Orhan Pamuk's ISTANBUL

New reading, on the recommendation of Jean W.  She's quite the Turkish specialist, having lived I know not how long in Turkey, speaks and writes Turkish, still keeps up with Turkish friends.  So how's Istanbul?  Well, I haven't had to use my famous un-reading technique--though it does skirt a number of topics and issues ranging from Ewwwww to Ick:  Turkish officialdom; the last days of the Ottoman Empire; beating of schoolchildren; compulsory military service; climate of fear and repression (taken to be normal). I'm only half-way through; it could get lots worse (as I know from reading Turkish history), so I'm breathing like one who expects at any moment to be grossed out--taking deep breaths and holding them--but, so far, reading every word, not (as in Panic Mode) a word per page.  But every now and then in Pamuk's prose, thrillingly, coldly, oddly good-humored though rather sad, the Despotic Beast reveals itself, in a metallic rustle, a protracted sibilance, a startlingly unblinking Gorgonian gaze.