Category Archives: My Blog

My Blog

A Visit to Constantinople

Istanbul…Constantinople…Byzantium. Can a city so well-known still hold secrets? I am currently writing a novel set in Constantinople in the 1750s. There’s not much of eighteenth century Constantinople left to see, what with fires, earthquakes and a propensity to build in wood. But the mosques, palaces and hammams are still there, and the Bosphorus and Golden Horn haven’t changed too much over the centuries.

Christ at the Chora Church

Over the past two thousand years Istanbul has been Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic, Muslim and a home to all races and peoples. On the whole it has been and remains a place where people rub along together pretty well.

Few tourists at Agia Sofia

But the sense that Turkey is dangerous, and less welcoming to westerners these days seems to have deterred Americans and Europeans from visiting. When I went this Spring the squares and mosques and museums were largely empty, the gap they have left filled by tour groups from China, Russia, India and the Middle East. President Erdogan’s referendum campaign was well underway, his ‘Yes’ buses and rallies thinly attended by city dwellers with other things on their minds.

My novel is about an English clockmaker and his son, caught up in the fierce competition for trade and political advantage between European nations eager to keep the Ottoman Sultan as an ally. 

An eighteenth century Ottoman clock 

The sense of time is different in Istanbul. It stretches and curls around the late Romans, the crusaders, around Venetians and Ottomans, around Ataturk and Erdogan and sets them all down in a place that is everywhere at once and no time in particular.

My novel is about the impossibility of time. There is nowhere better for that to be understood than the city on the Bosphorous.

My Blog

Visiting Gogol’s ghost

 

Moscow in October is a city cooling down, readying itself for a long winter. Black winter coats are uniform, summer flower beds are empty, covered with colourful wood shavingsimg_1651 to fool the eye with brightness, and the sky is a low lid of grey. The tourists have gone. It’s a good time to have the city’s astonishing array of art galleries, museums and icon-stuffed, incense-laden churches to yourself.

It is also a good month to com
mune with the ghosts of dead writers in the houses where they lived and died: Tolstoy, Pushkin, Gogol, Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Bulgakov and Gorky’s houses are all open and each one is surprisingly personal. Tolstoy’s house is bright and warm, each room filled with photos of the great man at work, his long white beard tumbling down over his desk. Photos, too, of loving, patient, demanding, infuriating Countess Sophia and of their many children. But the Khamovniki house was always more his wife’s house than his; he never liked being in Moscow, and though they lived there from 1881 to 1901, the impression he left there was a light one, so that it as if his sense of unease in the city has persisted. Continue reading