I was quietly savouring the scent of books all around me, when someone mentioned the name of Orhan Pamuk.
More than mentioning it, she almost screamed it.
At the Literary Festival in Turin, my friend dashed through the stacks of books to point at one particular corner, uttering: “Orhan Pamuk! He’s genius!”
I had never read any of his books before.
Therefore, I bought one.
It was an Italian edition of “My Name is Red”.
I never really opened it, except for reading the first two lines, promise myself I would start soon reading such an interesting piece of literature and then put it back in the gigantic pile of to-read books.
It’s still there.
Though I did read the book.
It was a while ago that I was talking with my Irish poet friend about points of view in writing a story.
He was definitely right when he stated that I got to read that, because it’s brilliant.
He lent me the book and I started reading:
“I am nothing but a corpse now, a body at the bottom of a well.”
Orhan Pamuk – My Name is Red
The victim of the murder is only the first of a list of characters who, by and by, tells the story the way they lived it.
It’s a murder investigation, where the detective – Black, a clerk called to investigate on the Elegant Effendi’s disappearance by master Enishte Effendi – is not the only one in charge of telling the story.
So it happened that, in the middle of the story, I found the murderer himself (accurately concealed, mind you) addressing me directly and challenging me to find out his identities, as he went on with his mischievous activities.
All of this, in the fascinating scenario of a miniaturist workshop, where the ways of the East cross those of the West, in a clash between the style of the old masters of Herat and the realism of the infidels’ portraits.
In the end, I had to admit defeat; I didn’t guess the right identity of the murderer.
Would you be able to?
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