奥尔罕·帕慕克(Orhan Pamuk)1952年出生于土耳其伊斯坦布尔的一个富裕家庭，从小受到家人的影响，喜欢绘画和诗歌。1972年，帕慕克考入伊斯坦布尔科技大学学习建筑学，后转入伊斯坦布尔大学攻读新闻系。1982年，帕慕克发表了处女作《塞夫得特州长和他的儿子们》(Cevdet Bey and His Sons)，小说获得了奥尔罕·凯马尔小说奖(Orhan Kemal Novel Prize)。近三十年来，帕慕克先后出版了多部作品，其中较为著名的有《白色城堡》(The White Castle)、《黑书》(The Black Book)、《我的名字叫红》(My Name Is Red)、《雪》(Snow)以及《伊斯坦布尔：一座城市的记忆》(Istanbul: Memories of a City)。这些作品深入地刻画了受到欧洲文化冲击的土耳其社会的时代变迁，为此，2006年帕慕克获得了诺贝尔文学奖。《纯真博物馆》(The Museum of Innocence)是帕慕克于2008年完成的作品，是一部深情隽永的爱情小说。
I HAD NOT said, “This trip to Paris is not on business, Mother.” For if she’d asked my reason, I could not have offered her a proper answer, having concealed the purpose even from myself. As I left for the airport, I considered my journey in some sense the atonement I had obsessively sought for my sins, among them, my having failed to notice Füsun2)’s earring.
But as soon as I had boarded the plane, I realized that I had set out on this voyage both to forget and to dream. Every corner of Istanbul was teeming3) with reminders of her. The moment we were airborne, I noticed that outside Istanbul, I was able to think about Füsun and our story more profoundly. In Istanbul I’d always seen Füsun through the prism4) of my obsession; but in the plane I could see my obsession, and Füsun, from the outside.
I felt such consolation, the same deep understanding, as I wandered idly around museums. I do not mean the Louvre or the Beaubourg, or the other crowded, ostentatious5) ones of that ilk6); I am speaking now of the many empty museums I found in Paris, the collections that no one ever visits. There was the Musée Édith Piaf, founded by a great admirer, where by appointment I viewed hairbrushes, combs, and teddy bears, and the Musée Jacquemart-André, where other objects were arranged alongside paintings in a most original way—I saw empty chairs, chandeliers7), and haunting unfurnished spaces there. Whenever wandering alone through museums like this, I felt myself uplifted. I would find a room at the back, far from the gaze of the guards who paid close attention to my every step; as the sound of traffic and construction and the urban din8) filtered in from outside, it was as if I had entered a separate realm that coexisted with the city’s crowded streets but was not of them; and in the eerie9) timelessness of this other universe, I would find solace.
Sometimes, thus consoled, I would imagine it possible for me to frame my collection with a story, and I would dream happily of a museum where I could display my life—the life that first my mother, and then Osman10), and finally everyone else thought I had wasted—where I could tell my story through the things that Füsun had left behind, as a lesson to us all.
On returning to Istanbul, I went directly to see Aunt Nesibe11). After telling her about Paris and its museums, and sitting down to eat, I went straight to the matter foremost in my mind.
“You know that I’ve been taking away things from this house, Aunt Nesibe,” I said, with the ease of a patient who can at last smile about an illness he was cured of long ago. “Now I’d like to buy the house itself—the entire building.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’d like you to sell me the house and all its contents.”
“But what will happen to me?”
We talked it through in a way that was only half serious. I spoke almost ceremoniously: “I would like to find a way to commemorate Füsun in this house.” … I told her that I had found her an excellent apartment in Nişantaşı, on Kuyulu Bostan Street, where she’d once lived.
A month later we’d bought Aunt Nesibe a big apartment in the nicest part of Kuyulu Bostan Street, just a little way beyond her former apartment. She deeded to me the whole building in Çukurcuma, including the ground-floor flat and all the movables.
I brought my entire collection to the newly converted museum12) ... When the Keskins13) had lived in the house, the attic had been the domain of mice, spiders, and cockroaches, and the dark, mildewy home of the water tank; but now it had become a clean, bright room open to the stars by a skylight. I wanted to sleep surrounded by all the things that reminded me of Füsun and made me feel her presence, and so that spring evening I used the key to the new door on Dalgıç Street to enter the house that had metamorphosed into a museum, and, like a ghost, I climbed the long, straight staircase, and throwing myself upon the bed in the attic, I fell asleep.
Some fill their dwellings with objects and, by the time their lives are coming to an end, turn their houses into museums. But I, having turned another family’s house into a museum, was now—by the presence of my bed, my room, my very self—trying to turn it back into a house. What could be more beautiful than to spend one’s nights surrounded by objects connecting one to his deepest sentimental attachments and memories!
Especially in the spring and summer, I began to spend more nights in the attic flat. İhsan the architect had created a space in the heart of the building, which I could see through a great opening between the upper and lower levels; I could pass the night in the company of each and every object in my collection—commune with the entire edifice. Real museums are places where Time is transformed into Space.
Whenever I was in Istanbul, I would pay monthly visits to Aunt Nesibe, who seemed happy with her new apartment and her new circle of friends. It was upon returning from my first visit to the Museum Berggruen in Berlin that I told her excitedly about the agreement I’d heard about between the founder, Heinz Berggruen, and the municipal government, a pact whereby he would be allowed to spend the rest of his days in the garret of the house he’d bequeathed to the city, to display the collection he had accumulated over a lifetime.
“While strolling through the museum, visitors can walk into a room or climb the stairs and find themselves face-to-face with the person who created the collection, until the day he dies. Isn’t that strange, Aunt Nesibe?”
“May God ordain that your time will be late in coming,” said Aunt Nesibe as she lit a cigarette. Then she wept a bit for Füsun, and with the cigarette still in her mouth, and the tears still streaming down her cheeks, she gave me a mysterious smile.
3. teem [tiːm] vi. 充满
4. prism [ˈprɪz(ə)m] n. 棱镜
5. ostentatious [ˌɒstenˈteɪʃəs] adj. 豪华的；惹人注目的
6. ilk [ɪlk] n. 类；等级
7. chandelier [ˌʃændəˈlɪə(r)] n. 枝形吊灯
8. din [dɪn] n. 喧嚣，喧闹声，嘈杂声
9. eerie [ˈɪərɪ] adj. 怪异的，神秘的
11. Aunt Nesibe：内希贝姑妈，小说中芙颂的妈妈
12. the newly converted museum：指由芙颂家的房子改成的博物馆
13. the Keskins：凯斯金一家，指芙颂和她的父母