My Name is Red

by Orhan Pamuk

It wasn’t aging, losing one’s beauty or even being bereft of husband and money that was the worst of all calamities, what was truly horrible was not having anyone to be jealous of you.

You know about those ornery old men who’ve charitably devoted their lives to art. They’ll attack anyone who gets in their way. They’re usually gaunt, bony and tall. They’ll want the dwindling number of days before them to be just like the long period they’ve left behind. They’re short-tempered, and they complain about everything. They’ll try to grab the reins in all situations, causing everyone around them to throw up their hands in frustration; they don’t like anyone or anything. I know, because I’m one of them.

1. The reason we don’t like anything innovative is that there is truly nothing new worth liking. 2. We treat most men like morons because, indeed, most men are morons, not because we’re poisoned by anger, unhappiness or some other flaw in character. (Granted, treating these people better would be more refined and sensible.) 3. The reason I forget and confuse so many names and faces—except those of the miniaturists I’ve loved and trained since their apprenticeships—is not senility, but because these names and faces are so lackluster and colorless as to be hardly worth remembering.

Above all, don’t be taken in by Orhan if he’s drawn Black more absentminded than he is, made our lives harder than they are, Shevket worse and me prettier and harsher than I am. For the sake of a delightful and convincing story, there isn’t a lie Orhan wouldn’t deign to tell.