The Black Book by Orhan Pamuk

Hi everyone. Here's the second and long overdue installment of Pamuk book reviews by a friend of the BukuProject's, Alia Salleh*. (Man, is this blog on fire or what!)

A word of warning: this might not be a balanced review since I had to abandon the book halfway due to a workload and pick it up again between assignments. It is a book that is best enjoyed in one go; perhaps due to its pace and the links between chapters.

The Black Book is a translation by Maureen Freely from the original Turkish by Orhan Pamuk. A simple story of heavy themes that add up to tell the story of Istanbul; his beloved abode. Here we meet Galip - a lawyer - who finds himself tracking down his missing wife, which coincides with the disappearance of his old cousin Celal, a famous columnist. His search brought him all over Istanbul, where he meets various people; discovering his wife’s untold pasts with her previous husband, Galip’s own untold pasts, Celal’s untold stories, and all the while, looking at a different side of Istanbul - the mystical side interwoven with the leftist movement. 

Despite being smitten with Pamuk’s writing, I do not find this work of his something that leaves you awed - perhaps tiring at times, the way something fast-paced never comes to a conclusion, and you forcefully drag yourself along just to meet the inevitable end. The lack of a plot might serve to highlight the deep undercurrents of Istanbul he cleverly present to the readers - mystical sects, alley gangs, urban legends and (as expected) the melancholy; yet I seem to sometimes feel that he’s going too much into it, it feels draining. 

That said, Pamuk’s lyrical writing is as mesmerising as ever - despite the book being a mere translation (Freely did a nice job). He again links the chapters smartly, stringing them in ways you least expect, adding to the book’s mysterious feel. Since Istanbul: Memoirs and The City, I have had a soft spot for his long running sentences that describe almost everything instances after instances, so much so that it leaves you dizzy. In a nice way. 

Dizzying seems like a good word to describe it. The way you are taken into mazes of concepts of dervish sects, the coming of Messiah, the various anecdotes of short tales (that you would be tempted to think about) - either told by the characters or delved in Celal’s columns. It can be confusing, the probable mix of facts and fiction to one who does not know Istanbul. It will require a second read for people like me.

It feels right to share that my two favourite chapters are “We Lost Our Memories in the Movies” and “Can’t You Sleep”. The latter might be due to the fact that I happen to read it while having trouble sleeping. You like to feel that the author is talking to you, and you especially; it leaves one warm.

All in all it is worth a read - and if you feel disheartened by the weight of it try his other books first, maybe My Name is Red to get used to his style. His melancholic writing is still a winner to me.

“The books you read talked of the night’s cruel silence. I know just how cruel silence could be.”

*Alia Salleh is now a management trainee at PNB and just short of being a fully competent cyclist. She now resides in Kuala Lumpur and keeps a Tumblr blog.