Starting a novel with an image as profound as Pamuk’s start of The Museum of Innocence is, in truth, a risky way to begin any text. However, this image takes over the story and hold its hand chapter by chapter until the very last word.
IT WAS the happiest moment of my life, though I didn’t know it. Had I known, had I cherished
this gift, would everything have turned out differently? Yes, if I had recognised this instant of
perfect happiness, I would have held it fast and never let it slip away. It took a few seconds,
perhaps, for that luminous state to enfold me, suffusing me with the deepest peace, but it seemed
to last hours, even years. In that moment, on the afternoon of Monday, May 26, 1975, at about a
quarter to three, just as we felt ourselves to be beyond sin and guilt so too did the world seem to
have been released from gravity and time. Kissing Füsun’s shoulder, already moist from the heat
of our lovemaking, I gently entered her from behind, and as I softly bit her ear, her earring must
have come free and, for all we knew, hovered in midair before falling of its own accord. Our
bliss was so profound that we went on kissing, heedless of the fall of the earring, whose shape I
had not even noticed.
The happiest moment of one’s life…
Would it be possible to name one with absolute certainty?
Quote: Pamuk: The Museum of Innocence
