Yesterday I went out for a walk, came back and saved dinner, got out of the hard-to-breathe struggle of the Museum of Innocence, rearranged the makeshift desk built with the old sewing machine, and opened Pamuk's last copy of The Woman with the Redhead that had been brought with me this holiday. At the beginning, it begins with a small matter, "I" followed to dig a well in order to earn tuition. The novel is only 143,000 words, and the line spacing of the typesetting has been significantly widened, and the folio could have been reduced a little more. After reading more than a dozen pages to see the red-haired woman appear, "I" was fascinated by her, the original plan for a week or two to dig a well career did not go well, procrastinated again and again, in order to see her, "I" stayed. The accident occurred one day after "I" was tempted, and the hard-working but still hopeless well drilling business exhausted "me", after drunken construction, the crane that was being pulled up derailed, the well digger screamed, and "I" hesitated or took the train that passed by a few minutes later and fled. Going back to school, all the way smoothly, getting married but never having children, became the only regret. A little bit, the story is told... Pamuk is a real master. Love that is not repetitive is told in such a concise story, read in one breath until the early hours of the morning, cover up with long sighs, and the urgency is breathless. The existence of "Oedipus" as a prophecy behind the story is even more depressing.
