I love reading. Mirinda will attest to the fact that my reading is very eclectic. And, I’ve read many books in my life; some have been extraordinary, others good, some others have been a bit of a chore to get through but rewarding in some way, others I’ve stopped reading after the first page because they were so badly written I couldn’t keep going. But, it’s rare that I’ve encountered anything like Orhan Pamuk’s The Museum of Innocence.
Sadly, I discovered the actual museum first. It was back in September when I visited Istanbul with a few Weasels. I thought the idea for the museum was amazing and, obviously, bought a copy of the book while I was there, hoping it would be as enchanting as the idea. I say ‘sadly’ because it would have been so much more rewarding had I read the book first.
At first, I thought the story was real. As I started reading the book, it became clear that it was not; it was an elaborate fiction. I’m not saying this was a bad thing. It just stripped off one layer of appeal.
Anyway, I started reading the book the day I bought it. I finished it today. I generally only get to read during my daily Reading Hour so it’s possibly not surprising that a book of 535 pages took me so long. I’m not a slow reader but, sometimes, like a delicious banquet, these things go a bit slowly. Unlike a banquet, I didn’t really enjoy the book.
Okay, I enjoyed the portrait of Istanbul in the period from 1975 and 1984. Given I’d visited recently, a lot of Pamuk’s vivid descriptions of the city could be imagined in context. His skill at description is very well honed. I didn’t enjoy his lack of brevity. It will probably sound a bit sacrilegious, but it’s one of the reasons I don’t enjoy Dickens. In my mind, I need the story to move forwards, not linger over every minute detail.
Still, this lack of brevity was not the main reason I didn’t enjoy the book.
Kemal, Pamuk’s protagonist, was, essentially, a stalker, a man obsessed by a woman to the extent that he couldn’t leave her alone. The years he kept haunting her while her marriage fell apart, having dinner at her house with her parents, making sure he was embedded in her life, this was stalking.
The way he, basically, abandoned his friends, relatives and business shone a bright light on this obsessive nature. Perhaps his desire to collect so many objects and memories was merely the zenith of this obsession.
Anyway, clearly the idea for the novel (and the museum) was excellent, but I didn’t enjoy it. I am surprised by the reviews it has received and do wonder whether they were written as a result of his previous books, especially the one that won the Nobel prize. Whatever the reason, I didn’t feel the same sort of literary satisfaction as the reviewers. Possibly MY biggest literary satisfaction was actually finishing it.
To be fair, Pamuk does mention it in the novel.
If only it had been told in one breath. It would have saved me a lot of pages of relentless description, mad obsession and Kemal Bey.
