contemplar no silêncio um crescente alheamento da situação da coisa, uma descrença tão acentuada como o acorrer de hoje às urnas; uns com medo de perder, outros com vontade de recuperar. para ler sobre os novos bairros da grande metrópole e os meandros do seu crescimento nos anos setenta, as falências e inutilidade de, precisamente, ditas-esquerdas e ditas-direitas, o afago de luva branca a quem o acusava de viver num guetto de ricos. aqui ganham vida os recém-chegados, os sem-nome, os pobres, os migrantes, os dos bidonvilles. e ganham vida com empatia e identificação. um mestre é um mestre é um mestre.
a cena da inauguração da mesquita e o 'pensamento' do seu historial é um episódio tão especial no contexto da obra, tão empático como sentir as dores de quem vai à missa de domingo nas aldeias, espreitar para ser outro, o outro, o outro que sou eu.
infelizmente não vão ser dois anos, nem dois meses. de toda a facilidade de leitura, falta-me no entanto Maureen Freely.
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Yes, I thought. Yes, but. As I translated my way through the last chapters of Istanbul, I found as many things to question as to admire. Brought up short by a passing remark about the truth of
a narrative residing in its artful symmetries, I stopped to consider the stark beauty of his black-and-white tableaux. I thought about the colors he had carved away. For when was the Bosphorus ever monochrome? Yes, there were days when the melancholy mist descended, but when the sun broke through again, it was so blue
it hurt your eyes. For every image of 1960s Istanbul that this book brought back to me, there were a hundred missing. I remember pointing this out to Orhan on the day we reviewed my translation of the chapter in which he described his unhappy lycée days. Passing my finger over the gap between two paragraphs, I told him my whole life was hiding inside it.
He nodded, and smiled uneasily. He knew what I meant. Just as I knew what he meant, some years later, when he called me away from a Sunday lunch at a neighbor’s house on the Prince’s Islands, to tell me that he could no longer construct a sentence without worrying how I was going to ruin it.
By the time I embarked on our fifth and last collaboration, The Museum of Innocence, I had been wandering through the labyrinths of his mind long enough to know their every twist and turn. I had come to accept that everything he wrote had to be anchored in some way in the streets of his childhood. I had also come to understand that, as good as he was at capturing voices, his stories came to him in images. In The Museum of Innocence these images are highly detailed, and meticulously positioned. That order is reflected, and at times even replicated, in his Turkish sentences.
I can only imagine the delight he found in creating a text that embedded the conceits of the narrative at the molecular level.
daqui.
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aqui se diz que este é o primeiro livro em que Pamuk fala dos pobres (e ousa sair de Nisantasi), mergulhando nos bairros ficcionais de Duttepe e Kültepe, que correspondem a Gültepe e Seyrantepe. o mais delirante é que lá estive ao lado, no Sapphire: as barracas feitas numa noite com placas de lusalite substituídas pelos arranha-céus no alto de Istanbul, as grande avenidas e os shoppings, o novo centro financeiro. e, descendo as colinas daquele lado da cidade, a sofisticada Bebek com as suas marinas, iates e restaurantes luxuosos à beira Bósforo.
a Seyrantepe Camii, um novo marco no mapa literário da cidade. para que todos vejam, dois minaretes com três varandas.
mas - é falso. já uma Vida Nova falava dos pobres, dos longínquos, dos religiosos, dos extremistas, dos funcionários. o povo é cego.
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