My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

Before my birth there was infinite time, and after my death, inexhaustible time.

I never thought of it before: I’d been living luminously between two eternities of darkness.

What was venerated as style was nothing more than an imperfection or flaw that revealed the guilty hand.

To avoid disappointment in art, one mustn’t treat it as a career.

“Yet does illustrating in a new way signify a new way of seeing?”