Byzantium, Constantinople, Istanbul—few cities have worn so many names, and fewer still have carried them with such melancholic beauty. The city I myself know so well feels poetically preserved within Orhan Pamuk’s autobiographical memoir, Istanbul: Memories and the City, translated by Maureen Freely. Laced with nostalgia and sorrow, Pamuk recalls his core memories from his childhood and youth in the 1950s and 1960s, providing a deeply personal perspective on the emotional weight the city carries for him and the locals. Written for the people of Istanbul, and not as a guide, it delves into the effect the shift from an imperial city to a bustling metropolis had on the city. For those who do not know the city as well, the writing itself is visually and emotionally rich, providing an insider’s view to crossroads of cultures.
Pamuk writes that he is haunted by the loss of the Ottoman Empire as he looks upon the crumbling ruins of palaces, now symbols of a city that has been left behind in history. Unkept wooden houses scattered along the Bosphorus while western style apartments take over the skyline mark the disappearance of traditional neighbourhoods. He says “the hüzün (nostalgia) of Istanbul is something the entire city feels together and carries deep inside, a way of looking at life that is both shared and unifying,” demonstrating a collective feeling of reflection. Although fluent in Turkish, I chose to read the translation for convenience and noticed the word hüzün is not translated, perhaps due to limits in translation and to capture a mood that is only really tied to Istanbul’s soul.
Old monochrome photographs transport us to the past, as we’re told of his memories growing up in a Westernized bourgeois family. Orhan recalls reading French novels and staring at photos of Paris, while outside his window there is a city shaped by Ottoman and Islamic traditions, highlighting his sense of cultural duality. Being of mixed heritage myself, the feeling of belonging to both worlds, but fully to neither certainly resonates. One of the central undercurrents of the book is Istanbul’s position between continents—a city both divided and enriched by the meeting of East and West.
Pamuk’s Istanbul is particularly familiar to me as he mentions its cinematic beauty, impossible not to romanticise. “Whenever I find myself talking of the beauty and poetry of the Bosphorus and Istanbul’s dark streets, a voice inside me warns against exaggeration … if I see my city as beautiful and bewitching, then my life must be so too” brings light to the direct link inhabitants feel between the city and their sense of identity and self. Descriptions of the call to prayer over rooftops, bustling activity on the water, and mists that shroud the minarets in the winter, accurately portray how the beauty of the city prevails and brings comfort during times of despair.
Listening to family members and neighbours around the dinner table talking about “how it used to be,” I have always wondered how the depth of the city’s past has affected them. Orhan Pamuk, with real tenderness and precision, has contextualised the love I already felt for the city. His Istanbul is not just a backdrop, but a living character and perhaps invites readers to think about their own cities and how their surroundings and history have shaped who they are.
Photo by Anna Berdnik on Unsplash