MY NAME IS RED(ISBN=9780375706851)pdf/txt下载_在线阅读全文

内容简介

　　Book De*ion
　　At once a fiendishly devious mystery, a beguiling love story, anda brilliant symposium on the power of art, My Name Is Red is atransporting tale set amid the splendor and religious intrigue ofsixteenth-century Istanbul, from one of the most prominentcontemporary Turkish writers.
　　The Sultan has commissioned a cadre of the most acclaimed artistsin the land to create a great book celebrating the glories of hisrealm. Their task: to illuminate the work in the European style.But because figurative art can be deemed an affront to Islam, thiscommission is a dangerous proposition indeed. The ruling elitetherefore mustn’t know the full scope or nature of the project, andpanic erupts when one of the chosen miniaturists disappears. Theonly clue to the mystery–or crime? –lies in the half-finishedilluminations themselves. Part fantasy and part philosophicalpuzzle, My Name is Red is a kaleidoscopic journey to theintersection of art, religion, love, sex and power.
　　Translated from the Turkish by Erda M G?knar

Book De*ion 
　　At once a fiendishly devious mystery, a beguiling love story, and
a brilliant symposium on the power of art, My Name Is Red is a
transporting tale set amid the splendor and religious intrigue of
sixteenth-century Istanbul, from one of the most prominent
contemporary Turkish writers. 
　　The Sultan has commissioned a cadre of the most acclaimed artists
in the land to create a great book celebrating the glories of his
realm. Their task: to illuminate the work in the European style.
But because figurative art can be deemed an affront to Islam, this
commission is a dangerous proposition indeed. The ruling elite
therefore mustn’t know the full scope or nature of the project, and
panic erupts when one of the chosen miniaturists disappears. The
only clue to the mystery–or crime? –lies in the half-finished
illuminations themselves. Part fantasy and part philosophical
puzzle, My Name is Red is a kaleidoscopic journey to the
intersection of art, religion, love, sex and power. 
　　Translated from the Turkish by Erda M G?knar 
　　From Library Journal 
　　In 16th-century Istanbul, master miniaturist and illuminator of
books Enishte Effendi is commissioned to illustrate a book
celebrating the sultan. Soon he lies dead at the bottom of a well,
and how he got there is the crux of this novel. A number of
narrators give testimony to what they know about the circumstances
surrounding the murder. The stories accumulate and become more
detailed as the novel progresses, giving the reader not only a
nontraditional murder mystery but insight into the mores and
customs of the time. In addition, this is both an examination of
the way figurative art is viewed within Islam and a love story that
demonstrates the tricky mechanics of marriage laws. Award-winning
Turkish author Pamuk (The White Castle) creatively casts the novel
with colorful characters (including such entities as a tree and a
gold coin) and provides a palpable sense of atmosphere of the
Ottoman Empire that history and literary fans will appreciate.
　Recommended. Marc Kloszewski, Indiana Free Lib., PA 
　　From Booklist 
　　A dead man, a dog, a murderer, a coin, two lovers, and a tree
take turns narrating this tale, which is Pamuk's follow-up to the
well-reviewed but little read The New Life (1997). Set in
sixteenth-century Istanbul, the novel is equal parts mystery, love
story, and a philosophical discussion on the nature of art and
artistic vision. Two men have been killed: Elegant, a miniaturist
engaged (with others) on a book project glorifying the life of the
sultan, and Enishte, the man who hired the artists to do the book.
During a trip to Venice, Enishte became particularly entranced with
the new Italian painting, particularly its use of perspective and
figurative art. He urged his employees to adapt the new art form in
their illustrations of the grand book they are producing. Black,
Enishte's nephew, wants to win the hand of Enishte's daughter,
Shekure, which he can only do by solving the murders. This
intellectual mystery will appeal to fans of Eco, Pears, and
Perez-Reverte. 
　　Book Dimension 
　　length: (cm)20.3　width:(cm)13.2

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作者简介

　　Orhan Pamuk is the author of seven novels and the recipient of major Turkish and international literary awards. He is one of Europe's most prominent novelists, and his work has been translated into twenty-six languages. He lives in Istanbul.

目　　录

MAP
AM A CORPSE
AM CALLED BLACK
AMA DOG
WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE
AM ORHAN
AM CALLED BLACK
AM ESTHER
SHEKURE
AMATREE
AM CALLED BLACK
AM CALLED "BUTTE RFLY
AM CALLED "STORK"

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　　Chapter 1
　　I Am a Corpse
　　I am nothing but a corpse now, a body at the bottom of a well.Although I drew my last breath long ago and my heart has stoppedbeating, no one, apart from that vile murderer, knows what'shappened to me. As for that wretch, he felt for my pulse andlistened for my breath to be sure I was dead, then kicked me in themidriff, carried me to the edge of the well, raised me up anddropped me below. As I fell, my head, which he had smashed with astone, broke apart; my face, my forehead and cheeks, were crushed;my bones shattered, and my mouth filled with blood.
　　For nearly four days I have been missing: My wife and childrenmust be searching for me; my daughter, spent from crying, must bestaring fretfully at the courtyard gate. Yes, I know they're all atthe window, hoping for my return.
　　But, are they truly waiting? I can't even be sure of that. Maybethey've gotten used to my absence-how dismal! For here, on theother side, one gets the feeling that one's former life persists.Before my birth there was infinite time, and after my death,inexhaustible time. I never thought of it before: I'd been livingluminously between two eternities of darkness.
　　I was happy; I realize now that I'd been happy. I made the bestilluminations in Our Sultan's workshop; no one could rival mymastery. Through the work I did privately, I earned nine hundredsilver coins a month, which, naturally, only makes all this evenharder to bear.
　　I was responsible for painting and embellishing books. Iilluminated the edges of pages, coloring their borders with themost lifelike designs of leaves, branches, roses, flowers andbirds. I painted scalloped Chinese-style clouds, clusters ofoverlapping vines and forests of color that hid gazelles, galleys,sultans, trees, palaces, horses and hunters. In my youth, I woulddecorate a plate, or the back of a mirror, or a chest, or at times,the ceiling of a mansion or of a Bosphorus manor, or even, a woodenspoon. In later years, however, I applied myself only to manuscriptpages because Our Sultan paid well for them. I can't say it seemsinsignificant now. You know the value of money even when you'redead.

Chapter 1 
　　I Am a Corpse 
　　I am nothing but a corpse now, a body at the bottom of a well.
Although I drew my last breath long ago and my heart has stopped
beating, no one, apart from that vile murderer, knows what's
happened to me. As for that wretch, he felt for my pulse and
listened for my breath to be sure I was dead, then kicked me in the
midriff, carried me to the edge of the well, raised me up and
dropped me below. As I fell, my head, which he had smashed with a
stone, broke apart; my face, my forehead and cheeks, were crushed;
my bones shattered, and my mouth filled with blood. 
　　For nearly four days I have been missing: My wife and children
must be searching for me; my daughter, spent from crying, must be
staring fretfully at the courtyard gate. Yes, I know they're all at
the window, hoping for my return. 
　　But, are they truly waiting? I can't even be sure of that. Maybe
they've gotten used to my absence-how dismal! For here, on the
other side, one gets the feeling that one's former life persists.
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. 
　　I was happy; I realize now that I'd been happy. I made the best
illuminations in Our Sultan's workshop; no one could rival my
mastery. Through the work I did privately, I earned nine hundred
silver coins a month, which, naturally, only makes all this even
harder to bear. 
　　I was responsible for painting and embellishing books. I
illuminated the edges of pages, coloring their borders with the
most lifelike designs of leaves, branches, roses, flowers and
birds. I painted scalloped Chinese-style clouds, clusters of
overlapping vines and forests of color that hid gazelles, galleys,
sultans, trees, palaces, horses and hunters. In my youth, I would
decorate a plate, or the back of a mirror, or a chest, or at times,
the ceiling of a mansion or of a Bosphorus manor, or even, a wooden
spoon. In later years, however, I applied myself only to manuscript
pages because Our Sultan paid well for them. I can't say it seems
insignificant now. You know the value of money even when you're
dead. 
　　After hearing the miracle of my voice, you might think, "Who
cares what you earned when you were alive? Tell us what you can
see. Is there life after death? Where's your soul? What about
Heaven and Hell? What is death like? Are you in pain?" You're
right, people are extremely curious about the Afterlife. Maybe
you've heard the story of the man who was so driven by this
curiosity that he roamed among soldiers in battlefields. He sought
a man who had died and returned to life amid the wounded struggling
for their lives in pools of blood, a soldier who could tell him
about the secrets of the Otherworld. But one of Tamerlane's
warriors, taking the seeker for one of the enemy, cleared him in
half with a smooth stroke of his scimitar, causing him to conclude
that in the Hereafter man is split in two. 
　　Nonsense! Quite the opposite, I'd even allege that souls divided
in life merge in the Hereafter. Contrary to the claims of sinful
infidels who have fallen under the sway of the Devil, there is
indeed another world, thank God, and the proof is that I am
speaking to you from here. I've died, but as you can plainly tell,
I haven't ceased to be. Granted, I must confess, I haven't
encountered the rivers flowing beside the silver and gold kiosks of
Heaven, the broad-leaved trees bearing plump fruit and the
beautiful virgins mentioned in the Glorious Koran-though I do very
well recall how often and enthusiastically I made pictures of those
wide-eyed houris described in the chapter "That Which Is Coming."
Nor is there a trace of those rivers of milk, wine, fresh water and
honey described with such flourish, not in the Koran, but by
visionary dreamers like Ibn Arabi. But I have no intention of
tempting the faith of those who live rightly through their hopes
and visions of the Otherworld, so let me declare that all I've seen
relates specifically to my own very personal circumstances. Any
believer with even a little knowledge of life after death would
know that a malcontent in my state would be hard-pressed to see the
rivers of Heaven. 
　　In short, I, who am known as Master Elegant Effendi, am dead, but
have not been interred, therefore my soul has not completely left
my body. This extraordinary situation, although naturally my case
is not the first, has inflicted a horrible suffering upon the
immortal part of me. Though I cannot feel my crushed skull or my
decomposing body covered in wounds, full of broken bones and
partially submerged in ice-cold water, I do feel the deep torment
of my soul struggling desperately to escape its mortal coil. It's
as if the whole world, along with my body, were contracting into a
bolus of anguish. 
　　I can only compare this contraction to the surprising sense of
release I felt during the unequaled moment of my death. Yes, I
instantly understood that that wretch wanted to kill me when he
unexpectedly struck me with a stone and cracked my skull, but I
didn't believe he'd be able to follow through. I suddenly realized
I was a hopeful man, something I hadn't been aware of while living
my life in the shadows between workshop and household. I clung
passionately to life with my nails, my fingers and my teeth, which
I sank into his skin. I won't bore you with the painful details of
the subsequent blows I received. 
　　When in the course of this agony I knew I would die, an
incredible feeling of relief filled me. I felt this relief during
the moment of departure; my arrival to this side was soothing, like
the dream of seeing oneself asleep. The snow- and mud-covered shoes
of my murderer were the last things I noticed. I closed my eyes as
if I were going to sleep, and I gently passed over. 
　　My present complaint isn't that my teeth have fallen like nuts
into my bloody mouth, or even that my face has been maimed beyond
recognition, or that I've been abandoned in the depths of a
well-it's that everyone assumes I'm still alive. My troubled soul
is anguished that my family and intimates, who, yes, think of me
often, imagine me engaged in some trivial business somewhere in
Istanbul, or even chasing after another woman. Enough! Find my body
without delay, pray for me and have me buried. Above all, find my
murderer! For even if you bury me in the most magnificent of tombs,
so long as that wretch remains free, I'll writhe restlessly in my
grave, waiting, infecting you all with faithlessness. Find that
son-of-a-whore murderer and I'll tell you in detail just what I see
in the Afterlife-but know this, when he's caught, he must be
tortured by slowly splintering eight or ten of his bones,
preferably his ribs with a vise, before piercing his scalp with
those skewers made especially for the task by torturers, and
plucking out his disgusting, oily hair, strand by strand, so he
shrieks each time. 
　　Who is this murderer who vexes me so? Why has he killed me in
this surprising way? Be curious and mindful of such matters. You
say the world is full of base and worthless criminals? Perhaps this
one did it, perhaps that one? In that case let me caution you: My
death conceals an appalling conspiracy against our religion, our
traditions and the way we see the world. Open your eyes, discover
why the enemies of the life in which you believe, of the life
you're living, and of Islam, have destroyed me. Learn why one day
they might do the same to you. One by one, everything predicted by
the great preacher Nusret Hoja of Erzurum, to whom I've tearfully
listened, is coming to pass. Let me say also that if the situation
into which we've fallen were described in a book, even the most
expert of miniaturists could never hope to illustrate it. As with
the Koran-God forbid I'm misunderstood-the staggering power of such
a book arises from the impossibility of its being depicted. I doubt
you've comprehended this fact. 
　　Listen to me. When I was an apprentice, I too feared and thus
ignored the underlying truths and the voices from beyond. I'd joke
about such matters. But I've ended up in the depths of this
deplorable well! It could happen to you, be wary. Now, I've nothing
left to do but hope for thorough decay, so they can find me by
tracing my stench. I've nothing to do but hope-and imagine the
torture that some benevolent man will inflict upon that wretched
murderer once he's been caught. 
　　From the Hardcover edition.

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