chapter which is one of the columns written by Celal (which we are presumably expected to view as a clue to the character's motivations and whereabouts). This process repeats itself throughout the book (chapter about Galip's investigations, chapter of one of Celal's columns, and so on, etc). While I was generally invested in Galip's story, the columns by Celal's added little and felt like red herrings (maybe they were). As the book goes along, you are showered in references to Turkish history and literature which, while interesting, feels a little obscure and unfamiliar, especially in the context of what is, on some level, a murder mystery. But, of course, it isn't really - but merely mimics one. I had similar issues when I read Snow (a more conventional narrative), about the west and east struggling to co-exist as a theme. But here it was harder to come to terms with.
Somewhat unsurprisingly, the book then explores the concept of the self and identity in general. Writer's do seem to love this theme. Towards the end of the book, Galip is the one now writing the columns and there is a sense that these two men might actually be the same man (I really did think at one point this was going to be the twist at the end). The two men seemingly merge, blur the lines of identity, and start to resemble each other very acutely as Galip essentially starts to live Celal's life. The ending is rather blunt and opens up avenues for new, more sinister interpretations (namely concerning just how reliable the narration is) since it involves not just Galip as a confused protagonist but also Pamuk himself.
Overall, the book is very good but too long and too dense. So much could have been removed. It didn't grab me the way Snow did perhaps because it didn't offer the same kind of conventional narrative but instead one which explored ideas that needed a better delivery system. Pamuk is a wonderful writer but this one just felt a little loose and vague. The big ideas he's looking at never quite succeed in being realised as something profound or entertaining; I was never really moved or gripped. It's definitely worth a read though.
adventurous
informative
sad
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated
Catching up…
This is a Turkish novelist, originally translated by Guneli Gun, and again translated by Maureen Freely in this particular version. She shares a note at the back of the book, mostly talking about the turbulent times in Turkey – the time in which the author wrote this book. I wanted to start the review this way, with this information, because sometimes books can be lost in translation.
The protagonist, Galip, is a small-time Istabul lawyer, who returns from work to find that his wife, Ruya is gone without any explanation. As he begins to search, he discovers that a couple of days earlier her mysterious older half-brother, Jelal (who is Galip’s first cousin), also vanished.
As it turns out, Jelal is a powerful newspaper columnist who has been involved in political intrigues through encrypted messages in his columns.
Could this have something to do with his disappearance?
But…
What does this have to do with his wife?
Still…
Galip becomes convinced that she is probably hiding out with him in one of his many secret hideouts that Jelal has throughout Istanbul.
So…
He sets out looking for clues. In Jelal’s columns.
And…
Through discussions with people Jelal has known through the years.
As Galip goes deeper, so does the reader, and the story seems to get more and more complex.
And…
That is when the book seems to breakdown and take readers down a rabbit hole.
And…
This reader begins to ask…
What kind of a world are we being introduced to within these pages?
After a while, I wasn’t sure where we were headed, and what kind of mystery I was reading.
All I can say is venture very carefully through these pages.
This is a Turkish novelist, originally translated by Guneli Gun, and again translated by Maureen Freely in this particular version. She shares a note at the back of the book, mostly talking about the turbulent times in Turkey – the time in which the author wrote this book. I wanted to start the review this way, with this information, because sometimes books can be lost in translation.
The protagonist, Galip, is a small-time Istabul lawyer, who returns from work to find that his wife, Ruya is gone without any explanation. As he begins to search, he discovers that a couple of days earlier her mysterious older half-brother, Jelal (who is Galip’s first cousin), also vanished.
As it turns out, Jelal is a powerful newspaper columnist who has been involved in political intrigues through encrypted messages in his columns.
Could this have something to do with his disappearance?
But…
What does this have to do with his wife?
Still…
Galip becomes convinced that she is probably hiding out with him in one of his many secret hideouts that Jelal has throughout Istanbul.
So…
He sets out looking for clues. In Jelal’s columns.
And…
Through discussions with people Jelal has known through the years.
As Galip goes deeper, so does the reader, and the story seems to get more and more complex.
And…
That is when the book seems to breakdown and take readers down a rabbit hole.
And…
This reader begins to ask…
What kind of a world are we being introduced to within these pages?
After a while, I wasn’t sure where we were headed, and what kind of mystery I was reading.
All I can say is venture very carefully through these pages.
Very good. The theme of becoming someone else to be able to tell a story is compelling. Lots of very interesting material about the history of Istanbul and Turkey.
So the story of Celal is the other story of Galip, and that's also the story of my past.
Maaf, buku yang perlu sebulan lebih untuk saya selesaikan membacanya ini malah bikin saya bernostalgia. Sementara saya belum akan membuat review atas buku ini, tapi cerita dulu. Mumpung saya ingat dan sadar akan siapa diri saya.
Maksudnya? Saya juga -sekian belas tahun lalu- pernah jadi penulis kolom di sebuah mingguan. Dua mingguan mungkin lebih tepat, karena bergantian dengan bos saya, pemred yang sebelumnya jarang banget menulis selain tugas2 kuliahnya. Abang pemred ini sebenarnya seleb lapangan aksi reformasi '98, ga punya latar belakang jurnalistik, jadi beliau dapat jatah menulis kolom aja. Mustinya sih dia harus menulis tiap minggu. Namun karena si abang pemred masih susah membiasakan diri dikejar tenggat menulis, maka sebagai redpel (walau belum punya ijazah sarjana), selain melakukan koordinasi tugas para redaktur saya juga ketiban tanggungjawab sebagai penyedia tulisan kolom yang sama, bergantian dengan si abang.
Menulis kolom itu buat saya -saat itu- bukan hal yang susah. Seputar "kepanikan kiamat" pada 9-9-99 (kalau ada yang ingat, berarti seangkatan dengan saya), tepat hari itu saya datang ke kampus naik metromini disambung KRL tanpa gejala kiamat sama sekali, dan siangnya ke kantor tabloid itu langsung menyetorkan kolom dengan judul "Lewat!". Kolom minggu itu bikin beberapa pembaca (teman2 saya sendiri) menyampaikan ketakjubannya karena tumben saya mengutip ayat Quran, dari surat An Naazi'at ayat 6-7. Ya ampun, itu kan surat juz amma aja, lulusan madrasah diniyah macam saya bisa lah membacanya.
Saya tidak sempat mendokumentasikan semua kolom yang saya tulis selama kira2 sembilan bulan aktif di tabloid itu, karena file-nya tersebar di komputer lama atau komputer kantor, yang sekarang entah sudah jadi apa. Tapi satu kolom yang sempat bikin hati girang, yang terbit kira2 Desember 1999, dan berjudul "Orang Bodoh". Saya memberi lead kutipan Mencken, lupa apa tepatnya, tapi tentang orang bodoh yang merasa pintar dan orang pintar yang merasa bodoh. Kutipan itu juga "boleh nemu" di buku tentang editorial, salah satu bacaan sok pintar saya saat mengambil mata kuliah Menulis Feature dan Editorial (sampai tiga kali karena dua kali tidak lulus).
Bukan isi kolom itu (tentang mahasiswa yang masih malas menulis karena merasa "tidak berbakat") yang bikin saya girang, tapi sebuah surat pembaca yang datang ke redaksi pada minggu berikutnya. Penulisnya juga entah siapa saya lupa, tapi dia membedah artikel tabloid kami dengan menulis poin2 yang membuat kami di redaksi manggut2 takzim bak ditegur dan dijewer karena sayang. Dan, tulis si pembuat surat pembaca itu, kolom "Orang Bodoh" itu merupakan tulisan kesukaannya pada edisi tabloid kami yang lalu.
Seandainya, si penulis surat pembaca itu tahu bahwa saya menulis kolom itu tanpa keseriusan, hanya bermodal buku Editorial, sambungan internet dan kegalauan karena skripsi saya yang belum selesai juga, akankah nasib saya akan sama seperti Celal Sadik?
Maaf, buku yang perlu sebulan lebih untuk saya selesaikan membacanya ini malah bikin saya bernostalgia. Sementara saya belum akan membuat review atas buku ini, tapi cerita dulu. Mumpung saya ingat dan sadar akan siapa diri saya.
Maksudnya? Saya juga -sekian belas tahun lalu- pernah jadi penulis kolom di sebuah mingguan. Dua mingguan mungkin lebih tepat, karena bergantian dengan bos saya, pemred yang sebelumnya jarang banget menulis selain tugas2 kuliahnya. Abang pemred ini sebenarnya seleb lapangan aksi reformasi '98, ga punya latar belakang jurnalistik, jadi beliau dapat jatah menulis kolom aja. Mustinya sih dia harus menulis tiap minggu. Namun karena si abang pemred masih susah membiasakan diri dikejar tenggat menulis, maka sebagai redpel (walau belum punya ijazah sarjana), selain melakukan koordinasi tugas para redaktur saya juga ketiban tanggungjawab sebagai penyedia tulisan kolom yang sama, bergantian dengan si abang.
Menulis kolom itu buat saya -saat itu- bukan hal yang susah. Seputar "kepanikan kiamat" pada 9-9-99 (kalau ada yang ingat, berarti seangkatan dengan saya), tepat hari itu saya datang ke kampus naik metromini disambung KRL tanpa gejala kiamat sama sekali, dan siangnya ke kantor tabloid itu langsung menyetorkan kolom dengan judul "Lewat!". Kolom minggu itu bikin beberapa pembaca (teman2 saya sendiri) menyampaikan ketakjubannya karena tumben saya mengutip ayat Quran, dari surat An Naazi'at ayat 6-7. Ya ampun, itu kan surat juz amma aja, lulusan madrasah diniyah macam saya bisa lah membacanya.
Saya tidak sempat mendokumentasikan semua kolom yang saya tulis selama kira2 sembilan bulan aktif di tabloid itu, karena file-nya tersebar di komputer lama atau komputer kantor, yang sekarang entah sudah jadi apa. Tapi satu kolom yang sempat bikin hati girang, yang terbit kira2 Desember 1999, dan berjudul "Orang Bodoh". Saya memberi lead kutipan Mencken, lupa apa tepatnya, tapi tentang orang bodoh yang merasa pintar dan orang pintar yang merasa bodoh. Kutipan itu juga "boleh nemu" di buku tentang editorial, salah satu bacaan sok pintar saya saat mengambil mata kuliah Menulis Feature dan Editorial (sampai tiga kali karena dua kali tidak lulus).
Bukan isi kolom itu (tentang mahasiswa yang masih malas menulis karena merasa "tidak berbakat") yang bikin saya girang, tapi sebuah surat pembaca yang datang ke redaksi pada minggu berikutnya. Penulisnya juga entah siapa saya lupa, tapi dia membedah artikel tabloid kami dengan menulis poin2 yang membuat kami di redaksi manggut2 takzim bak ditegur dan dijewer karena sayang. Dan, tulis si pembuat surat pembaca itu, kolom "Orang Bodoh" itu merupakan tulisan kesukaannya pada edisi tabloid kami yang lalu.
Seandainya, si penulis surat pembaca itu tahu bahwa saya menulis kolom itu tanpa keseriusan, hanya bermodal buku Editorial, sambungan internet dan kegalauan karena skripsi saya yang belum selesai juga, akankah nasib saya akan sama seperti Celal Sadik?
adventurous
dark
emotional
mysterious
reflective
sad
tense
When someone you respect as a reader suggests a book that left them with goosebumps, a 5 star rating and a new perspective, you give that book a fair shake. Perhaps you even read past the point where you would normally set down an ill-fitting novel. Maybe you set it down but try again months later, with a clearer head and a new-found fervor.
All of that is true for me with the Black Book. I spent over 4 months with this book on my 'currently reading' shelf and that doesn't even include the attempt I made 7 years back.
The first 100 pages were intriguing, painting a beautiful portrait of small neighbourhood life in Istanbul, Turkey, where locals know everyone else's business and care deeply for one another. The chapters are interspersed with newspaper articles/editorials by Celal, the locally famous journalist.
The makings of a mystery begin when Galip's wife goes missing. Not the scary, hostage-taking kind of missing, but simply like she went out for a walk and didn't return.
Trying to save face for having this willful wife who has skipped out on the weekly family dinner, Galip goes off in search of her. He explores all the dark nooks and crannies of Istanbul, asking old acquaintances, colleagues and his wife's friends if they know where she is. He revisits their old haunts and is awash with memories of their past.
All of that was fine with me, albeit quite wordy and obtuse.
But as Galip galivants around the city, he seems to get caught up in the life he finds there. Suddenly he is sleeping with old school mates and perhaps taking elicit drugs. His search for his wife gets sidelined every step of the way and, although he continues to claim his deep love for her, he is too often overtaken by lust for whoever is nearby.
I can now close this title forever and end this nonsense. There is simply nothing here for me.
All of that is true for me with the Black Book. I spent over 4 months with this book on my 'currently reading' shelf and that doesn't even include the attempt I made 7 years back.
The first 100 pages were intriguing, painting a beautiful portrait of small neighbourhood life in Istanbul, Turkey, where locals know everyone else's business and care deeply for one another. The chapters are interspersed with newspaper articles/editorials by Celal, the locally famous journalist.
The makings of a mystery begin when Galip's wife goes missing. Not the scary, hostage-taking kind of missing, but simply like she went out for a walk and didn't return.
Trying to save face for having this willful wife who has skipped out on the weekly family dinner, Galip goes off in search of her. He explores all the dark nooks and crannies of Istanbul, asking old acquaintances, colleagues and his wife's friends if they know where she is. He revisits their old haunts and is awash with memories of their past.
All of that was fine with me, albeit quite wordy and obtuse.
But as Galip galivants around the city, he seems to get caught up in the life he finds there. Suddenly he is sleeping with old school mates and perhaps taking elicit drugs. His search for his wife gets sidelined every step of the way and, although he continues to claim his deep love for her, he is too often overtaken by lust for whoever is nearby.
I can now close this title forever and end this nonsense. There is simply nothing here for me.
I couldn't finish this book, but it was good. Parts of it sucked me in, but then I found myself lost.