Which is odd because Pamuk is an amazing writer with an incredibly nuanced sensibility. He’s exactly the kind of writer I tend to like.
The problem is that he is also a writer who has lived his entire privileged life in the same house. When he lingers over his hyper-refined sense of his own and of other people’s sorrow. I find it grotesque.
The best thing in this book is the photography by Ara Güler of the street life, buildings and monuments of the city.