Orhan Pamuk, Istanbul: Memories and the City (2003)

To Western visitors, Istanbul is captivatingly exotic. Can a writer who's lived there all his life see it the same way?

Orhan Pamuk has spent almost all of his 72 years in Istanbul. That may not be especially rare for a Turk, but it's somewhat more surprising for one who happens to be an internationally acclaimed novelist, not to mention a Nobel laureate. When he was growing up, as he tells it in Istanbul: Memories and the City, his older brother was the real achiever. Şevket Pamuk went on to become a economist, educated at Yale and Berkeley, who throughout his career has year held positions at universities like Penn, Villanova, and Princeton, with more recent stints at the London School of Economics and Harvard. As for the younger of the two, "apart from three years in New York, Orhan Pamuk has spent all his life in the same streets and district of Istanbul, and he now lives in the building where he was raised."

I quote from the bio on his official web site, which one might expect to end by saying he's now an emeritus at, say, UC Irvine. That seems to be part of the deal for those who rise sufficiently high up in the realm of "world literature," on whose top tier Pamuk presumably sits. But he's done things his own way: "I've never left Istanbul, never left the houses, streets, and neighborhoods of my childhood," he writes in the first chapter of this book, which was first published in 2003, before his New York sojourn. (Maureen Freely's English translation came out two years later.) "We live in an age defined by mass migration and creative immigrants, so l am sometimes hard-pressed to explain why I've stayed, not only in the same place but in the same building." The rest of the text constitutes that explanation, more or less.

Istanbul is a book about the eponymous city, but it's also an autobiography. Any attempt Pamuk might make at the former would also be the latter, it seems, and vice versa. Moreover, it's a book about civilization, though it presents Turkish civilization per se as something of a construct, evoked mainly to shore up the modernization project that, amid Ottoman ruins, created the Turkish Republic we know today. "Great as the desire to Westernize and modernize may have been, the more desperate wish was probably to be rid of all the bitter memories of the fallen empire," he writes. "But as nothing, Western or local, came to fill the void, the great drive to Westernize amounted mostly to the erasure of the past; the effect on culture was reductive and stunting, leading families like mine, otherwise glad of republican progress, to furnish their houses like museums."