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A review by michaelontheplanet
My Name is Red by Orhan Pamuk
3.0
Pamuk buying: a canny trader in the soukh, Orhan sets out his stall, and it’s groaning with the finest produce - glistening guavas, moist melons, plump pomegranates, tempting tamarinds. There’s even an ugli fruit or two, and you know I’m a bit partial. Sure, he puts the best stuff front and centre, and some of the merchandise further back or underneath isn’t quite as fresh (dig a bit further and there’s a definite whiff of overripe banana, not to mention a few specimens that, were this Waitrose, would have a yellow label on them for quick sale). But it’s the merchant’s way, this self-styled “honey-tongued master storyteller” who gives his characters voice.
For all the opulence, it’s a simple tale really illustrating that “envy is the prime emotion in life” but also that religion can be a blunt instrument in the hands of morons, and the impact this has on art: prompted by a supposed epiphany, one might follow the example of one of the miniaturists who “swore off wine, handsome boys and painting”...”he quit drinking coffee and naturally his brain stopped working”. A lesson to us all. It takes considerable cleverness to understand a simple truth, regardless of belief - a disquisition on the Koran’s statement that “the blind and the seeing are not equal” gives this proof.
For all the opulence, it’s a simple tale really illustrating that “envy is the prime emotion in life” but also that religion can be a blunt instrument in the hands of morons, and the impact this has on art: prompted by a supposed epiphany, one might follow the example of one of the miniaturists who “swore off wine, handsome boys and painting”...”he quit drinking coffee and naturally his brain stopped working”. A lesson to us all. It takes considerable cleverness to understand a simple truth, regardless of belief - a disquisition on the Koran’s statement that “the blind and the seeing are not equal” gives this proof.