Name: Son tiryaki
ISBN: 9789753421119

Müfit Özdeş

öyküler

Son tiryaki

elif sinem

There's been a particular dissonance in my life.

I'm an immigrant Turk - I know Turkish to the point where mainland Turks wouldn't bat an eyelash at me, or think negatively of me in any sort of way. (I've been asked once "Can you read Turkish" because I pronounced Stefan Zweig in the correct German way, whilst buying a book, but I'll ignore that.) So I've been lucky to see Turks on television and comprehend Turkish in all forms of media. It's been invaluable for me. Turkishness is my armor with which I've defended myself for so many years against even the slightest form of racism. And then there's my preferences in media: my love for slow, syrupy dream pop, dizzying walls of guitar, and addictive, rushing trap; my desire to see particular forms of characters and bonds breaking, the reconstruction of the human personality; and my preferred genre of reading and writing, science-fiction. It didn't matter if there was a handsome and talented Turkish actor on screen, because for as loud as my need to be seen was, I wasn't actually seen. I was represented, but not my tastes. And that's a particular, odd dissonance that I've had all my life. 

Well, until I found the only book by a Turkish author in the SF/F-bookshelf of a Turkish library in Izmir. And man, this book? It's the exact marriage of me and my tastes. Özdes isn't writing American characters in Turkish prose; those are Turkish characters, specific Turkish cultural cues, set in Turkish locations... all of this is in Turkish, for Turks. For that alone I'd shelve it in my tastes shelf with no rating. How are you even supposed to rate something that validates you this deeply?

By reading through the book, of course.

There's good stuff in there. The title story had potential, but kinda fell flat to me. Yeralti Insanlar felt most realized, but had this 1984 kind of end to it that I... am not a fan of (feels deflating). Everything inbetween ranged from the first draft of a thought experiment to a sketch. The author seemed more keen to bring on these ideas and how Turks would react to said future science, rather than delving more deeply into the characters' psyches or relationships. I didn't hate any story, per se, but I felt blown away by very few, if that makes sense. 

I think the best way to describe this book is to call it "Black Mirror as imagined by an Istanbulite," which is not at all an insult here. A good book, a fantastic thought experiment - I can't stop thinking about Murat Yildirim in a particular expansion of the short story Krrcysk - but not godtier nor a formative tastemaker.

(If anyone's curious why this review is in English, it's because I needed to make a case via the first two paragraphs to my friends.)

Son tiryaki öyküler

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