书名：My Name Is Red我的名字叫红

作者：Orhan Pamuk奥尔罕·帕慕克
出版社名称：Vintage
出版时间：2002
语种：英文
ISBN：9780375706851
商品尺寸：13.2 x 2.3 x 20.3 cm
包装：平装
页数：432
My Name Is Red《我的名字叫红》是诺贝尔文学奖得主奥尔罕·帕慕克的代表作，本书获得欧洲发现奖、美国外国小说独立奖、法国文学奖、意大利格林扎纳·卡佛文学奖和都柏林文学奖在内的欧洲三大文学奖项。本书为英文版，由Erda M Göknar翻译。

★2006年诺贝尔文学奖得主奥尔罕·帕慕克成名作
★一个谋杀推理故事，一本哲思小说，一则爱情诗篇，一场魔幻的异国美梦
★“在寻找城市忧郁灵魂的同时发现了文化冲突和融合的新符号”——诺贝尔奖授奖词

精彩书评
“以酒馆说书人的遣辞用字叙述一则历史悬疑故事……帕慕克的小说将在国际间引起一阵风潮，就如同在土耳其一样大受欢迎……《我的名字叫红》有三个层面：它是一个谋杀推理故事，一本哲思小说，也是一则爱情诗篇。珠玉般的诗文、引人入胜的旁征博引、纠结罗织的故事，让人不禁赞叹——引用书中的一个角色，细密画大师奥斯曼的用词——帕慕克拥有‘迷人的艺术天赋及邪灵般的智慧’。这本易读、优美、充满智慧的作品，将能吸引广大的读者。”——《出版人周刊》（Publisher Weekly）
 
“同样的人性与哲学诡计交织纠缠，也出现在《玫瑰的名字》中，伴随着缓慢、浓稠的开端，逐渐加快节奏……然而，我个人认为，帕慕克的书更胜于《玫瑰的名字》……他不仅捕捉了伊斯坦布尔过去和现在的冲突，更展现了城市的诡谲、永恒之美。可以说，这本书近乎完美，只差诺贝尔奖的荣耀。”——茉芮·弗瑞里（Maureen Freely）《新政治家》（NewStatesman, UK）
 
“透彻、深奥、无限犀利且引人入胜，仿佛把波赫士一篇晶莹剔透的作品延长成为整部长篇小说。我从没读过如此精湛的作品。每个人都应该读读奥尔罕·帕慕克。”——《新政治家》（New Statesman, UK）
 
“完美展现了帕慕克的小说功力——把文学的狡计融入易读的故事中，让人一页接一页……”——汤姆·荷兰（Tom Holland）《每日电讯报》（Daily Telegraph, UK）
 
“一具尸体、一只狗、一个凶手、一枚金币、两位恋人和一棵树，共同说出这篇迷人的故事……这个充满智慧的悬疑小说，必然会吸引所有喜爱安贝托·艾可书迷。”——南西·波尔（Nancy Pearl）《书单》（Booklist）

“帕慕克是一位伟大的小说家……《我的名字叫红》是他至今辉煌也撼人的内在东西方战争……书本中溢满了无限的圣洁与罪恶。”——理察·伊德（Richard Eder）《纽约时报书评》(New York Times Book Review)
 
“帕慕克有能耐跨立于两个世界，不论在自己的国家或者国外，都因此在商业上获得很大的成功，无疑地，他是土耳其畅销的作家，他的作品被翻译成二十种语言，……他的小说丰富华丽，间接援引旧苏菲派的故事与伊斯兰传说并富涵大众文化……毋庸置疑，他是土耳其这一代小说家中，能够置身欧洲文学主流的第1人。”——安德鲁·芬克（Anderw Finkel）《时代杂志》（Time）
 
“帕慕克不带感情的真知灼见，与阿拉伯花纹式的内省观察，让人联想起普鲁斯特。而将读者带回十六世纪伊斯坦布尔细密画家的谋杀事件，也像汤玛斯·曼的《浮士德游地狱》般具有音乐性，他探索民族的灵魂。”——约翰·厄普戴克（John Updike）《纽约客》（TheNew Yorker）
 
《我的名字叫红》已臻至经典的层次。”——强纳森·李维（Jonathan Levi）《洛杉矶时报书评》（Los Angeles Times Book Review）

“《我的名字叫红》就像杜思妥也夫斯基的《卡拉马佐夫兄弟们》一般，越过原有的界线，虽然是以古典的伊斯兰文学技巧来说故事，却富涵十九世纪欧洲小说处理细节的方法。帕慕克的小说技法融合东方的与西方的两种技艺，而且在两者之间游刃有余并具独创性……形式出色，措词巧妙诙谐，有高潮迭起的情节……它以完整且具说服力手法传达情感。”——迪克·戴维新（Dick Davis）《泰晤士报文学增刊》（Times Literary Supplement, UK）

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 Göknar

Review
“It is neither passion nor homicide that makes Pamuk’s latest, My Name is Red, the rich and essential book that it is.... It is Pamuk’s rendering of the intense life of artists negotiating the devilishly sharp edge of Islam 1,000 years after its birth that elevates My Name is Red to the rank of modern classic.... To read Pamuk is to be steeped in a paradox that precedes our modern-day feuds between secularism and fundamentalism.”  — Jonathan Levi, Los Angeles Times Book Review
“Straddling the Dardanelles sits the city of Istanbul... and in that city sits Orhan Pamuk, chronicler of its consciousness... His novel’s subject is the difference in perceptions between East and West... [and] a mysterious killer... driven by mad theology... Pamuk is getting at a subject that has compelled modern thinkers from Heidegger to Derrida... My Name is Red is a meditation on authenticity and originality... An ambitious work on so many levels at once.”
—Melvin Jules Bukiet, Chicago Tribune

“Most enchanting... Playful, intellectually challenging, with an engaging love story and a full canvas of memorable characters, My Name is Red is a novel many, many people will enjoy.”
—David Walton, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

“Intensely exhilarating... Arresting and provocative... To say that Orhan Pamuk’s new novel, My Name is Red, is a murder mystery is like saying that Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov is a murder mystery: it is true, but the work so richly transcends the conventional limitations of genre as to make the definition seem almost irrelevant.... The techniques of classical Islamic literature are used to anchor the book within a tradition of local narrative, but they can also be used with a wonderfully witty and distancing lightness of touch... All the exuberance and richly de*ive detail of a nineteenth-century European novel... The technique of Pamuk’s novel proclaims that he himself is a magnificently accomplished hybrid artist, able to take from Eastern and Western traditions with equal ease and flair... Formally brilliant, witty, and about serious matters... It conveys in a wholly convincing manner the emotional, cerebral, and physical texture of daily life, and it does so with great compassion, generosity, and humanity... An extraordinary achievement.”  — Dick Davis, Times Literary Supplement, UK

“My Name is Red is a fabulously rich novel, highly compelling... This pivotal
book, which absorbed Pamuk through the 1990s, could conclusively establish him as one of the world’s finest living writers.”  — Guy Mannes-Abbott, The Independent, UK
故事发生在1590年末的奥斯曼帝国，皇帝苏丹秘密委制一本伟大的书籍，颂扬他的生活与帝国。四位当朝优秀的细密画家齐聚伊斯坦布尔，绘制这本传说将动摇宗教与社稷的书。此时，为爱情离乡12年的青年黑在恋人和父亲的召唤下终于回归，迎接他的除了爱情，还有接踵而来的谋杀，而线索，就藏在书中未完成的图画某处……

帕慕克用说书人的嘴，让所有角色都现身说法：一只狗、一棵树、一枚金币、红色，恋人、大师、尸体、撒旦、死亡，甚至凶手自己。在他们的倾吐中，除了侦破凶案的蛛丝马迹，还有16世纪奥斯曼帝国的心灵之相，对幸福与意义的不同渴求。
奥尔罕·帕慕克（Orhan Pamuk），1952年生，土耳其著名作家，被认为是当代欧洲核心的三位文学家之一，当代欧洲杰出的小说家之一，是享誉国际的土耳其文坛巨擘。2006年诺贝尔文学奖获得者。其作品被译成50多种语言出版，在众多国家和地区畅销。文学评论家把他和普鲁斯特、托马斯·曼、卡尔维诺、博尔赫斯、安伯托·艾柯等大师相提并论。

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.

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 manu* 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.