Over the last three decades, Pamuk has written, in addition to his seven novels, scores of pieces—personal, critical, and meditative—the finest of which he has brilliantly woven together here. He opens a window on his private life, from his boyhood dislike of school to his daughter’s precocious melancholy, from his successful struggle to quit smoking to his anxiety at the prospect of testifying against some clumsy muggers who fell upon him during a visit to New York City.

By turns witty, moving, playful, and provocative, Other Colors glows with the energy of a master at work and gives us the world through his eyes, assigning every radiant theme and shifting mood its precise shade in the spectrum of significance.

When I was a child, boredom was something we fought off by listening to the radio or looking out the window into neighboring apartments or at people passing in the street below.

I watched him from the window. He walked straight to Alaaddin’s store, and then he stopped a passing taxi. Before he got in, he looked up at our apartment one more time and waved. I waved back, and he took off.

After 9/11, the stereotyping and fear-mongering against Islamic people had worsened beyond belief, further igniting Islamophobic sentiments within the country (Panagopoulos, 2006). Islamophobic hate crimes increased to a concerning amount after the attack, with reports indicating that the attacks increased 15 times more compared to before the attack. 

• “Mother dear,” said my mother, “don’t you remember how happily we lived here, just the two of us, after my sisters got married and my father passed away?”

• “My lovely Mebrure, all you did all day was to leaf through old issues of your father’s Illustrations.”

• “If I lit the big stove downstairs, this house would be cosy and warm in the space of two days.”

• “I told you not to marry him, didn’t I?” said my grandmother.

• “If I bring in a maid, it will only take us two days to get rid of all this dust,” said my mother.

• “I’m not letting any of those thieving maids into this house,” said my grandmother. “Anyway, it would take six months to sweep out all this dust and cobwebs. By then your errant husband will be back home again.”

• “Is that your last word, Mother dear?” my mother asked.

• “Mebrure, my lovely girl, if you came here with your two children what would we live on, the four of us?”

• “Mother dear, how many times have I asked you—pleaded with you—to sell the lots in Bebek before they’re expropriated?”

• “I’m not going to the deeds office to give those dirty men my signature and my picture.”

• “Mother dear, please don’t say this: My older sister and I brought a notary right to your door,” said my mother, raising her voice.

• “I’ve never trusted that notary,” said my grandmother. “You can see from his face that he’s a swindler. Maybe he isn’t even a notary. And don’t shout at me like that.”

• “All right, then, Mother dear, I won’t!” said my mother. She called into the room for us. “Children, children, come on now, gather up your things; we’re leaving.”

A "Solitary Disease"

_{Ali’s family is described as having a “solitary disease”, starting with his great-grandmother and grandmother, spending their last days completely in isolation. By that time, his grandmother looks out the window in paranoia, not even trusting her own eyes.}

Like her own mother, who had spent her last years alone in a great wooden mansion, my grandmother had succumbed to a mysterious solitary disease and would not even permit a caretaker or a daily cleaner. When we went to visit her, my mother would press down on the bell for a very long time and pound on the iron door, until my grandmother would at last open the rusty iron shutters on the second-floor window overlooking the mosque and peer down on us, and because she didn’t trust her eyes—she could no longer see very far—she would ask us to wave at her.

I pleaded. We played two more rounds, and instead of giving him the pictures he asked for, I threw all the cards I had left at his head and into the air: the cards I had been collecting for two and a half months, thinking about each and every one of them every single day, hiding them and nervously accumulating them with care—number 28, Mae West, and 82, Jules Verne; 7, Mehmet the Conqueror, and 70, Queen Elizabeth; 41, Celal Salik the columnist, and 42, Voltaire— they went flying through the air to scatter all over the floor.

Without letting him see, I removed two cards from the stack before handing it to my brother. I went to the back row to sit with my mother. I wasn’t crying.

• Ninety-one: Lindbergh!” he read in admiration. “With the plane he flew across the Atlantic! Where did you find this?”

  
  

• “I didn’t have my injection yesterday,” I said. “I went home early, and I saw Daddy before he left. Daddy bought it for me.”

Pamuk was born and raised in Istanbul, Turkey, a place found within the Middle East. Even in current times, the narrative placed upon this region as well as the countries and people within it, are often villainized. Stories of violence, radicalism, and oppression are often highlighted within these parts within Western media which further worsens the view of outsiders towards people within the Middle East, even if these are false narratives or blatant stereotyping.