To be or not to be…  Shakespeare steered the prow to another sunset. Having just put down Pamuk’s Black Book, incensed with the thoughts so provoking and tantalizing, revelatory and disparaging of our apish selves while simultaneously salving when deducing the Mystery, I know that I need to re-read this text to grasp its entire meaning. There is indeed too much wrapped in its folds that beckons another scrutiny, only a wisp of which I seem to have seen. 

The book set in Istanbul of 1980 takes the reader back in time to writers of old from that strange land over which I seem to have just flown. Stories alive and relived in other stories, reminisced in another story to be reflected and relieved again. Though a shroud of grief  fell as the story reached its impending end, it was not unreal, and in keeping with the melancholic state of all people lost in the air shaft of desultory.

I suggest that you sip, slowly and humbly, roll upon your tongue the wonder he wrote. Thus far, I have just managed to wet my lips with the prolific beauty of his thought captured in a translation, caught in my linguistic  incapacities as I am.Return to it, I must and most definitely shall. It just felt incredibly incomplete to live without leaving a mark of the Black Book.