I'd been prompted to read this by glowing testimonies on Newsnight review. No ill-will intended to the author, but I will never have that time again. The long hours spent trawling through the tedious consciousness of an obsessive compulsive.
This could have been a quite interesting short story that once read i'd have thought: 'quite interesting, glad it was short though'. But no, the story rambles on for 700+ pages of 9 point, each one turned I thought maybe the next will reveal the true calibre of this Nobel-prize winning author. Occasionally a poetic turn of phrase - even a paragraph - had me excited that at last the literary treasure was to be revealed. My hopes would be dashed as the next paragraph returned to the turgid shopping list of OCD self-pity of the main character that drove me, Mr Liberal Tolerance, to exclaim loudly "For god's sake pull yourself together man!"
Even towards the end, as the pace picked up slightly (the last 10% could have been the aforementioned short story), a bit of Paul Auster style much-too-cleverness on the part of Mr Pamuk just added to the irritation. Yes, there are some themes here that could have been interesting to explore: the nature of male sexuality and fantasy, OCD, Turkey in transition/tension between east and west, materialism and relationships among the haute bourgeois. These themes arose, but were suffocated under the weight of endless lists.
Two questions remain for me: who got the bung from the publisher - the Newsnight panel or the Nobel committee? And more worryingly, what kind of neo-OCD am I that I felt the need to read the whole thing to its stultifying and predictable end?