Taufiq Yves's Reviews > My Name Is Red

The main plot of this novel is actually pretty straightforward: a murder mystery and the painstaking investigation that follows.

What really pulls me in, though, is the world that unfolds around it. Orhan Pamuk paints 16th-century Istanbul with the precision of a miniature artist - bit by bit, detail by detail. Like any dazzling city, there's always more going on beneath the surface. So the real magic of this book isn’t the story itself, but how it’s told.

What’s brilliant is that everything in the story talks. Literally everything. People. dead or alive, men or women - all have a voice. Telling stories becomes their way of existing. The murdered man starts off chatting away, women whisper to themselves at night, old men ramble in the treasury, and even a painted tree complains bitterly. Everyone’s bound by fate, even the killer and the victim, but each 1 is a narrator, each one carries emotion. They’re all trying to reach for something beyond their physical form - not wealth, not power, not even love. Under the gaze of the mighty Sultan, their hidden thoughts spill out through the image of that tree early in the story: “I don’t want to be the tree itself - I want to be its meaning.”

But here’s the paradox: if you’re not the tree, how can you ever become its meaning?

And while the characters are obsessed with storytelling, the miniature artists in the book have a total disregard for light. Light doesn’t matter to them. In fact, seeing the world clearly actually gets in the way of their pursuit of meaning. They want to escape the world of light. If we can still see the ordinary world - if our eyes and, by extension, our souls are still tainted by it - how can we possibly paint something pure? So the eyes, which are so crucial to readers and viewers, become a barrier to meaning. When Master Osman drives 2 needles into his eyes, it’s shocking, yes - but I get the sense it’s something he’s longed for. Only by giving up light can he find peace.

For Osman, going blind means stepping away from his own existence so he can become his own meaning. But even then, he still speaks, still listens - he can’t fully escape being Osman. If you look closely, his act of blinding himself feels more like a self-deception, Istanbul-style.

The only 1 who stays silent is the author himself. Or maybe it’s better to say: the most important thing in this book is Pamuk’s ambition. He’s the true master behind this intricate miniature. After giving every character their own vivid voice, he skillfully erases his own. When I couldn’t find any trace of his personal style in the text, I could almost see him smiling smugly. He’s like a hidden tour guide, leading us down a well-worn path, showing a world bursting with color and life. The path is so familiar, and the guide so masterful, that none of the characters notice me - and we don’t even notice myself.

While reading, I felt like I was part of this vibrant, ornate miniature painting: the tree, the brush, the people on the street, even Osman’s needle. Honestly, I was there too. I had my own story - here, there, wherever. But that’s just the beginning.

Whether it’s the deep dive into seeing and storytelling, or the sheer mastery of the writing, this novel deserves serious respect. But its meaning goes even further. After finishing it, I realized I’d become a reader - just like every object in the story, just like every other reader. I’d lived through my own fate. I can’t be the tree, or the dog, or the needle. I can only own my own story, my own way of seeing, and the meaning that comes from that. No matter how hard I resist, how much I try - even if I became the murderer and painted my own portrait in the Sultan’s domain - it wouldn’t change a thing.

Pamuk’s personal style finally reveals itself in the tension between the title and the content. My Name Is Red points straight at meaning, but the story shows how powerless meaning can be when faced with existence. Storytelling, seeing, even meaning - they’re all just beginnings. That’s the secret behind the story, and maybe what Pamuk really wants to say beyond meaning. Whether we get it or not, I don’t think he cares. Because it’s our own journey, our own fate.

So if you’re going to read this book - really read it. I’m a reader. And so are you.

4.6 / 5 stars