@msolga,
I like Pamuk - I admit I didn't finish his Istanbul, being waylaid as I was with police procedural thrillers - but he still interests me and I may finish it.
I've been reading a book, s t i l l, that is as I reported earlier greatly aggravating, that I keep going on because just as I am about to boot the thing, I get interested again.
Copying myself -
"And now to what I'm presently reading, Frances Mayes' A Year in the World, Journeys of a Passionate Traveller. She wrote Under the Tuscan Sun, which I remember liking for the food descriptions and recipes, not so much for the rest of it about fixing up a house there. I'm a little jaded about fixer upper books in that setting. Anyway, this book I'm reading now is an account of her and her husband's travels off and on over five years, the whole time spent then being approximately a year. It's replete with description, often rather poetic, so replete that I keep falling asleep. There are wave after wave after wave of descriptions. I'm even tired of the food descriptions, which is saying something. Once in a while I spark up, as in a few pages ago she gets into some designed gardens in the Cotswalds, but even those I'm just using as a reason to look up the one(s) I haven't heard of before online. Um, I also was interested in the medina of the Fez in Morocco. Well, this will all be over soon, only five more locals to explore."
I admit one of the reasons her writing aggravates me so much is that I can almost relate, or maybe I could if money were no object. Her ego as a writer and explorer fills all the pages, so the book is all about her, at the same time every x number of pages I learn something new.
Strange book I might be glad I read after my aggravation wanes.
I've got two more pages.