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joe_dmh's review
dark
emotional
mysterious
reflective
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
4.0
annarella's review
5.0
I love everything related to Istanbul and I loved this book.
It's complex, well written and sometimes oniric.
I will surely read other books by this author.
Strongly recommended.
Many thanks to the publisher and Edelweiss for this ARC, all opinions are mine.
It's complex, well written and sometimes oniric.
I will surely read other books by this author.
Strongly recommended.
Many thanks to the publisher and Edelweiss for this ARC, all opinions are mine.
kateofmind's review
4.0
A possible case of egregious mismarketing but still a marvelous read. Full review (complete with another playlist!) now at Kate of Mind
adriennne's review
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Diverse cast of characters? No
3.0
Content Warnings
Moderate: Suicide attempt
Minor: Death of parent
ewelinakl's review
5.0
Burhan Sönmez’s İstanbul İstanbul is perhaps the most heartwrenching and shattering novel I’ve read. It’s been two years since I finished it, and the memory of it is still raw and tender, still making me want to both reread the book and never touch it again. When I preordered Labyrinth, it was with the certainty that it would be nothing like that, it was with the expectation that Sönmez would fall hard, and with a sense of obligation to support him through that.
And Labyrinth is, indeed, a different kind of story, it’s not a book that kicks you in the gut and watches you retch afterward. It is powerful in its own, unique way. It’s a restless wait for the storm, a search for yourself, a maze that we all carry inside ourselves. It’s a story that resonated with me, that made me go ‘oh, I know this feeling, I’ve done those things, I’ve had those thoughts’.
Boratin has it all – he’s loved by his friends, family and fans, he’s a talented musician, he’s good-looking and well-off. Yet, when he wakes up in the hospital, they tell him he’d jumped off the bridge, trying to kill himself. Boratin doesn’t know if he really did that, because he no longer remembers anything of his life. What he remembers is past so distant it should no longer be relevant. Though it is.
Sönmez did a beautiful job capturing depression and anxiety, creating a labyrinth of mirrors, where you can see your own face looking at you from every page. If you’ve struggled with your mental health, you’ll recognise yourself in Boratin, you’ll feel his frustration with the world that surrounds him, the forever-repeating patterns, the people who mean well, but end up doing more harm than good because they just don’t understand your struggle. You’ll feel the burden of other people’s expectations settling on your shoulders. The desperate need to find your own way, your own place, your own self. Am I my brain, or is my brain me? What makes me who I am?
Another thing that Sönmez excels in is his ability to show the ugly truth of modern politics. For Boratin past and present are all the same – is this the last sultan he’s looking at, or is it Erdoğan? Haydarpaşa is burning, but in what year? 1917? 2010? Is this the Young Turks revolting, or is it just the Gezi protests? Or is it all the same thing, history repeating itself time and time over? Is it possible to move on, without repeating the old mistakes?
For me, Labyrinth is more of a mirror than it is a story, a mirror reflected within a mirror, within a mirror, within a mirror. But there’s a way out of every maze, there are hope and self-discovery at the end of it, and a white blank page waiting to be filled by you, by me, by Boratin.
And Labyrinth is, indeed, a different kind of story, it’s not a book that kicks you in the gut and watches you retch afterward. It is powerful in its own, unique way. It’s a restless wait for the storm, a search for yourself, a maze that we all carry inside ourselves. It’s a story that resonated with me, that made me go ‘oh, I know this feeling, I’ve done those things, I’ve had those thoughts’.
Boratin has it all – he’s loved by his friends, family and fans, he’s a talented musician, he’s good-looking and well-off. Yet, when he wakes up in the hospital, they tell him he’d jumped off the bridge, trying to kill himself. Boratin doesn’t know if he really did that, because he no longer remembers anything of his life. What he remembers is past so distant it should no longer be relevant. Though it is.
Sönmez did a beautiful job capturing depression and anxiety, creating a labyrinth of mirrors, where you can see your own face looking at you from every page. If you’ve struggled with your mental health, you’ll recognise yourself in Boratin, you’ll feel his frustration with the world that surrounds him, the forever-repeating patterns, the people who mean well, but end up doing more harm than good because they just don’t understand your struggle. You’ll feel the burden of other people’s expectations settling on your shoulders. The desperate need to find your own way, your own place, your own self. Am I my brain, or is my brain me? What makes me who I am?
Another thing that Sönmez excels in is his ability to show the ugly truth of modern politics. For Boratin past and present are all the same – is this the last sultan he’s looking at, or is it Erdoğan? Haydarpaşa is burning, but in what year? 1917? 2010? Is this the Young Turks revolting, or is it just the Gezi protests? Or is it all the same thing, history repeating itself time and time over? Is it possible to move on, without repeating the old mistakes?
For me, Labyrinth is more of a mirror than it is a story, a mirror reflected within a mirror, within a mirror, within a mirror. But there’s a way out of every maze, there are hope and self-discovery at the end of it, and a white blank page waiting to be filled by you, by me, by Boratin.
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