Remembrance of Things Past, the Turkish version. That is what this is. Only it is not that simple, of course. Because the Turks are a passionate, complicated, and ancient people. They have soared in history and they have plummeted. Evidence of both can be seen today. It is a tale of love killed by one's culture and commitment to family. Only not entirely committed. Just committed enough to screw you up. And those you presume to care about. What reminds me of Proust in this is the longing, the hesitancy, the regret, and the recognition of all that coupled with the inability to do a damned thing about it.
So what to do? In the end, the hapless suitor decides to celebrate his love and ignore his mistakes. Wallowing in the sea of regret (or the river, in this case, because the whole tale centers on the city of Istanbul and the River Bosporous) will not bring this sad tale to an appropriate end. It is time for Kemal to take decisive action, now that his loved is gone. So he takes what he has of her and he makes it into a monument to her. The reader aches as the story goes on, knowing it cannot end well, yet hoping some good will come of this. A classic tragedy. Do not miss this. Pamuk is maginficent.
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