Do cities have personalities? They are old and young, big and small, dirty and clean. They come in nearly as many varieties as their human builders and occupiers, but are they alive? Logic would say no, that they are nothing more than an accumulation of glass and concrete anthropomorphized into existence by humans who wish it so. And yet, if they are not alive, how else can we explain their attitudes, their dispositions, their moods? How else can we account for the seemingly obvious reality that generations hand down a city's character like a badge of honor or a cross to bear? Orhan Pamuk, arguably turkey's most famous, living writer, seems to have no doubt that cities have personalities. For he was raised in one of the most glorious of them all.
For nearly 1,600 years, Istanbul has been an ornament of the world. Christened by an emperor of Rome, it has been home to Byzantines and Arabs, ottomans and turks, civilizations which have, over the centuries, bequeathed this great city with gifts of culture and history, some of which stand to this day, defying disasters, both man-made and natural, to sunder them. It is home to great temples and even greater legends. But beyond its bizarres and its attractions, it is a city that straddles Europe and Africa, west and east, Christianity and Islam. It is a city of millions of souls seeking enlightenment and enrichment, culture and advancement, at the nexus of the world.
The son of one of its once-proud families, Mr. Pamuk grew up on these busy streets. He explored Istanbul's neighborhoods and matriculated through its schools. He dated its women and tested its limits, all while attempting, with his artist's heart, to capture Istanbul in all her glory. Imagining himself a painter, he tried countless times to represent the essence of the place on canvas, to distill its essence into something tangible the world could understand. But these talents eventually shifted to pen and paper, a medium in which he is an undeniable master.
Interweaving his personal history with that of his beloved city, Mr. Pamuk has created, in Istanbul, a moving and unflinching portrait of a life at the crux of the world. As critical of his own failings as he is of Istanbul's, he nonetheless manages to convey, over his many, long walks through this city of ten million, a sense of fog and mystery, of western thought and eastern passion, that fills the reader's senses with the sights and sounds of an unforgettable place. But more than simply describing it to us, he reveals the minds it has shaped and who have shaped it, past giants of literature whose melancholia not only captured the imagination of the author, but so clearly permeates the place. This, along with Mr. Pamuk's willingness to share so much of himself, his struggles and his fears, makes this an irresistible read.
For all of the splendor of Mr. Pamuk's prose, Istanbul could have benefited from more history. The author reaches into Istanbul's past only to conjure forth the great minds it has helped to nourish. Otherwise, he makes no attempt to describe, or to elucidate, the civilizations and the societies that have claimed it over the centuries. A pity, really. For the work does so much to reveal the gloominess and quirkiness of the place, to imbue its streets with meaning, that one can only imagine how Istanbul would have come alive if the reader was endowed with the context of its glorious and violent past.
This is mesmerizing work. Even if one has no time for the topic, the pleasure of watching Mr. Pamuk at work is sufficient to make this a memorable and rewarding experience. (4/5 Stars)
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