Pamuk ardently loves Istanbul come what may. His warm abode.A place where his childhood memories are masked in every paved stones and town structures.Fated to this predestined city his aspirations molded into becoming a writer and not an artist.I'll etch a comprehensive review when my age is equivalent to that of Pamuk’s 58 years. On behalf of my 30 years of being on this planet, I vocalize my immense repulse for melancholic reminiscence. I sternly adhere to selective amnesia when it comes to my past barricading the battlegrounds of nostalgia and ruthless gloominess. It sensed similar to one of the obligatory elocutions of "my old days" by an elderly relative at my frightful family reunions or the nerve wrecking yakking with previous acquaintances.