To readers and museum visitors who are curious to know whether the pain I endured that day was owing to the death of my father or to Fusun’s absence, I would like to say that the pain of love is indivisible. The pains of true love reside at the heart of our existence; they catch hold of our most vulnerable point, rooting themselves deeper than the root of any other pain, and branching to every part of our bodies and our lives. For the hopelessly in love, the pain can be triggered by anything, whether as profound as the death of a father or as mundane as a piece of bad luck, like losing a key: such elemental pain can be flamed by any sort of spark. People whose lives have, like mine, been turned upside down by love can become convinced that all other problems will be resolved once the pain of love is gone, but in ignoring these problems they only allow them to fester. (p. 228)
I’ll have a review when I finish this book (when I finish teaching, when I finish entertaining, when I finish thank-you notes, when I finish shopping, baking, cleaning). Until then, I just want you to know how much I love this novel which is a close up look at love, relationships, Istanbul, and the mystery within all three.