Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul: Memories and the City is very much an ambivalent read. Perhaps that is how Pamuk intended it. On one hand, Pamuk’s ode to his native city is subtly graceful and honest, but on the other hand I can’t help but be disappointed in his pervasive critical eye on Istanbul. He introduces us early to the feeling of hüzün (i.e., melancholy) that he insists is inherent in the people and places of Istanbul, and this is a theory with which I very much agree (albeit Pamuk’s constant referent to this melancholic frame of mind feels a little like getting beaten over the head).

In many ways, Istanbul is the rarest of cosmopolitan cities. Having once reigned supreme as the capital of the Ottoman Empire, Istanbul now enjoys a quiet and bygone intrigue. Pamuk writes in his memoirs, “For me it has always been a city of ruins and of end-of-empire melancholy.” Traces of Istanbul’s empiric history still abound from the crumbling remains of the ancient city walls; to the Hagia Sophia, a-church-cum-mosque-cum-museum; to the Topkapi Palace - the Ottoman sultans’ palatial grounds for nearly four centuries. The former grandeur of Istanbul continues to haunt its modern landscape and contributes to its pervasive melancholy or hüzün.

As much as I agree with Pamuk’s melancholic description of the “City of Seven Hills,” I can’t help but think that he has turned his back, in some respects, on his own culture and heritage. Perhaps it is true that only an Istanbulus may critique Istanbul fairly (just like only a Catholic may adequately critique the Catholic Church; or only a daughter or a son may appropriately critique her/his mother), but there seems to be something else at play here too. It is no coincidence that Pamuk has won just about every estimable literary award outside of Istanbul: the Dublin Literary Award; a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award; a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters; and most recently the 2006 Nobel Prize in Literature (Turkey’s first and only recipient of the Nobel). He has received multiple awards from outsiders for his insider Turkish/critic status; and yet, Istanbulus themselves cast scrupulous eyes at his body of work.

There is, of course, that darn lost-in-translation thing going on too in this book. Pamuk writes in his native Turkish language, and so I found myself thinking a lot during my read about the question of translation accuracy. Not coincidently, Pamuk writes at length about the great Czech writers who never found a wide-audience appeal beyond Eastern Europe due to the lack of adequate translators; of course his ramblings apply also to great Turkish writers and , by association, to himself. (Pamuk very much places himself into the trajectory of great world authors such as Flaubert—another author to whom he refers throughout the text.) Maureen Freely offers a sensational English translation of Pamuk’s memoirs, and my most favorite Pamuk/Freely English expression occurs early in the book, offering a gorgeous foreshadowing effect and an apt description of Istanbul, of Pamuk, and of the book in its entirety. Pamuk writes, “The chiaroscuro of twilight–the thing that for me defines the city–has descended.” Indeed it has, and in the descent and decay, according to Pamuk, comes even more beauty, albeit a beauty tinged by melancholy.

It is quite possible that I’m judging Pamuk’s ambivalence too harshly. In some respects, Pamuk himself may be the embodiment and manifestation of Istanbul’s long-standing androgynous identity. Straddling both the European and Asian continents, influences from Western Europe, Eastern Europe, Asia, and the Middle East affect Istanbul’s outlook on religion, politics, economics, language, and culture. It is an ancient city filled with the amenities of modern Europe and the antiquities of the long-gone Byzantine and Ottoman empires. Today minarets share the Istanbul skyline with towering skyscrapers while modern tankers tread the dark and prosaic waters of the Bosphorus, the Marmara, and the Black Sea–which all converge together to bisect or connect (depending on your perspective) the continents of Europe and Asia.

Under the leadership of Atatürk in the first half of the 20th century came also the advent of Turkish nationalism, democratization, and secularization. The alphabet was updated from an Arabic script to a new Romanesque Turkish one; similarly, the Islamic religion took a backburner to secular government; and former modes of fashion were either outlawed (such as the fez for men) or heavily discouraged (such as the Muslim head scarf for women). Atatürk’s influence is still widespread throughout Turkey nearly a century later, with his likeness appearing on Turkish lira, in public buildings, and in schools and textbooks, with enforced laws prohibiting slander against the famous ruler’s memory.

Despite this reverence for Atatürk there is a silent and not-so silent underground resilience to the fiercely government-regulated democratization of Turkey. The recent murder of Hrant Dink, a prominent Turkish journalist who openly promoted dialogue between Turks and Armenians and who publicly advocated government acknowledgement of the 1915-17 Armenian Massacre, shows how fervent extreme Turkish nationalists are in defending and preserving their Turkish identity and image respectively. This act of violence also incriminates, in a peripheral way, Turkey’s government in its reluctance to acknowledge any Ottoman wrongdoing to Armenians in its history. This, unfortunately, places Turkey’s democratization efforts in a paled light and raises legitimate questions about freedom of speech within modern and democratic Turkey. These questions also distance Turkey from its pursuit of inclusion in the European Union—another highly controversial and divisive proposal on all sides. Moreover, the ongoing (and seemingly irreconcilable) Kurdish conflict aligns Turkey (although begrudgingly) with that of territorial crises in the Middle East, resulting in an even further estrangement from the social and political issues of Europe.

All that said, Pamuk metanarratively represents this bipolar conflict of Turkish nationalism and Turkish modernization. Pamuk represents both melancholia and cultural ambivalence himself, just as Istanbul is also affected by these two complex emotions. He too, if we’re operating under the above-outlined ideas, straddles both the Western world and the Middle Eastern imagination. His acclaimed reception by the West for his critiques of Middle Eastern values, however, lands him squarely in the Western camp whether he embraces it or not—something that Turkey as a nation has failed to accomplish despite its determined attempts and something Turkish nationalists find unforgiveable.

In fact, Pamuk’s public critiques of Istanbul ranging from his English-translated novels and memoirs to his stance on the divisive Armenian issue has indeed landed him in court for allegedly violating the controversial article 301 of Turkey’s penal code (i.e., “insulting Turkishness”). His case, fortunately for Pamuk, was eventually considered moot due to a minor technicality. However, this negative attention in his native country has now spurned the same man who claims to be the mastermind behind the murder of journalist Dink to issue a fatwah of sorts or a death threat against Pamuk, reportedly warning him to “be smart.” Since Dink’s murder, the Turkish government, including Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan, has publicly decried those behind and in support of Dink’s killing, but despite mainstream Turkish sentiments, violent Turkish nationalists are still a viable disturbance to the government’s ongoing democratization efforts and a detriment to creative literary achievements. Unfortunately for Pamuk, he has become the next primary target for these extreme nationalists. Some have even argued (though I disagree) that it is his persecution rather than his literary talent that has earned him such global prestige and honors.

Despite my own ambivalent reaction to Pamuk’s memoirs, I am thankful to him for allowing me a brief return to Istanbul in my own memory. In my memory I remember Istanbul as a sensory experience. His descriptions of Istanbul’s lingering smells of spices, tobacco smoke, lamb kabobs, steamships on the Bosphorus, and Turkish teas; of the sacred sounds of the adhan—the daily call to prayer—mixed together with the ubiquitous traffic and the profane hum of the persistent Grand Bazaar vendors; and of the sight of the greyish pink sunset over the ancient city and waters, all transported me again to my favorite of all travel destinations: Istanbul.

What I found most intriguing about Istanbul was, more often than not, the simple quotidian things. Of course, as an outsider I could only sense much of the melancholia in Istanbul but couldn’t quite describe it. Pamuk does just that. He puts into words, into language, into extrasensory experience, that which I could not.