Wednesday, October 26, 2011
The Black Book
Purchased at Talking Leaves...Books. I honestly wasn't sure about this one. I thought I might have purchased it at Amazon, but then I thought that was unlikely, as I reserve most of my Amazon purchases to cheap used books in the marketplace. I buy most of my new books at Talking Leaves. Anyhow, I checked my 2007 Amazon purchase history and discovered that I did not purchase any Pamuk books there. Thus, I am relatively certain they were all purchased at TL.
I think this is my favorite of Pamuk's books. I am also fond of Snow and his memoir, Istanbul. Everyone goes gaga over My Name Is Red, but I never got through it. I think it was the last of several books of his I read and therefore I'd developed a little Pamuk fatigue at that point. I mean to give it another shot. Someday. Truly.
O, and I am 43 today. Ugh.
from The Black Book
Rüya was lying facedown on the bed, lost to the sweet warm darkness beneath the billowing folds of the blue-checked quilt. The first sounds of a winter morning seeped in from outside: the rumble of a passing car, the clatter of an old bus, the rattle of the copper kettles that the salep maker shared with the pastry cook, the whistle of the parking attendant at the dolmus stop. A cold leaden light filtered through the dark blue curtains. Languid with sleep, Galip gazed at his wife's head: Ruya's chin was nestling in the down pillow. The wondrous sights playing in her mind gave her an unearthly glow that pulled him toward her even as it suffused him with fear. Memory, Celâl had once written in a column, is a garden. Rüya's gardens, Rüya's gardens . . . Galip thought. Don't think, don't think, it will make you jealous! But as he gazed at his wife's forehead, he still let himself think.