I have always found Pamuk boring. In the gloomy Istanbul, Pamuk was too self-absorbed about his childhood years. All I remember of Snow, his early novel, is that our author got too romantic about the hijab, the veil that women are required to wear in some Muslim societies. Pamuk’s murder mystery, My Name is Red, was confusing and boring
However, The Museum of Innocence, his first novel after the Nobel prize win, starts with a lovemaking scene. It’s about a wealthy businessman’s attempt to immortalise a doomed affair with a lower class girl by collecting memorabilia junk. This being Pamuk, you have a sad mood lingering throughout. Tedious in parts, the novel has its tender, sad moments. Flaunt it for snob value.