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Quote by Orhan Pamuk

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My Name Is Red

In this intricate and atmospheric novel, the reader is transported to the bustling city of Istanbul during the reign of Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent. The story revolves around a group of miniaturists who are commissioned to create a book of the Sultan's life. As they work, they are haunted by a mysterious figure known as the Black Painter, who challenges their beliefs and artistic abilities. The novel delves into the complexities of the Ottoman society, the power of art, and the search for identity amidst religious and cultural tensions. more

Author

Orhan Pamuk
Orhan Pamuk

Orhan Pamuk, born on June 7, 1952, is a renowned Turkish novelist. His works are characterized by their depiction of Turkish society, history, and culture, and have won him a wide audience. Pamuk has received the Nobel Prize in Literature and is considered a leading figure in Turkish literature. more

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“Chapter XIII "The Present Flame" The blunders I made have been etched on my sense over and over again, and have oftentimes blamed myself. Urge to wrap my face with embarrassment. Anything favorable, put into my mind is enfold and it is still thwarted by a pessimistic viewpoint. Moreover been imprisoned here in my cabin for one year. I like to always lie down extremely when the environment is cold. I invariably fall over senseless and that is one of the things that makes me delighted every day. I can blast. But I ain't a hero who saves the needy or battles harm humans.”

“She put the letter down on the table, choosing to ignore it. After three seconds, she glanced at the letter and picked it up again, re-reading it and giving the event a bit more thought. She smiled little-wicked before putting it back in her bag. The Eventual Novelist looked directly at her, bee-lined to her table, stopped stock-still, and said, “Whatever it is, don't be like me and put it off”, before scurrying back to his table to do whatever he was doing before. Seanna decided that it was to time to drink up and go home.”

“She will leave me. It’s six AM. Breakfast for one. Eggs, sunny-side-up, like the morning outside; two-cheese English muffin, melting in the toaster oven; already humid outside; coffee will be a little bitter today, no matter how much sweetener gets put in it. The OJ will stay in the fridge – my stomach can do without the citric acid bombardment this morning. She will pack her things and leave me. Coffee brews. Radio station plays then breaks from classical music, telling me what's already evident about the weather. She will complain that she cannot get along with me. Eggs pop and sizzle as the news comes on.”