I loved "Istanbul". Thinking this one would be at least as good as the former, I bought "My Name Is Red". I tossed it away after, what, page 60 or so.This book is boring, boring, boring, as if Pamuk was being paid by the page to write it down. The tedious narrative in the first person by the same characters one after the other and so on and so forth, while a novelty at fist soon becomes a tiresome reading exercise. As for story development, well, I saw very few of it and, being convinced there would be little if any in the 400 pages to come, I laid the book to rest.