Benim Adım Kırmızı



[Read] ➫ Benim Adım Kırmızı By Orhan Pamuk – E17streets4all.co.uk ஓட்டாமன் சாம்ராஜ்ஜியத்தின் சுல்தான் மூன்றாம் மூராத் ஹிஜ்ரா சகாப்பதத்தி ஓட்டாமன் சாம்ராஜ்ஜியத்தின் சுல்தான் மூன்றாம் மூராத் ஹிஜ்ரா சகாப்பதத்தின் ஆயிரமாவது ஆண்டுத் தொடக்கத்தைக் குறிக்கும் 'விழா மலரை' உருவாக்க விரும்புகிறார் ஓட்டாமன் பேரரசின் மகத்துவங்களையும் தன்னுடைய கீர்த்தியையும் பதிவு செய்யும் வகையில் மலரை உருவாக்கும் பொறுப்பை இஸ்தான்புல்லின் நுண்ணோவியர்களிடம் ஓப்படைக்கிறார் நூலாக்கம் நடந்து கொண்டிருக்கும் தருணத்தில் இரண்டு நுண்ணோவியர்கள் மர்மமான முறையில் அடுத்தடுத்துக் கொல்லப்படுகிறார்கள் முதலில் மெருகோவின் வசீகரன் எஃபெண்டி பின்னர் நூலுரு வாக்கத்துக்குப் பொறுப்பாளரான எனிஷ்டே அவர்களைக் கொன்றது யார்? கொலைக்குக் காரணம் என்ன? என்ற கேள்விகளிலிருந்து விரிகிறது நாவல் பன்னிரண்டு கதாபாத்திரங்களின் மொழிகளில் முன்னேறுகிறது கதை.Benim Adım Kırmızı

Orhan Pamuk was born in Istanbul in and grew up in a large family similar to those which he describes in his novels Cevdet Bey and His Sons and The Black Book, in the wealthy westernised district of Nisantasi As he writes in his autobiographical book Istanbul, from his childhood until the age of he devoted himself largely to painting and dreamed Benim Adım PDF/EPUB or of becoming an artist After graduating fro.

Benim Adım Kırmızı PDF/EPUB ¼ Benim Adım
  • Hardcover
  • 664 pages
  • Benim Adım Kırmızı
  • Orhan Pamuk
  • Tamil
  • 09 February 2019
  • 9788189359928

10 thoughts on “Benim Adım Kırmızı

  1. says:

    This book is as much about art as it is a historical novel.

    First the novel. A tale of miniaturist painters in Istanbul during the late 1500’s. The deceased master’s daughter is in a religious and political limbo: her soldier husband has been missing for four years, but with no body and no witnesses to his death, she can’t get a divorce and move on with her life. She wants to find a new husband and a father for her two young boys and get away from the amorous intentions of her husband’s brother. And there's a murder mystery.

    Enter a man called Black, an administrator of sorts who has returned to town after twelve years in distant lands. He still carries a torch for the beautiful widow from his days as a youth. Can he find her father’s killer, keep the brother-in-law at bay, help her get a legal divorce, and win her hand in marriage? Along the way we have blended into the text what are really mini-essays about horses; dogs in the Koran: what it’s like to be a murderer; Satan; the path of a counterfeit coin, etc.

    At least half of this lengthy work is about art. (I say lengthy because the 500-page paperback I read was tiny type, so this is a 700- or 800- page book in normal font.) Miniaturist painting was imported into the Ottoman Empire from Persia. Most of the painting was done as pictures in books and to illustrate the borders of pages of books, accompanied by elaborate calligraphy. (Think of the Irish monks’ manuscripts such as the Book of Kells.)

    Ottoman miniaturist painting was highly stylized. Pictures were drawn from the viewpoint of Allah, from the top of a minaret, and did not use what the West thinks of as true perspective. Armies lined up symmetrically in battle scenes; horses always had the same foreleg raised; a finger placed in a mouth always represented surprise. In accordance with religious concerns about idolatry, faces were generic, not individualized. Who would dare place an identifiable individual at the center of a painting? Man can copy; only Allah can create. The painter tried to portray the ideal horse or chair as Allah created it (think Plato’s “ideal chair”), not the individual variant before them. Is individuality expressed by a traditional miniaturist painter “style” or a “flaw?” Does it offend God?

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    Compare all this to the European masters at the time such as da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael (the Turks called them “the Venetians”). So a lot of the book is about East meets West in the art world. All in all, an excellent book from the Nobel Prize-winning Pamuk. The story kept my interest and I enjoyed learning about Ottoman art, even when the sections where the miniaturists talked about the philosophy behind painting got repetitive at times.

  2. says:

    Benim Adım Kırmızı = My Name is Red, Orhan Pamuk

    My Name Is Red is a 1998 Turkish novel by writer Orhan Pamuk translated into English by Erdağ Göknar in 2001.

    Pamuk would later receive the 2006 Nobel Prize in Literature. The novel, concerning miniaturists in the Ottoman Empire of 1591, established Pamuk's international reputation and contributed to his Nobel Prize. The influences of Joyce, Kafka, Mann, Nabokov and Proust and above all Eco can be seen in Pamuk's work.

    تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز هشتم ماه آگوست سال 2010میلادی

    عنوان: نام من سرخ؛ نویسنده اورهان پاموک؛ مترجم: عین الله غریب؛ تهران، چشمه، 1389؛ در 692ص؛ چاپ چهارم 1393؛ موضوع داستانهای نویسندگان ترکیه - سده 20م

    عنوان: نام من سرخ؛ نویسنده: اورهان پاموک؛ مترجم تهمینه زاردشت؛ تهران، مروارید، 1391؛ در 594ص؛ چاپ دوم 1392؛

    عنوان رمان «نام من سرخ» است، برگردان فارسی از «بنیم آدیم قیرمیزی»، شاید با عنوان دیگر هم چاپ شده باشد، نمیدانم.؛ متن و روش روایت، به قدری زیباست، که اگر بخواهم تکه ای را برگزینم، تا برای دل شما اینجا بکارم، تا سبز شود، باید همه ی کتاب را از ابتدا تا انتها بنویسم، «اورهان» در سال 2006میلادی، برنده ی جایزه نوبل ادبیات شده اند، شاید برای همین کتاب بوده، هوش از سرم پرید، دوباره، آغاز به خوانشش کرده ام.؛ «اورهان» جایی در همین کتاب مینویسند «تصویر و متن، رنگ و کلمه، با هم برادرند» «اورهان پاموک» مینویسند بعضیها میگویند «نام من سرخ»، یک رمان ایرانی ست، و من همیشه این را یک افتخار بزرگ، و تحسین میدانم.؛ هوش و ذکاوت نویسنده کم نظیر است.؛

    تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 21/05/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی

  3. says:

    Generally, when a book starts out with a chapter entitled I Am A Corpse, you know it's going to be pretty good.

    The novel is set up so that each chapter introduces a different narrator, including (but not limited to), Black, Black's uncle, Shekure, a dog, a horse, the murderer and various artists in the workshop. This type of structure for a mystery novel isn't new--Wilkie Collins, for example, employed it several times, most notably in The Moonstone--and it is an effective way to structure a story so as to hide the whodunit. Each character only tells as much as he, she or it knows and in Pamuk's novel even the murderer hides his or her identity.

    The structure in My Name Is Red, though is less designed to sustain suspense and more to allow room for the various philosophical discussions concerning the purpose of art and, perhaps more importantly, the distinctions between Islamic states and Western Europe. The Frankish mode of painting, particularly of portraiture--to glorify the subject, to paint him or her in terms of his/her earthly wealth and power, to distribute such an image openly as a show of control, to demonstrate the creative abilities of the artist--is at the center of these debates and discussions. Black's uncle finds such images alluring and fascinating while others see them as abhorent. Master Osman, for example, sees himself as being forced to choose between the centuries old Islamic traditions he venerates and the more modern and distinctly foreign style he despises. Such a choice is not made easily, as the artists themselves discover. The Frankish method celebrates the individuation of the artist--it prizes the signature of the artist as much as the commissioner of the image. This reverence for the artist, as much as for the piece of art, proves to be a great temptation to the men involved and leads directly to the murder.

    The structure, however, also allows for a second discussion, not about art but about writing on art. As much as this is a novel concerning visual images, it is also a novel about ekphrasis--the verbal description of art. Ekphrasis has the effect of slowing down a narrative, of interrupting it. Thus, in Homer's Illiad, the great battle scene is suddenly punctured by a lengthy description of Achilles' shield. Pamuk plays with this model repeatedly. When the image of the horse, described several times in the novel, is given a voice of its own the narrative is not interrupted, but rather the description of the image becomes the narrative. And, moreover, as the image speaks it refutes the fundamental principles underlying Master Osman's devotion to Islamic traditions of art. Pamuk can hardly resist the joke--this is a novel about art in which not a single image appears, except the map at the beginning and the ones we create in our minds as we imagine the images described. But, are we creating an image of the ideal horse, the horse of God, or one we can actually touch, taste, and smell?

  4. says:

    My Name is Red is as gorgeous as these illuminations.

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    The narrative flows with the weight of such a lush artistic style.

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    It is a dazzling brilliance that creates a languid beauty...

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    ...that bogs the story down so much I couldn't tell you what the fuck happened.

  5. says:

    This is a fantastic book by Nobel Prize winner Orhan Pamuk which explores the relationship between art and religion ad between imagery and idolatry. Set in the 16th century, we are transported into an Istanbul of the Ottoman empire with a murder mystery told in the voices of the characters (and sometimes these are drawings in the books or just concepts) that inhabit the story. Its primary characters feel very real and the buildup to the big reveal at the end makes the book a real page turner. I think that the story told here is still more than relevant to our world of today given the problems stemming from reading religious texts word for word and building violent systems of repression or terror based on individual interpretations of those readings. Unfortunately, some things have not evolved enough in the last 400 years...A must read.

  6. says:

    On-a-high version:

    I am called Black, I longed for my dearest Shekure for twelve years;
    I, Shekure, not quite sure what was I doing in this story;
    I am called Butterfly, I was the one who drew the Death and Mia thought I was the murderer;
    I am called Stork, I was the one who drew the Tree and Butterfly always envy me as I was more talented without the help from our master;
    I am called Olive, I was the one who rendered the Satan and drew the exquisite horse;
    I am your beloved uncle, I was preparing a book for our Refuge of the World, Our Glorious Sultan before being murdered by one of my apprentice;
    It is I, Master Osman, I wished to follow the path of Master Bihzad who blinded himself with a needle;
    I am Esther, my eyes were eternally at the windows and my ears were eternally to the ground;
    I am a corpse, I was Elegant Effendi before being murdered by a fellow painter;
    I am Mia, I read this book from page 1 to 508 whilst crawling and bleeding to death. So please would someone explain wth is this book about?
    Jackie Chan: Who am I?


    Sober version:

    Interesting story regarding Istanbul in the 16th century. One day I'll visit the amazing Blue Mosque that a good friend of mine, Eddie, always talk about. But seriously, though this book is amazing I can't get into it. Totally not my rocknrolla thing.

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    one of the bule put this book on my desk, got no idea which one though they pointed their fingers to each other lol

  7. says:

    My fickle heart longs for the West when I'm in the East and for the East when I'm in the West.
    My other parts insist I be a woman when I'm a man and a man when I'm a woman.
    How difficult it is being human, even worse is living a human's life.
    I only want to amuse myself frontside and backside, to be Eastern and Western both.

    This is Pamuk's enduring, never ending obsession. He's written fiction and non-fiction, journal articles and newspaper bites, and given endless interviews on this theme. He's even been thrown in jail and put on trial for the identity he has chosen. He's won the Nobel Prize in Literature for his commitment to expressing his deeply divided mind and spirit, and that (at least he and many others believe) of his country- Turkey. (I apologize in advance if this ends up being something of a ramble through the literary bramble, but I can only say that that would mirror the experience of reading this book.)

    My Name is Red will tell you that it is a murder mystery, set in 16th century Istanbul, under the rule of the Sultan. But it will also tell you that it is about many other things, each of which changes, ephermerally, by the moment. The atmosphere of the story digs a little bit into Garcia-Marquez's garden, but storytelling would never be mistaken for his. Each chapter is told by a different voice- some of which are plausible members of a storytelling round, and some of which would really only belong in that category if you were on acid, but they all seem about equally credible, due to the fact that nobody is really credible, so one might as well be fiction or myth as fact. (For instance, we hear from the voices of the drawing of a horse, the fake voice of a woman who is actually a man, a gold piece and the color red.) It is ethereal, elusive, and there isn't one incarnation of the mind that can be trusted here. Don't fall into the trap of assuming that what you read has anything to do with anything other than the particular pyschology of the moment- Pamuk is a master of depicting the every day track of a mind, and how unreliable each feeling of a moment is- how everything important is changed by the fact that one just happens to feel hungry at a particular moment, or desperately horny at another. It is an absolute masterwork of insight on the psychology of a particular people at a particular time, and all the various reasons why they are that way, and yet he is able to make them as relatable as possible through it all.

    What struck me the most throughout the entire book was how terrified, it seemed, that Pamuk was of missing something. While other authors might be striving to become masters of literature, masters of form, I think Pamuk wished that he could be nothing so much as a master of tapestry-making. I think he would die happy if he could have given this book to the theoretical Weaver in the sky and gotten it back as a divine scrap of worked fabric. There are lists upon lists upon lists of endless things that go on for pages, only to stop and start up once again. As a part of his contradictory feelings towards the West, in a culture whose stories and traditions often originated in the East... although he longs for the West, he's terrified, just as his characters are, that everything they know from the East will disappear. It seems like he can't stop himself- there's some sort of driving fear if he doesn't list everything about history and culture and myth, and repeat all the stories again and again to make sure we remember what they are, it will be gone forever. His expression of ambivalence towards Western culture perfectly expresses the mindset of illuminators in 16th century Istanbul terrified that their entire lives are about to become irrelevant.

    The other absorbing, fascinating, and horrifying thing was how well Pamuk illustrates the idea that absolutely nobody speaks with their own voice, both through his painters, constrained by centuries of adherance to a perfect style that some random master brought out of Baghdad that depicts the perspective of Allah. It is considered heresy and a fault to have a style, and signatures are furitively hidden away as much as possible- the idea that blindness is the ideal to be obtained for these artists is just heartbreaking- at least to someone coming at it from a Western perspective, where seeing painters deliberately rob themselves of their sight, their most precious commodity, over and over again, in the course of obtaining a meaningless idea of perfection that is not their own. The murderer throughout this book strives endlessly to hide himself by speaking in a voice that does not at all resemble how we see him in other places. The majority of people who are speaking a themselves tell stories in order to express their feelings- in fact at the beginning all the suspected illuminators speak almost entirely in story form in order to answer any important question on any philosophical, religious, or even personal topic. Expressing one's feelings just isn't done. One doesn't go up to the pretty boy one would like to fuck and tell him so, one tells him a parable about a gorgeous boy in order to show your admiration for him. Much as the pictures are seen as the perspective of Allah, it seems that there is only one way to speak, too, in the words of Allah, or those stories which are sanctioned by the authorities as legitimate- the authority of Allah on earth. It was the ultimate tragedy of the book from the Western perspective, and the ultimate triumph of the book from the accepted ides of the time, all of these de-individualized people (as much as can be done or denied or pushed from sight) striving towards the goal of seeing as Allah does, ever in the correct way.

    But everyone recognizes the end of the Eastern way of life coming from the West, in the guise of the Venetian ways that everyone will want to slavishly follow in the future, ways which reactionary preachers and religious people are protesting against before they've even made serious headway, trying to keep their way of life pure. But the rest of the book poitns out again and again that there is no way that the culture of the Ottoman Empire was pure in any way- no constantly conquering culture with a large army and a long reach could ever be. No autocratic society that entailed artisans, craftsman and soldiers to pick up and serve someone else once their lord was defeated (if they weren't killed out right) could develop in isolation without any influence from the outside. He shows globalization already happening, back in the 16th century, and how deep the effects penetrate then and now.

    I loved his Istanbul for his brilliant evocation of identity, living with a burdensome past and an uncertain future, for its poetry and its memory. My Name is Red accomplishes much the same thing, with more magic- but just enough dirt to bring it right straight home where it belongs in 2009.

  8. says:

    I am in two minds about this book.

    Obviously, it is an important work. It showcases the miniaturist tradition of the Islamic world, and uses the cloistered world of miniaturists to explore the difference in philosophies between the East and the West. It was all the more interesting to me because I have been fascinated by this difference ever since I began viewing paintings with serious interest. In the East, perspective does not exist: the painting flows seamlessy over space and time whereas in the West (especially since the Renaissance) the painting is the reproduction of a particular moment in time (we are not talking of abstractions here). The miniaturist paints the world as God sees it: he does not sign the painting, nor does he have an individual style, because he is unimportant. He continues painting (in fact, he paints better!) after he inevitably goes blind. The Frankish painters, in contrast, paint the world as we see it, which is blasphemy according to some of the miniaturists.

    I was captivated by the sweep of the book as well as the way it was presented: short chapters, each from the viewpoint of a different character, as though we were looking at a book of miniatures which tells a different story on each page. Moreover, it is a murder mystery in which the victims as well as the murderer directly speak to the reader! It bears a certain resemblance to The Name of the Rose in this regard, although Eco's book is much more powerful according to me.

    Coming to the minuses: the writing is cumbersome and a task to wade through. I do not know if this is a problem with Pamuk's writing or the translation. The characters are flat: the protagonist (Black) is too weak and cowardly: the heroine (if we can call her that!) too self-centred and manipulative. Maybe the author intended them to be like that, but it does lose reader interest.

    I was also rather put off by the amount of lust bubbling on each page. Homosexuality, incest, paedophilia, bestiality, fetishism... everything is there, simmering just beneath the surface. Young boys are regularly presented as objects of lust. Men kiss each other passionately, even when one is about to kill the other! I have heard that Turkey was the centre of deviant sexual practices during Ottoman times, so maybe it is a true picture, but it did not vibe with me.

    So...adding the negatives and positives, I will go for three stars.

  9. says:

    During nine snowy, cold, winter days in the fabulous city of Istanbul the capital of the Ottoman Empire, at its height in the reign of Sultan Murat 111 there occurred a brutal murder, (not the last one ) the year 1591. At the bottom of an abandoned well the mangled body of Elegant Effendi nicknamed Red, a miniaturist who had worked for the Sultan is found but not before the corpse tells his sad story. How the victim was lured by a person which was thought a close friend, with promises of riches and savagely attacked. Strangely the spirit is contented and feels no anger now. Just looking forward to the new world paradise, in heaven. He was a talented painter along with Stork, Olive, and Butterfly under old Master Osman who gave them all their aliases, taught the boys everything they know including beatings, when mistakes were made ( all surprisingly love their master, of 25 years) in a workshop funded by the revered sovereign. Colorful paintings of bright glorious colors of horses , trees, clouds, important people slaughter on many battlefields, fables, enchanting gardens under the exotic illuminating moon with lovers looking tenderly at each other . Red was uneasy about a secret project he worked on because of the foreign, Venetian styled illustrations forbidden by Islam many believe, later when completed these small paintings will be put in a book, to be viewed only by the ruler and a few trusted associates ... Black (Kara) a clerk, secretary, and occasional warrior hired by pashas fighting endless wars against the Persians, returns to his hometown of Istanbul after twelve long years. A failed romance cause him much suffering, the reason for his volunteered exile. The beauty Shekure his uncle's Enishte daughter, was constantly on his mind the lonely days spent thinking about his cousin wanderings through the vast hot deserts and freezing temperatures in the dizzy , elevations of towering mountains sleeping in pungent tents in isolated locations. The rejection of a marriage proposal by his own uncle for his love, and her wedding to another a famous soldier he can never forget. But her husband has been missing for four years, she with two small children living at her father's house and the army has come back. A second chance for happiness if only Black can win her affections... Still he has very strong competition, from fierce Hasan younger brother of Shekure's fearless husband. Esther a shrewd Jewish peddler, matchmaker , and messenger for clandestine sweethearts she knows everything about everyone, having walked over all the city's streets begins bringing letters to Shekure and Black and Hasan too. Rumors that the killer is a miniaturist sweeps the city. Black had been one in his youth, with the three remaining master painters before quitting. And the angry Sultan wants the murderer caught in three days, or torture will commence on the suspects every miniaturist ...

  10. says:

    Arguably the best novel of Orhan Pamuk. Set in Istanbul during the height of Ottoman power, this novel is a tribute to the art of painting as well as a fascinating murder mystery which will keep you hooked till the end. The unusual narrative is felt with full force right from the start - as you read the first chapter, starting with the voice of a corpse at the bottom of the well wondering who was the wretched man that killed him.

    Then ensues a beautiful exploration of the 16th century Istanbul's art scene, its many rivalries, and in between breaths a heartfelt love story that keeps the main protagonist on his heels, as he finds his way through the internecine politics at home and at court. This story is a fascinating example of the possibilities of modern global novel. Must read.

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