The Museum of Innocence Review
We read books with certain expectations. We do so, almost all the time. Yet, I found myself reading them with no expectations and this made my journey much comfortable. Some of you might say that we have to read stories to get some certain value or message out of them. Or we have to read them to align our identity with characters or see how intertwined they are. I would say that letting the narrative do its job became my new mantra. (Especially, if you read behemoths.)
Orhan Pamuk was a name that my close friend Elnur would point out as he would speak about literary beginnings of his. He would share his interviews or he would use his quotes to jump-start a conversation. I decided to read his book about Istanbul and was upset with the first 398 pages and then his last two pages hit me in a very big way. Reading resembles a ride in a freeway. You need to be able to put the feet on the pedal. Roads can be smooth or rocky. I guess Orkhan wanted us to climb the mountain of his words without any vehicle to see the certain view that would mesmerize us.
His second book that I happened to read was about a special museum which is called Museum of Innocence.
When I looked at this 725 page giant I thought, oh here we go again. I will see Istanbul descriptions page after page. But this time he decided to take a long marathon of pain which was painted into happiness at the end.
This story is about Kamal, young man from a wealthy family and Füsun, young lady who happens to be his poor relative. I do not love spoiling the book but anyone who loved another person will appreciate never ending details that create an overall net of image of that person. Kamal is so in love that he ruins his career and family business. He is so obsessed that he finds it important to collect things that belong to his memory of being together with Füsun. You can not help yourself but think about young men who feel deep love at the wrong place and wrong time. Kamal wants to compensate for one mistake with making another mistake. He wastes his 8–9 years trying to win Füsun’s heart. You can feel how terrible it is for him as an experience and how he tells the opposite. Self-delusion is present throughout the narration. Yet, writing is compelling enough to keep you going page after page. You enjoy going after the pages and not really expecting anything new. You are almost sure that if it is a love story which wants to sit in a museum it needs to have separation element within. Great love stories are great because they separate lovers. Readers are left with tears and realization that such stories would lose the spark if they saw how lovers grew their children together. (Just like in cheap soap-operas which give pain 99% of the time and then some compensation for it in 1% of the time.)
I can not hide my interest in visiting that place. This marketing move for the book or the museum is very well designed. Emotions are the best-selling opium for entire generations. I do not know if I will read Pamuk again, but I certainly feel that any of his books you take, you can hear the seagulls and can see the steam coming out of steamboats and tea cups that face the famous Boğaz of İstanbul. He will make you walk down the narrow streets. (Against your will.) Sometimes you will enjoy it. Sometimes it will get too overwhelming. One thing is for sure. Stories love people who can pen them down. He has hell of a pen.
Yes, he is privileged to have a fancy start in a fancy family. He is privileged to be able to travel the world and collect his content. But so many people are. Yet, they fail to write in a way which is inviting us to read. To feel and be a part of what we read.
I dedicated the beginning paragraph of my last book to his quote about Markez’s quote. They both claim that if you start telling the story that is in your mind with all its details you miss the chance of making it a book.
Somehow, I ended up noticing that some stories chase us the way Füsun’s image was chasing Kamal. You can not help but write them down. Because it is the only way to get them of your chest.
In some sense, chests of writers are museums on their own. They carry so much which needs de-cluttering. They carry so much.
Books are the showrooms and gateways to dark and huge chambers of items that writers hide inside. You go to any fancy museum they show you 10 paintings and not show you 100’s that are in the cellars. Cellar paintings are of the same importance and yet they are rarely showcased. If you follow this logic you find out that cellars are the real museums. The ones that everyone might be compelled to see and the ones that are limited to only the chosen few.
