Orhan Pamuk

In Istanbul in the late 1590s, the sultan secretly commissions a book: a celebration of his life and empire, to be illuminated by the best artists of the day in the European manner. But when one of the miniaturists is murdered, their master has to seek outside help. Did the dead painter fall victim to professional rivalry, romantic jealousy or religious terror?

My Name Is Red

The Sultan secretly commissions a great book: a celebration of his life and the Ottoman Empire, to be illuminated by the best artists of the day - in the European manner. In Istanbul at a time of violent fundamentalism, however, this is a dangerous proposition. Even the illustrious circle of artists are not allowed to know for whom they are working. But when one of the miniaturists is murdered, their Master has to seek outside help. Did the dead painter fall victim to professional rivalry, romantic jealousy or religious terror? With the Sultan demanding an answer within three days, perhaps the clue lies somewhere in the half-finished pictures . . . From Turkey's winner of the Nobel Prize and author of Istanbul and The Museum of Innocence, this novel is a thrilling murder mystery set amid the splendour of Istanbul and the Ottoman Empire. Part fantasy and part philosophical puzzle, My Name is Red is also a stunning meditation on love, artistic devotion and the tensions between East and West.

Francesco

Only Butterfly's sensitivity and faith in his own palette could resist the Venetian artistry that duped the viewer by trying to depict reality itself rather than its representation, in all its detail, pictures, shadows included, of cardinals, bridges, rowboats, and stables, oxen and carriage wheels, as if all of them were of the same importance to Allah.

Books, which we mistake for consolation, only add depth to our sorrow

Uluğ Bey responded that his own miniaturists knew those words and stories, but still couldn't order the pictures. "Because", said the old miniaturist, "they think quite well when it comes to painting, which is their skill or their art, but they don't comprehend that the old masters made these pictures out of the memories of Allah Himself."

Uluğ Bey asked how a child could know such things. "The child doesn't know", said the old miniaturist. "But I, an elderly and blind miniaturist, know that Allah created this worldly realm the way an intelligent seven-years-old boy would want to see it; what's more, Allah created this earthly realm so that, above all, it might be seen.

Afterwards, He provided us with words so that we might share and discuss with one another what we've seen. We mistakenly assumed that these stories arose out of words and that illustrations were painted in service of these stories. Quite the contrary, painting is the act of seeking out Allah's memories ad seeing the world as He sees the world."

Forty years ago, the Persian Shah Tahmasp, who was the archenemy of the Ottomans as well as the world's greatest patron-king of the art of painting, began to grow senile and lost his enthusiasm for wine, music, poetry and painting; furthermore, he quit drinking coffee, and naturally, his brain stopped working.

Full of the suspicions of a long-faced, dark-spirited old geezer, he transferred his capital from Tabriz [...] to Kazvin so it would be farther from the Ottoman armies. One day when he had grown even older, he was possessed by a jinn, had a nervous fit, and begging God's forgiveness, completely swore off wine, handsome young boys and painting, which is proof enough that after this great shah lost his taste for coffee, he also lost his mind.

Aske Dørge

Laura Mauler

This book is a murder mystery with a side of romance. What was most interesting to me about this book was the way art was created in 16th century Istanbul. Apparently they drew the same pictures over and over, in exactly the same way; to deviate or experiment was dangerous and potentially blasphemy. The structure of the book made it difficult to follow the thread of the story, although this definitely kept me guessing to the end of the story.

O meu nome é vermelho

Nelson Zagalo

Magnífica viagem pela história das civilizações através do choque entre as suas filosofias da arte. Localizado em Istambul no auge do império Otomano, em 1591, numa altura em que a arte Otomana se debatia com a chegada das inovações do renascentismo italiano, nomeadamente a Perspectiva e o Retrato, tudo isto é envolvido numa história de crime e mistério que nos mantém agarrados à narração até à última página.

[Imagem] 

“Mas os quadros deles são muito mais persuasivos, aproximam-se mais da verdadeira vida. Em vez de pintarem como se estivessem no alto de um minarete, de uma altura suficiente que os faça desdenhar aquilo que os ocidentais chamam perspectiva, eles põem-se, pelo contrário, ao nível da rua, ou no interior do quarto de um príncipe, para pintarem a cama, a colcha, o escritório, o espelho, o seu leopardo, a sua filha, as suas moedas de ouro. Eles põem lá tudo, como sabes. Aliás, nem tudo o que eles fazem me seduz. Indispõem-me e acho mesquinha, sobretudo, aquela maneira de quererem a todo o custo representar o mundo tal como parece. Mas há tanta sedução no resultado que eles obtêm com esse método! Porque eles pintam o que vêem, o que o seu olho vê, exactamente como a visão o recebe, enquanto nós pintamos o que contemplamos.” 

[Imagem] 
"Siege of Rhodes" (-1564) pintura em miniatura otomana, sem recurso a perspectiva.

[Imagem] 
"Mona Lisa" (~1591), retrato em perspectiva de Leonardo da Vinci

Toda esta nova forma de representar o mundo assustou as pessoas, mais ainda numa sociedade em que a representação de certas figuras era considerada blasfémia, ao que se juntava o receio da criação de figuras de adoração. Pamuk pega em tudo isto, bem caracterizado historicamente, e cria um universo seu de grande beleza expressiva e intelectual. Como que cose todos estes ingredientes, à partida tão distantes, num único novelo, garantindo-nos acesso a todo um mundo de ideias por meio de um aparente simples romance detetivesco.

“Quanto às técnicas de pintura europeias, os jesuítas portugueses já as introduziram lá [na Índia] há muito tempo, como por todo o lado.” p. 457

Ao longo de todo o livro sentimos esta tensão entre representar de modo natural ou formal, uma discussão que se tornou central com a chegada da fotografia muitos anos depois e acabou dando origem ao modernismo e toda a sua força criativa. Mas ainda hoje continuamos a discutir tudo isto, já não subjugados a visões esotéricas do mundo, nem mesmo a conceitos do que objetiva a arte, mas subjugados à impossibilidade da verdade científica.

Mas Pamuk mais do que centrado na verdade, está centrado no humano. O facto de ter estruturado o romance em capítulos atribuídos a cada um dos personagens, que falam cada um na primeira pessoa, parece inicialmente apenas uma abordagem estilística, mas é muito mais do que isso, é uma afirmação da sua visão do mundo, do modo como critica essa tentativa de então, de aniquilar o indivíduo, aniquilar a expressão pessoal, o Estilo, conceito da estética que se torna central e acaba estando no cerne da investigação do romance.

O livro de Pamuk grita pela força do indivíduo, pelos seus anseios, desejos, e vontades. Mais do que saber se é a verdade que enfrenta, o ser humano quer sentir-se. Cada um de nós é um ser, e por mais que gostemos e dependamos uns dos outros, estamos enredados em nós mesmos, buscamos compreender-nos antes de tudo o mais. Mais do que conhecer o real, precisamos de nos conhecer a nós mesmos, para assim podermos fazer os outros à nossa volta felizes.

“O Meu Nome é Vermelho” recordou-me por várias vezes Saramago e o seu “Memorial do Convento”, não por serem duas obras históricas, ou terem ambos um Nobel (2006 e 1998), mas pela força expressiva que imprimem ao ambiente e personagens, como as estruturam e tornam credíveis num tempo passado, tão real e tão cru, mas também porque em ambos o centro roda em redor da grande arte dos seus monarcas de então, a demonstrar mais uma vez que se alguma coisa perdura de todo o nosso esforço nestas vidas é a arte que deixamos em legado.


Ler com imagens: http://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/2...

Dana Kraft

This was a good story and worth reading for me but many of the sections about the beauty of illuminations, art and the “great masters” went on way too long. This book could easily be much shorter IMO.

Erfan Abedi

** spoiler alert **
           خب.
واقعاْ واقعاْ واقعاْ سخت بود خوندنش.
عملا یه کتاب جنایی بود که پاموک توی قالب یک رمان تاریخی-فرهنگی درش آورده بود و نکات هوشمندانه‌ی ریزی توش گذاشته‌بود که به خواننده کمک می‌کرد معما رو حل کنه، هرچند مثل همه‌ی نویسنده‌های داستان‌های معمایی، نگران این بوده که خواننده کشفش نکنه و برای همین آخرای داستان شروع می‌کنه راهنمایی پرت‌کردن زیاد تا بالاخره هویت قاتل کاملا آشکار می‌شه، ولی شخصا خیلی زودتر تونستم بفهمم کی‌ه. به خاطر سوتی‌ای که داده بود که بعدا سعی می‌کنه با گیج‌کردن خواننده و انداختن راهنمایی‌های پرت و غلط این کارش رو اصلاح کنه.

نکته دیگه‌ای که درباره‌ش وجود داشت اینه که کتاب یه حالت نیمه پست‌مدرنی داشت، یعنی یک‌سری نقاط فکری رو مطرح می‌کنه که این‌ها بعدا روی هم جمع می‌شن و یه روایت حسابی رو تشکیل می‌دن، ولی وسطش این‌قدر توصیف‌های بی‌فایده می‌کنه و خارج از خط می‌زنه که فقط در حالتی وصل‌کردن این نقاط ممکنه که خیلی‌هاش رو حفظ باشه. (و چون من ناخودآگاه بیش‌تر قسمت‌های توصیف‌ش رو رد می‌کنم این نکته به چشمم اومد، امیدوارم به معنای تعریف از خود برداشت نشه.) 

حدود ۱۰۰ صفحه‌ی آخر کتاب خیلی جذاب‌تر و پرکنش‌تر از ۳۰۰ صفحه‌ی قبلشه. سرعت داستان توشون به‌شدت فرق می‌کنه و جریان‌های تفکری (نه به اون معنا، به معنی یک‌سری رشته ایده‌ها و افکار) ای که می‌خواسته مطرح کنه واضح‌تر و explicitتر می‌شن.

فصلش در مورد شیطان جذاب بود و یک حالت نواندیشی‌طوری داشت، هرچند شامل کمی سطحی‌بودنه، یک‌سری نکته به ذهنش رسیده و مطرح کرده، که نکته‌های قابل تاملی‌اند، ولی خیلی جذاب‌تر و پربارتر می‌شد اگه بیش‌تر توشون کنکاش می‌کرد جای صرفا مطرح کردنشون. احتمال می‌دم که برای خودش هم بی‌جواب مونده‌بودن.
نکته‌ی نسبتا مربوطش هم این بود که تقریبا همه گناه می‌کنن و نسبت به گناه خودشون منکرن، حتی آدم‌هایی که قرآن رو حفظن. و این چند برداشتی‌ش از دین جالب بود که هرکدوم یک‌جوری تفسیر می‌کردن و قوه‌ی آخوند داستان صرفا یک گوشه نشسته بود (بدون حضور واقعی در داستان) و دنبال‌کننده‌هاش عقایدش رو پخش می‌کردن و سعی می‌کردن اونا رو فورس کنن به بقیه. پس هیچ راهی برای واقعا بحث سر این جور مسایل و تحلیل افکار هم بدون حضور تعصب و قصد برای کشت هم‌دیگه وجود نداره که خیلی چیز آشناییه حتی در زمان حال. :)))

نکته‌ی منفی‌ای که توش دیدم، تمرکز بی‌جاش روی مسائل جنسی و بچه‌بازی بود، درسته که توی اون قرن‌ها این مسایل رایج بوده اما وقتی روایت داستان بدون این‌ها هم پیش می‌ره دلیلی برای مطرح‌کردنشون نمی‌بینم، و نقطه‌ی خیلی بدتری که توش وجود داشت اینه که توی فصل آخر همه، حتی مثلا دوست‌داشتنی‌ترین کاراکتر بزرگ‌سال داستان که قبلا اشاره شده که خیلی بنده‌ی غرایزشه، بعد از زخمی‌شدن توسط دشمنش و به ثمر رسیدن آرزوهاش، بچه‌بازی آغاز می‌کنه. در حالی که یک فصل قبل‌ترش تقریبا همه‌ی کاراکترهای مرد داستان رو هم‌جنس‌گرا کرده. که به شدت احمقانه می‌دیدمش. 
در حین کنش و واکنش‌های شدید که داشتن سعی می‌کردن هم‌دیگه رو بکشن، ناگهان تصمیم به ماچ و بوسه می‌گیرن انگاری که اورجی‌ای چیزیه. حقیقتا کثافت بود و حالم به هم خورد. اگه نوبلش رو به خاطر این‌ گرفته باشه باید حقیقتا رید سر در اون کمیته‌ی نوبل. بی‌شوخی.

آقای پاموک، شما آدم باهوشی هستی که می‌دونی چه‌جوری حرف‌های کاراکترهات رو منتقل کنی که ویژگی‌هایی که قبلا به طور بی‌پرده براشون مطرح کردی رو ببینه، مثلا این‌که کاراکتر Stork که گفته‌شده خودخواهه، حرف‌های بقیه رو خلاصه می‌کرد و حرف‌های خودش رو کامل می‌آورد.
می‌دونی نقاط ریزی که خواننده باید بهشون دقت کنه رو کجا بذاری که توی ذهن‌شون بمونه، ولی به‌قدری روی چیزهای تکراری تمرکز می‌کنی و توصیف‌های بی‌فایده می‌کنی که من با تمام علاقه‌م واقعا نتونستم از یه جایی به بعد کاملا ادامه بدم و رفتم از سایت https://www.litcharts.com/lit/my-name...
خلاصه‌ی داستانت رو خوندم تا جاهای بی‌فایده‌ش رو اسکیپ کنم، ببخشید ولی واقعا حوصله‌م رو سر بردی و اگه اصل brevity شکسپیر رو رعایت می‌کردی خیلی امتیاز بالاتری داشتی. ولی نوبل نداره به نظرم. شرمنده.

cedar winslow

there are so many layers to this book which my little brain couldn’t decipher on a first read, but it was an enjoyable story that helped me understand the perspective of turkish muslims in the 1500s. parts felt like the dragged on and on which is why i gave 3 not 4 stars, but overall beautifully written and conceptually interesting

Benim Adim Kirmizi

Sine

genel hatlarıyla çok güzel ama bazı yerler gereksiz detaylandırılmış, belki de konu benim ilgimi çekmediği için bana öyle geldi. ya da o heyecandan uzaklaştırdığı için bunalmış da olabilirim. hayranı olduğum orhan pamuk’la ilgili bir de eleştirim olacak; karakterlerin ağzından hikaye anlatmaya bayılıyor, evet; ben de bunu yapmasına bayılıyorum ama karakter ne kadar kendisine “benzerse” bu hususta o denli başarılı oluyor. kadınların veya atıyorum yaşlı birinin ağzından yazdıklarıyla kara’nın ağzından yazdıkları arasında uçurum var; sadece ben hissetmiş de olabilirim bunu.

bu kitabı, 10 yaş civarındayken yengemin kitaplığında görüp merak edip raftan çekip almıştım. girişi harikaydı. “ben bir ölüyüm.” heyecandan kalp atışlarım hızlanarak okumuştum. tam hevesle devam edecekken yengem görüp kitabın benim yaşıma uygun olmadığını söyleyerek elimden almıştı. o almasa ben zaten ilerleyen sayfalarda sıkılırmışım muhtemelen. ama böyle bir iz bırakan kitabı 20 sene sonra okumak, ne olursa olsun güzel oldu. 

kaldı okumadığım iki romanı.

Safiya 

I should've re-read Ferdausi instead.. or should I blind myself in the fashion of Bihzad after the fall of Herat ?
Some of the lines depicted the miniatures controversy and figuartive art in Islam, which was okay..
Some of the miniaturists parables reminded me of the Shahnameh and other persian stories, and that sent me wondering why haven't I settled on reading some Nizami ?

Melody Izard

My rating is more like 2 1/2 stars - because I do want to encourage you to read it. It is a curious mix of murder mystery, religion, violence, sex and art. I felt like I was reading the King James Version of some religious document that covered all these subjects. Very odd to have someone proclaim his praises to God or Allah in this case, and then recall how lovely it was to bugger the pretty boys. 

The book is told through the eyes of several narrators - the miniaturists, their master, some of the subjects of the illustration, a matchmaker, the love interest of one of the Black, her father and the murderer (who is also one of the above). Thank heavens for the sections from Esther, Shekure and Satan et. al because the others are so tedious with their bantering about whether an artist should have a style and about blindness that I wanted to take an elaborately jeweled pin and jab it in my (well, maybe not mine - but somebody’s) eyes.

Lulwa

I would've enjoyed it more if it wasn't that ridiculously long.

In Istanbul, in the late the Sultan secretly commissions a great book: a celebration of his life and his empire, to be illuminated by the best artists of the day -- in the European manner. But when one of the miniaturists is murdered, their master has to seek outside help. Didthe dead painter fall victim to professional rivalry, romantic jealousy or religious terror? 

A thrilling murder mystery, Mv Name is Red is also a stunning meditation on love, artistic devotion and the tensions between East and West
--back cover

Olivera Mitić

Još jedna za rubriku "zaboraviću je za dva dana, a čitala sam je za školu".

Shreerag Plakazhi

What is the meaning of art? Is it meant as entertainment, is it meant to please the masses or answer a higher calling? These are some of the questions that will be brought to you as you read this book. Answers, as any good philosopher knows is not important, but the questions are there for you to interpret as you choose. The questions are inevitable if you spend a lifetime reading books of this nature.

Reading My Name is Red was for me quite labourious. The prose style is something I haven't encountered before and I had to force myself to keep reading for at least the first 20% of the book. Once I got used to the varied points of view and the inherent unreliability of narrators, I started seeing the writing from a higher perspective. I was now the observer to this carefully carved universe of illuminators and calligraphers in Ottoman times. Pamuk does a great job of simulating what I like to call the Rashomon narrative - allowing us to be judges to multiple perspectives of a flowing story. The result is Nobel worthy.

The simplest explanation of plot for My Name is Red is that it is a murder mystery. The most complicated explanation for it is that it is so much more than just a simple murder mystery. Like many such books, the plot really is not very relevant to any discussion. It's just a means of exploring a world that feels like it has been created just for us. A world that exists just for us to make sense of the time period it was written about.

My Name is Red is an astounding piece of work. My biggest takeaway from the book is a renewed sense of belief in art and its importance in our lives. What greater gift can come from Turkey?

My Name Is Red

Reviews

Highlights