Istanbul: Memories and the City - Orhan Pamuk

"A shimmering evocation, by turns intimate and panoramic, of one of the world’s great cities, by its foremost writer. Orhan Pamuk was born in Istanbul and still lives in the family apartment building where his mother first held him in her arms. His portrait of his city is thus also a self-portrait, refracted by memory and the melancholy–or–hüzün–that all Istanbullus share: the sadness that comes of living amid the ruins of a lost empire. With cinematic fluidity, Pamuk moves from his glamorous, unhappy parents to the gorgeous, decrepit mansions overlooking the Bosphorus; from the dawning of his self-consciousness to the writers and painters–both Turkish and foreign–who would shape his consciousness of his city. Like Joyce’s Dublin and Borges’ Buenos Aires, Pamuk’s Istanbul is a triumphant encounter of place and sensibility, beautifully written and immensely moving."

Because of my trip to Istanbul, I decided to read 4 books set there to get the vibe of the city I was to be visiting. 

This was the first on my list. It was unfortunately a disappointment. Pamuk spends a lifetime sitting indoors bemoaning an Istanbul which, he says, doesn't exist anymore. How he can remain isolated in a busy city year after year says more about him, his non-Turkish background, wealthier heritage, self-centred habits, etc. than it probably does about Istanbul.

We're left to slog through four hundred pages of angsty ennui which is purport to represent the zeitgeist of a city that mourns the days it stood at the centre of the world and a divided identity, but in fact does little more than chronicle the thin complaints of a wealthy man who never manages to move out of his mother's house. It would be fine if melancholy simply pervaded Pamuk's memoirs as he spun tales of his youth, but there are almost no tales told here, just endless, smothering atmosphere. 

I can't speak, obviously, for the Istanbul of his youth, but the Istanbul I have experienced is far from the black and white melancholy suffused landscape that Pamuk conjured up. Rather than a melancholy of a city, I think Pamuk writes about the melancholy and claustrophobia of a deeply dysfunctional family and his own deep bouts of depression. To layers those feelings and impressions over an entire city feels unfair and awfully self - centred. 

One positive of this book is that it did give me a good idea of where all the different neighbourhoods of Istanbul are, and helped me navigate a surprising amount. I would be interested to read more from this author, I think his prose, writing style and talent for creating atmosphere would be brilliant in fiction. 

Age Rating 14+ Deeply dysfunctional family, depression and sex.