a foundation of the earlier Istanbuls of My Name Is Red and The White Castle - secret... longed for... imagined... forgotten... invented...Is there any contempo- rary who writes as compellingly about memory, about objects saturated with it, irradiated by history, personal and generational? Apparently Pamuk's opening an actual museum displaying the objects around which (or from which) The Museum of Innocence weaves its tale. Next time I'm in Istanbul - and it's feeling inevitable again that I shall go - will I go there and feel it is a museum of my own memories, a memorial to my own innocence?
