palwasha_here's review
2.0
—if you pluck a special moment from life and frame it, are you defying death, decay, and the passage of time or are you submitting to it?
The way here Orhan Pamuk shares his thoughts about taking photos is an example of his examplary writing style. It's deep and reflective.
I love how he describes the old wooden houses, abandoned places, and ruined palaces.
The way he described the interaction between a local sultan's daughter and a European artist.
It's interesting to read about the author childhood thoughts regarding religion and God. Being from a secular family he knows the difference between being religious and secular. He also like others around him thought that God is with the poor only.
..to move away from religion was to be modern and western.
I was, as I had begun to discover even then, the sort who could wear the same clothes and eat the same things and go for a hundred years without getting bored so long as I could entertain wild dreams in the privacy of my imagination.
Relatable.
But sadly it was part boring part dragging and it was only some parts of it that I really enjoyed. I found it to be an ok read.
The way here Orhan Pamuk shares his thoughts about taking photos is an example of his examplary writing style. It's deep and reflective.
I love how he describes the old wooden houses, abandoned places, and ruined palaces.
The way he described the interaction between a local sultan's daughter and a European artist.
It's interesting to read about the author childhood thoughts regarding religion and God. Being from a secular family he knows the difference between being religious and secular. He also like others around him thought that God is with the poor only.
..to move away from religion was to be modern and western.
I was, as I had begun to discover even then, the sort who could wear the same clothes and eat the same things and go for a hundred years without getting bored so long as I could entertain wild dreams in the privacy of my imagination.
Relatable.
But sadly it was part boring part dragging and it was only some parts of it that I really enjoyed. I found it to be an ok read.
mkesten's review against another edition
4.0
Before I read Orhan Pamuk's Istanbul several of my friends told me how much fun they had visiting the city with its historical palaces and fabulous mosques. I wanted to visit the street markets and the seasides. I've read enough history about Byzantium and the Ottomans to whet my interest in the ruins of empires gone by.
But Pamuk has painted such a grim, dirty, and poor city that it left me wondering if my friends visited the same town. Dirt and crumbling mansions. Crashing pollution. Fires. Hobos and homeless. Antiquated buildings and transportation. Old ferries. Old men in skull caps and chattering aunties. Civic corruption. My goodness. This could be Naples. Or Detroit.
It seems the national passion is melancholy. Too much east and not enough west. Maybe, too much crappy west and not enough appreciation of east.
Is this a place I want to visit?
Maybe.
There is so much humour and self loathing in the book to warrant a second look. As if maybe Pamuk is making a little fun at himself.
It is certainly well worth it to read about Turkish poets and novelists and historians. About how French writers and artists viewed the city from the vantage point of the 19th century. And about how Pamuk traces his own development as a writer.
Pamuk and I are different type of people, although we are similar in age. He drastically tried to leave his identity as a middle class Istanbulu (I love that word) to blossom as a writer. Like him as a teenager I roamed the streets and went for walks that lasted for hours. For him it meant becoming a writer. For me it meant becoming nothing. I fell under the spell of a turn of the century novel called The Man Without Qualities. It struck me that abandoning the preconceptions of who I was or who I ought to be gave me the freedom to discover much more about life.
Sans judgements. Sans status. Sans expectations.
I became a carpenter, an accountant, a forensic auditor, a retailer, a historian, an actor. Anything and nothing. I stopped writing when I stopped having anything of meaning to say. In that nothingness came freedom.
I wonder if becoming a writer has given Pamuk freedom. I wonder if he has forgiven his father for being a lecher.
But Pamuk has painted such a grim, dirty, and poor city that it left me wondering if my friends visited the same town. Dirt and crumbling mansions. Crashing pollution. Fires. Hobos and homeless. Antiquated buildings and transportation. Old ferries. Old men in skull caps and chattering aunties. Civic corruption. My goodness. This could be Naples. Or Detroit.
It seems the national passion is melancholy. Too much east and not enough west. Maybe, too much crappy west and not enough appreciation of east.
Is this a place I want to visit?
Maybe.
There is so much humour and self loathing in the book to warrant a second look. As if maybe Pamuk is making a little fun at himself.
It is certainly well worth it to read about Turkish poets and novelists and historians. About how French writers and artists viewed the city from the vantage point of the 19th century. And about how Pamuk traces his own development as a writer.
Pamuk and I are different type of people, although we are similar in age. He drastically tried to leave his identity as a middle class Istanbulu (I love that word) to blossom as a writer. Like him as a teenager I roamed the streets and went for walks that lasted for hours. For him it meant becoming a writer. For me it meant becoming nothing. I fell under the spell of a turn of the century novel called The Man Without Qualities. It struck me that abandoning the preconceptions of who I was or who I ought to be gave me the freedom to discover much more about life.
Sans judgements. Sans status. Sans expectations.
I became a carpenter, an accountant, a forensic auditor, a retailer, a historian, an actor. Anything and nothing. I stopped writing when I stopped having anything of meaning to say. In that nothingness came freedom.
I wonder if becoming a writer has given Pamuk freedom. I wonder if he has forgiven his father for being a lecher.
allieeveryday's review
2.0
I really wish I had enjoyed this more. It's a series of essays, some autobiographical, about the city of Istanbul, its culture, and the author's life there. The autobiographical essays were my favorite part. They were mostly well-written and interesting, and I enjoyed the perspective on the city. These chapters made me want to go visit Istanbul, rent a yali on the Bosphorus and count the boats.
There were also quite a few essays on the author's favorite Istanbul writers. Some of these were interesting, and some of them I ended up skimming or skipping altogether, because I don't know these writers, haven't read their work, and I wasn't personally getting anything out of an analysis of their work. I found myself getting bored. Same with some of the chapters about various Turkish artists.
So let's go back to the "Memories" part of the title. Even though I enjoyed them overall, they alone would not have made this a five-star book for me. The last chapter, in which the author has an extended (repetitive, dull) argument with his mother about why it would be a terrible idea for him to become an artist is what finally drove this three-star review into two-star territory. What drove it from a four-star to a three-star book for me was the frequent references to the author's teenage masturbatory practices. (Why do so many men think this is important information to include in their autobiographical work? It's not unique, it's not interesting, and it was completely unnecessary to mention it in like, six different chapters. WE GET IT.)
I enjoyed the descriptions of the melancholy of the city and the pictures scattered throughout. Ultimately, I think you could probably read the first half the book and put it down and not miss anything, and that's very disappointing considering how many good ratings this book got on the first page of Goodreads.
There were also quite a few essays on the author's favorite Istanbul writers. Some of these were interesting, and some of them I ended up skimming or skipping altogether, because I don't know these writers, haven't read their work, and I wasn't personally getting anything out of an analysis of their work. I found myself getting bored. Same with some of the chapters about various Turkish artists.
So let's go back to the "Memories" part of the title. Even though I enjoyed them overall, they alone would not have made this a five-star book for me. The last chapter, in which the author has an extended (repetitive, dull) argument with his mother about why it would be a terrible idea for him to become an artist is what finally drove this three-star review into two-star territory. What drove it from a four-star to a three-star book for me was the frequent references to the author's teenage masturbatory practices. (Why do so many men think this is important information to include in their autobiographical work? It's not unique, it's not interesting, and it was completely unnecessary to mention it in like, six different chapters. WE GET IT.)
I enjoyed the descriptions of the melancholy of the city and the pictures scattered throughout. Ultimately, I think you could probably read the first half the book and put it down and not miss anything, and that's very disappointing considering how many good ratings this book got on the first page of Goodreads.
abdelrahmanm93's review
4.0
Pamuk's vivid prose beautifully captures the sense and meaning of the city's melancholy which I myself have struggled to make sense of as an Istanbullu-cum-yabanci; it is one of these things you feel in the air, but nonetheless fail to precisely describe. It's a unique piece of literature, to say the least, that skillfully accommodates a personal narrative within the larger plot of the city's history and present melancholy state in a quite seamless fashion.