chelseahutchings

In preparation for my May journey to the Balkans, I found my first excuse to read Pamuk. Everybody brags about his novels, but this nonfiction biography -- of himself and his lifelong home -- also won some acclaim. And it's no wonder: The book blends personal reflection, in roughly chronological order, with a survey of the city and its peculiar character. In short, Pamuk diagnoses Istanbul with chronic depression, but it's not all bad. The term he uses is "huzun", which roughly means "societal melancholy," and Istanbul has been feverish with sadness ever since the fall of the Ottoman Empire (1922) and the Westernizing tsunami that was Ataturk. Pamuk describes Istanbul's huzuk in layered detail: the bitter winters, hot summers, crumbling old neighborhoods, and outdated bazaars and uncomely minarets all amplify the Istanbullu's nostalgia and regret. Pamuk writes about Istanbul the way novelists wrote about New York in the 1970's -- sighing sadly, but also lovingly. The most soaring descriptions are of the Bosporus Strait, a watery thoroughfare I knew nothing about. The Bosporus is deep, dark, and well-trafficked with ships; it was a secret route for Soviet submarines; and it serves as a geographic and metaphoric divider between "Europe" and "Asia". Pamuk describes the uniquely Turkish-Hellenic "yali", a house that stands directly on the edge of the water. Like most old houses in Istanbul, yalis are generally built out of wood -- and Pamuk implies that the combustible construction and great worth of waterfront property lead to almost constant summer fires. Arson? Accident? A sad inevitability of nature? The image of evening fires, which serve almost as entertainment for street children, is as haunting an image as I've ever read, and a searing mataphor for a city tortured by past greatness.

2022-11-14 16:04