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ORHAN PAMUK THE BLACK BOOK PDF

Thursday, July 11, 2019


A New Translation and Afterword by Maureen Freely Galip is a lawyer living in Istanbul. His wife, the detective novel–loving Ruya, has disappeared. Kara kitap by Orhan Pamuk, , Harcourt Brace & Co. edition, in English - 1st Harvest ed. Abstract. This article examines Orhan Pamuk's The Black Book in con- nection with the doppelgänger motif in literature. In The. Black Book, Galip's wife Rüya.


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The Black Book and Black Boxes: Orhan Pamuk's Kara Kitap. \Walter G. Andrews . Bel /euue,'W'as h ington. His enthusiasm for the plan came from his ambition. The Black Book is Orhan Pamuk's tour de force, a stunning tapestry of Middle The myth of sisyphus essay pdf sample The Myth of Sisyphus In the essay of. Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. Set in Istanbul, Turkish novelist Pamuk's latest is The Black Book - Kindle edition by Orhan Pamuk. Download it .

The author's love hate relationship with a city he was born in, is apparent. View all 9 comments. View 2 comments. Feb 21, Matt rated it really liked it Shelves: I don't reread books very often, not because I don't want to, blahblahblah My experience of reading this one was a good example of a certain kind of reader's disease. The kind where even though you are trying to focus your attention on the story, the language, etc your eyes start to water and you kind of glaze over in your mind, turning pages and sort of dimly registering the story.

It's not "reading",per se, but it's not skimming either. It's not b this is a rare example of a reread for me. It's not bullshitting your way through the book- it's more that when you read a lot your brain or at least mine kind of gets blurry when the story or the language doesn't exactly burst out at you.

I think it also makes a difference when the writer's particular style doesn't mesh well with your own individual brain chemistry. His way of seeing is somewhat at odds with yours. It's not a philosophical difference so much as its about The pacing of the story, the level of and type of detail, the way he describes a room or how much of it, the length and construction of sentences I don't think it's pretentious or posuer-ish to continue reading even if the writer's style means you're going to miss most of what's happening.

Sometimes you can uncover a jewel even in the midst of confusion or mistakes. I'm one of them. Also, consider the fact that many of the places where the modern reader reads are not particularly conducive to the intimate, erotic, spiritual practice of reading a book. Consider, just for starters, the din of airports, buses, commuter rails, subways, bars, restaurants, living rooms with the tv on, so on and so forth.

There is usually a trickle of white noise coming in from at least one direction- there has got to be some of the magic drained out of the experience.

I would venture that long, prolonged investments in concentration could be harder to come by now than ever. More comprehension gets shaved off while, ironically, the abundance and availability of material is richer than ever. And then there's the next hundred and seventy nine pages to go I kind of shortchanged the book a little bit.

I think it's excusable to sort of pass something like this off, as long as you did make a decent effort. Hell, not everything can be easy to understand, right? This is leisure reading, after all. I was not told there would be any math on this exam. I will not put my pencil down. Anyway, apropos of nothing, I picked this up again recently and it's a whole new experience.

The scales have fallen from my eyes. There are still some stumbling blocks here and there- Pamuk is a writer for whom I have great respect, and I absolutely loved "The New Life"- but all in all the tale is beginning to fill in for me and I'm really participating in it in a way I hadn't before. It's funny, since so much of this very provocative, philosophically savvy, eerily clean novel has to do with preoccupations of identity.

I deliberately phrased it like this because there's very strong self-reflexive aspect to the proceedings. The main character is trying to relocate his vanished wife through the medium of the collected newspaper columns of his cousin, her former husband, who has also vanished, who has written a great deal about the identity of Turkey in the post modern world, not to mention his own consciousness and psychic disorientation, and so obviously there's a deeply meta-narrative project in place.

You can imagine how sticky and obfuscating this kind of thing gets when, for whatever reason, the co-ordinates of your consciousness aren't really aligned with the text.

It has the narrative of a noir: It has the political significance of Pamuk's status as a player on the Turkish literary scene if you're actually reading this you should really acquaint yourself with his works and days and especially when you consider the story's being set in , the significance of this is explained rather neatly in Maureen Freeley's translator's afterward- a little too neatly, if you ask me.

And, philosophically, it is very beautifully investigated, well prosed, and that's difficult to do well. Philosophy is an incredible thing. Sometimes its relationship to literature can be a bit awkward and bumbling.

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Sometimes it adds a moral and existential resonance to a story which is intriguing and enticing on its own merits. Pamuk handles this beautifully- There's quite a few quotable gems here. Many of them go on at length, necessarily. Here are a few of the shorter ones: There was the vaguest of premonitions It did not welcome a man in, nor did it transport him to a better place.

But if nothing signified nothing, than anything could signify anything. For a moment he thought he saw the flash of blue light, and then he heard the flutter of what sounded like the wings of a pigeon, but then he returned to his old stagnant silence, waiting for the illumination that never came. Paumk's Istanbul is there in its 'there-ness' but it still has a universal quality, albeit a somewhat dour, crystalline, noir-ish ambience It got three stars for a muddled, uncomprehending first read which was decidedly my fault and now it's getting four stars for coming off the bench and working nicely View all 16 comments.

Anormal olabilir, ama normal de olabilir. View 1 comment. View all 7 comments. View all 14 comments. Dec 03, Inderjit Sanghera rated it it was amazing. This stands in stark contrast to the bright incandescence with which Istanbul is normally depicted, but is important it establishing the mental state of the narrator, Galip. This uncertainty creates a sense of unreliability throughout the narration, as reality and fantasy merge to become virtually indistinguishable, in fact, given that the whole thing is a work of fiction, is what is real even relevant?

View all 3 comments. Nov 06, John rated it it was ok Shelves: It is ostensibly the story of Celal, a columnist for a major Turkish daily who has disappeared or ran away, told through the eyes of the his friend and brother-in-law, Galip. And then, it slows to a tedious crawl. Whatever the story is here, it becomes something of an afterthought, taking a back seat to page after page of postmodern quasi-philosophical musings on the nature of identity.

The plot pulls its head up out of the ground from time to time, introducing a few new twists and intrigues which, were they part of a tighter, more focused novel may actually have been interesting, perhaps even thrilling. But as it was they just ended up getting lost in the larger symphony of postmodern tangents whose meaning or purpose in this novel I almost certainly did not fully understand.

Man, this was a tough slog of a read. With all that being said, though, now that some time has elapsed since I read it last year, I can look back with the sugar-coated spectacles of hindsight and identify some things about it that I eventually came to appreciate, such as the portraits of some of the quirky minor characters, and the overall structure of the novel, which is punctuated with the columns of the missing columnist, columns which are eventually ghost-written by Galip, who takes up the pen when he realizes Celal will not return.

I also enjoyed some of the descriptive atmospheric passages about Istanbul, where Pamuk sort-of poetically depicts the various neighborhoods his protagnist travels through, from the seedy and worn to the posh and comfortable. Mar 06, Adam rated it really liked it Shelves: Each chapter is its own unit; a short story, mock essay, or monologue. There is indeed a vague plot resembling a detective novel here, but that is hardly the point of the novel.

On another level, Pamuk reflects on what it means to be oneself, delving into Ottoman culture and sufi beliefs to mull on this question. You will note that I have avoided stating that Pamuk answers these questions or proffers any solutions to them. The novel often appears to approach an answer only for readers to find that answer taken away from them.

The other aspect of the novel that so enchanted and struck me was its references to Turkish history and literature. Pamuk discusses this in an interview with the Paris Review: As a Turk coming from the Middle East, trying to establish himself as an author, I felt intimidated. I realized that my generation had to invent a modern national literature… I had to begin by making a strong distinction between the religious and literary connotations of Islamic literature, so that I could easily appropriate its wealth of games, gimmicks, and parables.

Turkey had a sophisticated tradition of highly refined ornamental literature… There are lots of allegories that repeat themselves in the various oral storytelling traditions—of China, India, Persia.

I decided to use them and set them in contemporary Istanbul… So I set all these rewritten stories in Istanbul, added a detective plot, and out came The Black Book. View all 11 comments. Jan 22, Deea rated it really liked it Recommended to Deea by: To what degree can we be ourselves?

A roller-coaster which is alike in many aspects with a detective novel, this story is suffused with possible answers to the question above and explorations of how, only by telling stories, a man can really be himself. Through hypotheses developed in stories with a prince embarking on quests of finding his real self in order to be able to guide his people if he would come next in line To what degree can we be ourselves?

Through hypotheses developed in stories with a prince embarking on quests of finding his real self in order to be able to guide his people if he would come next in line to the throne, with an executioner who feels remorse after beheading a certain individual who expresses regret for his life differently than others, with an eye which can follow you anywhere you go, with stories about Rumi and Shams of Tabriz and inherently about Sufis, with stories about people who can read letters on faces, Pamuk immerses the reader in a metaphysical ride, touching with great charm aspects like history, mysticism, differences between East and West, family relations and love.

Although I discovered touches of brilliancy in this book and ideas that kept me pondering, I constantly had the feeling that I was missing out on things, that some meanings were eluding me because of the translation or maybe because of the fact that I am not so familiar with Turkish culture.

There were paragraphs which really resonated with me and I felt elated while reading them, paragraphs which made me think that I would definitely rate this book 5 stars and paragraphs which annoyed me because I could not see their sense.

Istanbul, for instance, is a blend of civilizations and its names over time can say many things about the idea I pointed above: The fragment below is, in my opinion, expressing in a condensed and elegant fashion what I wanted to point above: Watching each face brighten at his gaze, he could almost see question marks bubbling from their heads — the way they did in the Turkish versions of Spanish and Italian photo novels — but they vanished in the air without leaving a trace.

Gazing across the bridge at the skyline, he thought he saw each and every one of their faces shimmering behind its dull gray veil, but this too was an illusion. As they churned across the gray-blue waters of the Golden Horn, they left a trail of ugly brown bubbles in their wake.

The black book

I actually found it a bit absurd, although I am sure that the idea Pamuk wanted to express prevailed and the story was only used as a means of revealing what he wanted. The ending seemed however far-fetched and only able to dignify a soap-opera. Putting aside the spiritual journey, at a factual level the pursuit Galip embarks upon throughout the novel is destined to find Celal, rather than Ruya.

A flawed novel I would say, but an enticing one. The fragment below would seem to say so. The same could be said of sentences and paragraphs — in short all written text carried second, hidden meanings. But if one bore in mind that these meanings could be expressed in other sentences or other words…, one could, through interpretation, glean a third meaning from the second, and a fourth from the third, ad infinitum — so there were, in fact, an infinite numbers of possible interpretations to any given text.

It was like an unending maze of city streets, with each street leading to another: So a reader who set out to solve the mystery in his own way, following his own logic, was no different from a traveler who finds the mystery of a city slowly unfurling before him as he wanders through streets on that map: View all 12 comments. Por fim transcrevo o final do livro, que acho soberbo: Penso em Ruya, abandono a minha mesa de trabalho, e contemplo a cidade mergulhada no escuro.

Exceto a escrita.

View all 4 comments. Oct 26, Vonia rated it liked it Shelves: I get it. Not all authors write in the same style, the same proficiency, the same genre, nor the same level of whatever readers want in each of their books.

That is why there are novels that are more successful than others within their work. Perhaps, therefore, there should be no real sympathy for me here, but Orhan Pamuk's The Museum of Innocence was by far one of my all-time-favorites, a definite 5 Star. Sadly, I have read the more if guys works, increasingly desperately trying to find one tha I get it.

Sadly, I have read the more if guys works, increasingly desperately trying to find one that is even clear to such greatness; the closest has been a pathetic 3.

Le sigh. Although I hate to admit it, finding another work from Pamuk very similar in personal preference to The Museum of Innocence will be difficult, since I have noticed that it is the least politically centered. It is there if choose, asking with his Turkish background, cultural notes, etceteras, that has become guys trademark, but starkly less so.

More so, it focuses far more on psychological and physiological ideas, romance and true love. Which I obviously have a weakness for. Accepting but not quite accepting this, we shall move on to The Black Book. Honestly, my least favorite from Oamuk so far. Almost completely revolving around politics, which were honestly confusing for me to fully comprehend.

The main characters. Galip, the narrator. Ruya, his wife whom disappears early on in the story, never outweighing the reader with her voice. Celal, her brother, a famous political newspaper columnist, who secretly suffers from an undefined memory disorder.

Other notable characters include thorities trying to find Celal, as well as a devoted reader, stalkerishly knowledgeable regarding the intimate miniature and nuances in Celal's life; possibly violent and trying to locate Celal whom had disappeared asking with Ruya. This this man is actually speaking to Galip, whom becomes an extremely unreliable narrator as he puts himself into Celal's shoes. He soon send to even forget which is the real him, what is real and what is a dream or his imagination.

Along with the reader. The focus of this novel ends up being identity. For example, everything we do is essentially an imitation of someone else, something else- whether a fictional character, sometime we know, someone we do not. Who is, of course, imitating someone else or something else. And so on. A barber asked Celal a couple questions that changed his life and therefore play an important part in the story: The chapters in this book alternate between Celal's columns and the story presently taking place with Galip searching for him and his wife Ruya.

I far preferred the columns, as they were beautifully and lyrically written, straightforward with none of the mystical confusion found in the other chapters, with far more interesting content.

My favorite was the one titled, "Alaaddin's Shop", which tells the shopkeeper's story; his older-than-time store that sells everything from rare toys to old comics, chocolate bars to pink backgammon dice, pencil sharpeners shaped like Dutch Windwills to archived newspapers, sexology annuals to prayer books.

Being the only fully stocked marketplace in his town for so many years, Alaaddin certainly has much to tell. My second favorite column was that which told the story of a young Prince Enfendi. He was so enamored with the idea of staying true to oneself that he dedicated his entire life to it.

Alas, this is a very difficult thing to do. Impossible if you were to take it literally. The Prince hope to live without any influence from anyone. He threw away all the books he had so as to not be influenced by greater minds. He no longer meet with anyone he had an affinity for, to avoid influence.

He hired servants to extinguish all unique scents within his vicinity for fear of eliciting nostalgic memories. He began to see woman whom he specifically disliked, so he could not be influenced by his desire to fulfill her desires. Unfortunately, he found himself caring more than ever for these women, as they were his only link to the outside world.

Prince Enfendi was left with nothing but his devoted scribe, who transcribed his dying words. Jun 29, Steve rated it liked it. If you stared at what looked like random dots or patterns in just the right way, forcing your eyes apart from their usual angled focus, a hidden 3-D image would suddenly pop into view. Some of them were pretty cool. If you were like me, though, it took a while to get it right.

I remember moving the picture back and forth, commanding my eyes not to cross as it got closer to my nose and trying to hold that same angle as I moved it back out. Finally, it worked. The hidden fish or whatever it was came into focus, like it was floating off the page. I kept thinking The Black Book might amount to the same thing. If I could just train my view a certain way, the hidden meaning would emerge.

I tried all the harder because the protagonist, Galip, seemed to be doing the same thing.

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Only he was looking into a mirror. You see, Galip was suffering an identity crisis. It's not bullshitting your way through the book- it's more that when you read a lot your brain or at least mine kind of gets blurry when the story or the language doesn't exactly burst out at you.

I think it also makes a difference when the writer's particular style doesn't mesh well with your own individual brain chemistry. His way of seeing is somewhat at odds with yours. It's not a philosophical difference so much as its about The pacing of the story, the level of and type of detail, the way he describes a room or how much of it, the length and construction of sentences I don't think it's pretentious or posuer-ish to continue reading even if the writer's style means you're going to miss most of what's happening.

Sometimes you can uncover a jewel even in the midst of confusion or mistakes.

I'm one of them. Also, consider the fact that many of the places where the modern reader reads are not particularly conducive to the intimate, erotic, spiritual practice of reading a book. Consider, just for starters, the din of airports, buses, commuter rails, subways, bars, restaurants, living rooms with the tv on, so on and so forth.

There is usually a trickle of white noise coming in from at least one direction- there has got to be some of the magic drained out of the experience. I would venture that long, prolonged investments in concentration could be harder to come by now than ever.

More comprehension gets shaved off while, ironically, the abundance and availability of material is richer than ever. And then there's the next hundred and seventy nine pages to go I kind of shortchanged the book a little bit. I think it's excusable to sort of pass something like this off, as long as you did make a decent effort.

Hell, not everything can be easy to understand, right? This is leisure reading, after all. I was not told there would be any math on this exam. I will not put my pencil down. Anyway, apropos of nothing, I picked this up again recently and it's a whole new experience. The scales have fallen from my eyes. There are still some stumbling blocks here and there- Pamuk is a writer for whom I have great respect, and I absolutely loved "The New Life"- but all in all the tale is beginning to fill in for me and I'm really participating in it in a way I hadn't before.

It's funny, since so much of this very provocative, philosophically savvy, eerily clean novel has to do with preoccupations of identity.It's not bullshitting your way through the book- it's more that when you read a lot your brain or at least mine kind of gets blurry when the story or the language doesn't exactly burst out at you.

The Prince hope to live without any influence from anyone. London: I. They also excel in science and art, but they have stolen some of their knowledge from the Eastern cultures. I think it's excusable to sort of pass something like this off, as long as you did make a decent effort.

His famous older cousin by more than twenty years Celal Bey, a newspaper writer with a column that all the city reads, in fact the whole nation and beyond the borders, he is the most read in the Middle East..

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