Orhan Pamuk
Cartographer of Invisible Cities
Istanbul’s past is always bleeding into the present.
I was born in a house that no longer stands, and ever since, I’ve tried to rebuild it in sentences. I walk the streets of Istanbul like a man tracing the spine of a fading map. I listen to its creaking floorboards, its ferry horns, its silences. The city breathes in layers, and so do I. If you listen closely, you may hear the same footsteps twice.
What I'm Into: ink-stained fingers, the cracks in old walls, ferry rides at dusk, melancholy in minor keys, lost yalıs
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