{"id":82930,"date":"2012-03-01T00:00:00","date_gmt":"2012-03-01T00:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/article\/orhan-pamuks-istanbul\/"},"modified":"2024-03-22T08:51:40","modified_gmt":"2024-03-22T12:51:40","slug":"orhan-pamuks-istanbul","status":"publish","type":"article","link":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/article\/orhan-pamuks-istanbul\/","title":{"rendered":"Orhan Pamuk\u2019s Istanbul"},"content":{"rendered":"

I<\/font>n her days of imperial greatness, Istanbul never lacked for writers to celebrate her beauty. If we can believe the words of poets and literary travelers like Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Lord Byron, Pierre Loti, and G\u00e9rard de Nerval, it was a city of gardens; of <\/i>excursion boats and royal barges rowed by liveried oarsmen; of phaetons clattering down cobbled streets at midnight on secret missions, harem ladies peering out through latticed windows at the street life below, moonlight shimmering on the Bosphorus, its waters unsullied by pollution and teeming with fish. But as one catastrophe succeeded another throughout the century and a half leading up to the First World War\u2014a trauma for the whole world but perhaps even more so for the Ottomans\u2014the disappearance of empire saw a diminished but still vibrant city which, even as it sank into bankruptcy, maintained an ostentatious fa\u00e7ade well through the waning years of the nineteenth century.<\/p>\n

Cities become legendary in the eyes of the world, countries become storied lands, when a poet or bard comes along to tell their stories and fashion an aura to surround the scenes of everyday life with suggestions of amplified significance. The sea viewed from a hillside on the Peloponnesian peninsula becomes \u201cwine-dark\u201d in the hot afternoon light because we know that Odysseus sailed its waters. Istanbul, in its modern incarnation, has long been waiting for its defining voice.<\/p>\n

Over the past couple of decades, it has become clear that the city has found that voice. Istanbul\u2019s indispensable chronicler\u2014both of its present tense and its used-to-be\u2014is Orhan Pamuk, whose Istanbul, Memories of a City<\/i>,<\/span> first published in Turkish in 2003, <\/i>gives the place, with its \u201ccrumbling fountains that haven\u2019t worked for centuries, the poor quarters with their forgotten mosques
\n. . . the dilapidated little neighborhood shops packed with despondent unemployed men,\u201d a dimensionality that would not otherwise be visible to us. Pamuk was born in 1952 into diminished, post-imperial Istanbul at a time when it had become the drab, monochrome city brilliantly captured in the photographs of Ara G\u00fcler\u2014a drabness reflected even in the way people dressed. \u201cThe Istanbullus of my era,\u201d he writes, \u201chave shunned the vibrant reds, greens and oranges of their rich, proud ancestors; to foreign visitors, it looks as if they have done so deliberately, to make a moral point. They have not\u2014but there is in their dense melancholy a suggestion of modesty. This is how you dress in a black-and-white city, they seem to be saying; this is how you grieve for a city that has been in decline for a hundred and fifty years.\u201d<\/p>\n

Drab perhaps, but at the same time oddly elegant. When I first saw Istanbul in the early 1960s, it was a city where, despite the proliferation of concrete apartment blocks, one came unexpectedly upon wooden mansions like those that once filled the city\u2014elegantly designed, unpainted, the oriel windows of their haremlik<\/i> upper stories projecting out over the street\u2014abandoned, their windows the targets of stone-throwing boys or occupied by squatters and gypsies, windows curtained off with bedspreads and old kilims. American cars imported by the rich or brought in by G.I.s stationed on military bases that looked north toward the Soviet Union\u2019s encircling Cold War missile installations were adapted as taxis and dolmuses <\/i>(<\/span>shared-ride taxis) kept running with the Turkish auto mechanic\u2019s heroic sense of ingenuity and improvisation. Above these rolling museum pieces from the New World rose the domes and minarets of Istanbul\u2019s imperial past\u2014powerful, awe-inspiring, and mysterious. Pamuk\u2019s prose, particularly if one is capable of reading it in Turkish, is elaborate and masterly, the long sentences exhibiting balanced periods and parallel constructions reminiscent of Ciceronian Latin.<\/p>\n

P<\/font>art of what makes Istanbul, Memories of a City <\/i>such an appealing book is its eyewitness accounts of how the city\u2019s past became its present. Pamuk is both a knowledgeable observer of the city\u2019s history and a participant in its ongoing present tense. During the period when the yal?s<\/i>, those exquisitely carpentered wooden pleasure palaces that once lined the Bosphorus, were regularly being burned down for the insurance money and the opportunity to build taller, more profitable apartment buildings, Pamuk was a teenager. \u201cMy friends and I,\u201d he writes, \u201cwould immediately phone each other, hop into cars and go out to Emirgan, say, and park our cars on the pavement, turn on our tape decks (the latest consumer rage) and listen to Creedence Clearwater Revival, ordering tea, beer, and cheese toasts from the teahouse next door as we watched the mysterious flames rising from the Asian shore.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Pamuk family fortune was established by the author\u2019s grandfather, one of the nouveaux riches<\/span> of the Republican era who made their money from railroads and manufacturing. Pamuk\u2019s grandmother\u2019s sitting room preserved the family\u2019s books and treasures, curios and mementos that spoke of their status as an affluent, secular family of modern Turkey\u2014even though Pamuk\u2019s father and uncle were running through the family money as fast as luxurious living and bad business decisions could deplete a large fortune. Sitting rooms like this were \u201clittle museums designed to demonstrate to a hypothetical visitor that the householders were Westernized. A person who was not fasting during Ramadan would perhaps suffer fewer pangs of conscience amongst these glass cupboards and dead pianos than he might if he were sitting cross-legged in a room full of cushions and divans.\u201d<\/p>\n

The city itself could be seen as a museum:<\/p>\n

In Istanbul the remains of a glorious past and civilization are everywhere visible. No matter how ill-kept they are, no matter how neglected or hemmed in they are by concrete monstrosities, the great mosques and other monuments of the city, as well as the lesser detritus of empire in every side street and corner\u2014the little arches, fountains and neighborhood mosques\u2014inflict heartaches on all who live amongst them.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Pamuk goes on to distinguish the sense of Istanbul as a museum from the prideful way traces of an illustrious past are preserved and displayed in Europe. The past in Istanbul is experienced, according to him, with a sense of defeat and shame, in a way reminiscent of the Soviet Union in decline. There are similarities. The sister religions of Islam and Marxism carry in their scriptures a promise of ultimate victory and triumphalism. Marx presents the ultimate victory of Communism over Capitalism as historically inevitable, just as Islam\u2019s narrative suggests that the true faith will win out over the infidels.<\/p>\n

According to Pamuk, Istanbul is permeated by an atmosphere of h\u00fcz\u00fcn<\/i>. The Turkish word has entered the vocabulary of book-reading foreigners who have succumbed to Istanbul\u2019s allure. From the Prince of Denmark to the \u201cmelancholy Jacques\u201d in As You Like It<\/i>,<\/span> <\/i>Shakespeare has a lot to say about melancholy. Sir Thomas Burton analyzed it at length in his Anatomy of Melancholy.<\/i> But h\u00fc<\/i>z\u00fcn<\/i> is different. While melancholy is the humor of an individual, h\u00fcz\u00fcn<\/i> is a quality found in much Sufi poetry, where it is suggested that the sufferer from h\u00fcz\u00fcn<\/i> is ennobled by the burden that has been imposed on him. \u201cImbued still with the honor accorded it in Sufi literature, h\u00fcz\u00fcn <\/i>gives [Istanbullus\u2019] resignation an air of dignity, but it also explains why it is their choice to embrace failure, indecision, defeat, and poverty so philosophically and with such pride.\u201d<\/p>\n

The way Joyce immortalized Dublin served as a literary model for Pamuk. <\/i>He refers to a time when \u201cI was thirty-five and dreaming of writing a great novel about Istanbul along the lines of Ulysses.<\/i>\u201d<\/span> <\/i>His Istanbul novel came into being by fits and starts throughout the 1990s\u2014first in the form of The Black Book<\/i>,<\/span> <\/i>set in the 1950s, and then as My Name Is Red<\/i>,<\/span> <\/i>a historical novel that recreates the city in the late sixteenth century, during the sultanate of Murad III. While Pamuk\u2019s grandmother\u2019s museum is a static, timeless kind of place, the remit of the newspaper columnist or feuilletonist<\/i> Jelal (Turkish Cel\u00e2l<\/i>) Salik in The Black Book<\/i> is to lay out his encyclopedic knowledge of the city in daily newspaper columns. His is a museum that exists in time. The journalistic chronicler of Istanbul life, he amasses an archive of old clippings, curiosities, notes, and jottings, and, as a connoisseur of the city\u2019s low life, he is always on the prowl among \u201cthose gangsters of Beyoglu, the heroin traffickers, the casino hoodlums, cocaine-snorting White Russians, all the dissolute gangs . . . Englishmen who come seeking nasty pleasures, homosexuals who\u2019re keen on the wrestlers and articles about wrestling, American bimbos who turn up for bath orgies, con artists, local movie stars who couldn\u2019t even be whores in Europe let alone act in films.\u201d The stories he tells surely also derive to some extent from the Scheherazade tradition of storytelling in the Islamic world.<\/p>\n

As Ulysses <\/i>gave readers an imperishable picture of Dublin on one day in 1904, The Black Book<\/i> recreates the Istanbul of the 1950s. The author relishes the many period details he includes, but a religious fundamentalist in the book, prone to the conspiracy theories so common in the Islamic world, also presents a convincing picture of Istanbul as a dystopia: \u201cHopeless crowds, dilapidated cars, bridges that slowly sank into the water, piles of tin cans, highways made out of potholes . . . illegible posters, meaningless torn panels, graffiti with the paint half washed away, pictures of bottles and cigarettes, minarets devoid of calls to prayer. . . . Nothing could be expected from such wreckage.\u201d<\/p>\n

S<\/font>upremely confident, arrogant even, as the colossus that bestrode the world from the Arabian Sea to the gates of Vienna, from the Black Sea to the Atlantic Ocean, their resolve and self-confidence stiffened by the moral power of the young religion of Mohammad\u2014last of the three \u201crevealed\u201d religions (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) to come out of the Middle East\u2014the Ottoman Empire nevertheless from an early date suffered crises of self-doubt. These crises spanned several centuries, from the sixteenth right up to the twentieth.<\/p>\n

Once the era of Muslim invincibility began to pass, European Christendom increasingly seemed to have the \u201cright stuff\u201d to dominate a world moving rapidly into modernity. As early as 1571, at the Battle of Lepanto, the firepower the Europeans were able to muster, as well as their better-trained troops, won the day. The combined forces of Venice, the Spanish Empire, the Papacy, Genoa, and other European powers brought to the battle more than twice the weapons the Ottomans could bring, not to mention the technological advantages of their arquebuses and muskets; Europe had come to fear the Ottomans\u2019 archers, but they were no match against firearms. And the six galleons the Venetians built in their famed shipyards at the Arsenale, each of which was capable of carrying heavy artillery, literally blew the Ottoman navy out of the water.<\/p>\n

In the scientific realm, the early accomplishments of Arab thinkers, astronomers, and mathematicians were supplanted by Western innovations. Italian painting began in imitation of Byzantine art; the madonnas of Duccio and Cimabue look very much like Byzantine icons. But at the dawn of the Renaissance, in the Italian quattrocento,<\/span> <\/i>painters like Masaccio and Masolino discovered what they called a new, \u201cscientific\u201d approach to painting that revolved around perspective. If you can get close enough to Masaccio\u2019s fresco, The Tribute Money<\/i>, in the Brancacci Chapel in the church of Santa Carmine in Florence, you can see the nail that the painter drove into the wall to establish his perspective point.<\/p>\n

The art produced in that antique world of princely states stretching from Herat on the western borders of what is now Afghanistan, to Isfahan, Shiraz and Tabriz in what is now Iran, to Baghdad in what is now Iraq, where rival khans patronized workshops of calligraphers and miniaturists in their courts, provides the atmosphere for the plot of M<\/i>y Name Is Red<\/i>,<\/span> <\/i>a murder mystery set among the machinations of court miniaturists working under the patronage of Sultan Murad III. A conflict of aesthetic philosophies has arisen around attempts to \u201cmodernize\u201d Ottoman painting by adopting \u201cFrankish\u201d (European) methods. Speaking from beyond the grave, the victim appeals to readers of his story: \u201cMy death conceals an appalling conspiracy against our religion, our traditions, and the way we see the world. Open your eyes, discover why the enemies of the life in which you believe, of the life you\u2019re living, and of Islam, have destroyed me.\u201d<\/p>\n

The novel makes vivid the multifaceted life of the imperial capital. Pamuk\u2019s account of some of the dervish orders will come as something of a shock to those who think of these mystics as refined and otherworldly: \u201copium-addicted madmen and followers of the outlawed Kalenderi dervish sect, claiming to be on Allah\u2019s path, would spend their nights in dervish houses dancing to music, piercing themselves with skewers and engaging in all manner of depravity.\u201d All of this is part of Pamuk\u2019s project of reclaiming for readers much of traditional Turkish and specifically Islamic lore that Atat\u00fcrk, founder of the Turkish Republic, attempted, largely successfully, to exorcize from Turkish consciousness during the cultural revolution he promulgated in the 1920s and 1930s.<\/p>\n

I<\/font>n The Black Book<\/i> the storyline revolves around the mysterious disappearance of R\u00fcya, the main character\u2019s wife; in My Name Is Red<\/i> the mystery surrounds the murder of a miniaturist who is helping, amidst a hotly contested debate about artistic style, to prepare a special album for the sultan. In each novel we meet a chronicler who provides sketches of life in the city, tangentially related to the plot. The feuilletonist<\/i> Jelal Salik is the city chronicler in The Black Book<\/i>; his role is played in M<\/i>y Name Is Red<\/i> by a coffee-house storyteller, a shape-shifter who can speak in the voice of a horse, or a gold coin, or a dog, and whose stories inevitably poke fun at one Nusret Hoja from Erzerum in eastern Anatolia, a Savanarola-like Islamic fundamentalist who wants to punish the free-thinking coffee-drinkers, the artists and illustrators, for their deviations from what he considers the true path that the Prophet laid out in his holy book. Contemporary parallels will be obvious.<\/p>\n

Pamuk\u2019s evocations of life in the seventeenth-century city give his readers a feeling for what Istanbul must have been like in days gone by when people were convinced they shared the world with beings from other dimensions, the spirits of the dead, even messengers from heaven:<\/p>\n

we traveled like brethren through deserted streets given over to battling packs of stray dogs, passed burnt ruins where jinns loitered, mosque courtyards where angels reclined on domes to sleep, beside cypress trees murmuring to the souls of the dead, beyond the edges of snow-covered cemeteries crowded with ghosts, just out of sight of brigands strangling their victims.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Jinns are invisible spirits\u2014highly intelligent, mercurial, spiteful, to be feared and placated. If jinns are the unpredictable, menacing spirits whose activities impinge on ours, angels are God\u2019s messengers and agents. None is so potent as Azrael. When a character is murdered, a figure of light appears to him as he is dying: \u201c\u2018It is I, Azrael, the Angel of Death,\u2019 he said. \u2018I am the one who ends man\u2019s journey in this world. I am the one who separates children from their mothers, wives from their husbands, lovers from each other and fathers from their daughters. No mortal in this world avoids meeting me.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

L<\/font>ike most well-educated, upper-middle-class Turks, Pamuk feels isolated from the more religiously observant Anatolians who have flooded Istanbul; their wives wear the headscarf\u2014that potent symbol of everything Atat\u00fcrk tried to lead his country away from. A wealthy friend of Pamuk\u2019s father ventures out only once a day, to sip tea for two hours in the lobby or pastry shop of the Hilton Hotel, \u201cBecause it\u2019s the only place in the city that feels like Europe.\u201d In the 1950s, the newly built Istanbul Hilton came to symbolize modernity and westernization in the city. \u201cOn Sunday evenings,\u201d Kemal recalls, \u201cwe would go as a family to eat that amazing thing called a hamburger, a delicacy as yet offered by no other restaurant in Turkey.\u201d Pamuk addresses this cultural disjunction head-on in Snow<\/i>,<\/span> his most political novel, where the poet Ka, an Istanbul intellectual, travels to the far eastern Anatolian city of Kars (kar<\/i> means snow in Turkish) to investigate the wave of suicides among young girls forbidden by the secular Turkish state from wearing headscarves to school.<\/p>\n

His most recent book, The Museum of Innocence<\/i>,<\/span> elegantly translated into English in 2009 by Maureen Freely, is set in the late Seventies and early Eighties among wealthy, Europeanized Istanbulites in the upscale neighborhoods of?Sisli and Nisantas?. Speak-
\ning of the Kurban Bayram?<\/i>,<\/span> <\/i>a religious holiday during which sheep are slaughtered all over Turkey in commemoration of the time God ordered Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac and alms are given to the needy, the narrator comments:<\/p>\n

Neither my mother nor my father was religious. I never saw either of them pray or keep a fast. Like so many married couples who had grown up during the early years of the Republic, they were not disrespectful of religion; they were just indifferent to it. . . . We left it to the cook and the janitor to distribute the alms.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The Museum of Innocence<\/i> is a tale of obsessive love, and it will bring to mind, for many readers, Proust\u2019s obsessive lover Charles Swann, and even Marcel, the narrator of his magnum opus, particularly in the volume called Albertine Disparue. <\/i>Like Proust\u2019s treatment of the subject, Pamuk\u2019s disquisitions are not lacking in longueurs<\/i>\u2014though one might make the point that since obsession becomes tedious, it is not surprising that tedium enters into a demonstration of obsession.<\/p>\n

I<\/font>n addition to telling stories, every novelist at the same time plays other roles: historian, map-maker, fl\u00e2neur, <\/i>discursive commentator, family chronicler, feuilletonist, <\/i>and purveyor of lore. Pamuk is extraordinarily versatile in the tasks he has set himself. Early on he wrote a Borgesian postmodernist novel The White Castle<\/i>,<\/span> <\/i>which tells the story of a young Venetian kidnapped by an Ottoman privateer and taken to Istanbul, where he becomes the servant of a scholar who values his knowledge of Western medicine, science, and technology, but particularly his skills as a pyrotechnician. He and his master are much in demand to supply fireworks for the court of the Sultan. In the course of the book, the two exchange identities and at times each becomes lost in the other. My Name Is Red <\/i>is one of the most compelling historical novels I have ever read. It amazed me, along with other readers, that he should follow it up with Snow<\/i>,<\/span> resolutely political, gritty, contemporary, and depressing. Istanbul, Memories of a City <\/i>is fascinating as a family memoir, but even more impressive for the way it paints the city and the history of its decline on a broad canvas. The Museum of Innocence<\/i> makes it clear that Pamuk is also an insightful student of the human heart with all its perverse turnings and deviations. One never knows what to expect from him.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

On Turkey\u2019s most prominent novelist.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1365,"featured_media":131168,"template":"","tags":[635],"department_id":[563],"issue":[2989],"section":[],"acf":{"participants":{"simple_value_formatted":"","value_formatted":null,"value":null,"field":{"ID":0,"key":"field_65fd9fbaa0408","label":"Authors","name":"participants","aria-label":"","prefix":"acf","type":"user","value":null,"menu_order":0,"instructions":"","required":0,"id":"","class":"","conditional_logic":0,"parent":"group_647e2b3c6941d","wrapper":{"width":"","class":"","id":""},"role":"","return_format":"array","multiple":1,"allow_null":0,"bidirectional":0,"bidirectional_target":[],"_name":"participants","_valid":1}},"page_number":{"simple_value_formatted":24,"value_formatted":24,"value":"24","field":{"ID":0,"key":"field_647e2bc0c860c","label":"Page Number","name":"page_number","aria-label":"","prefix":"acf","type":"number","value":null,"menu_order":1,"instructions":"","required":0,"id":"","class":"","conditional_logic":0,"parent":"group_647e2b3c6941d","wrapper":{"width":"","class":"","id":""},"default_value":"","min":"","max":"","placeholder":"","step":"","prepend":"","append":"","_name":"page_number","_valid":1}},"featured_image_credits":{"simple_value_formatted":"","value_formatted":"","value":"","field":{"ID":0,"key":"field_651b519e4fcb7","label":"Featured Image Credits","name":"featured_image_credits","aria-label":"","prefix":"acf","type":"wysiwyg","value":null,"menu_order":2,"instructions":"","required":0,"id":"","class":"","conditional_logic":0,"parent":"group_647e2b3c6941d","wrapper":{"width":"","class":"","id":""},"default_value":"","tabs":"all","toolbar":"basic","media_upload":0,"delay":0,"_name":"featured_image_credits","_valid":1}},"enable_paywall":{"simple_value_formatted":"Yes","value_formatted":true,"value":"1","field":{"ID":0,"key":"field_651d8874dce6f","label":"Enable Paywall","name":"enable_paywall","aria-label":"","prefix":"acf","type":"true_false","value":null,"menu_order":3,"instructions":"","required":0,"id":"","class":"","conditional_logic":0,"parent":"group_647e2b3c6941d","wrapper":{"width":"","class":"","id":""},"message":"","default_value":1,"ui":0,"ui_on_text":"","ui_off_text":"","_name":"enable_paywall","_valid":1}},"set_paywall_at":{"simple_value_formatted":null,"value_formatted":null,"value":null,"field":{"ID":0,"key":"field_66032c7fbb6f0","label":"Set Paywall At","name":"set_paywall_at","aria-label":"","prefix":"acf","type":"date_time_picker","value":null,"menu_order":4,"instructions":"","required":0,"id":"","class":"","conditional_logic":0,"parent":"group_647e2b3c6941d","wrapper":{"width":"","class":"","id":""},"display_format":"d\/m\/Y g:i a","return_format":"d\/m\/Y g:i a","first_day":1,"_name":"set_paywall_at","_valid":1}},"overlay_banner":{"simple_value_formatted":"","value_formatted":"","value":"","field":{"ID":0,"key":"field_66196a3de1de4","label":"Overlay Banner","name":"overlay_banner","aria-label":"","prefix":"acf","type":"text","value":null,"menu_order":5,"instructions":"","required":0,"id":"","class":"","conditional_logic":0,"parent":"group_647e2b3c6941d","wrapper":{"width":"","class":"","id":""},"default_value":"","maxlength":"","placeholder":"","prepend":"","append":"","_name":"overlay_banner","_valid":1}}},"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"featured_img":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/06\/Orhan-Pamuk-s-Istanbul-7301.jpg","coauthors":[],"author_meta":{"author_link":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/author\/richard-tillinghast\/","display_name":"Richard Tillinghast"},"relative_dates":{"created":"Posted 12 years ago","modified":"Updated 2 months ago"},"absolute_dates":{"created":"Posted on March 1, 2012","modified":"Updated on March 22, 2024"},"absolute_dates_time":{"created":"Posted on March 1, 2012 12:00 am","modified":"Updated on March 22, 2024 8:51 am"},"featured_img_caption":"","tax_additional":{"post_tag":{"linked":["Culture<\/a>"],"unlinked":["Culture<\/span>"],"slug":"post_tag","name":"Tags"},"department_id":{"linked":["Features<\/a>"],"unlinked":["Features<\/span>"],"slug":"department_id","name":"Departments"},"issue":{"linked":["March 2012<\/a>"],"unlinked":["March 2012<\/span>"],"slug":"issue","name":"Issues"},"section":{"linked":[],"unlinked":[],"slug":"section","name":"Sections"}},"series_order":"","jetpack-related-posts":[],"mfb_rest_fields":["jetpack_sharing_enabled","author","featured_img","coauthors","author_meta","relative_dates","absolute_dates","absolute_dates_time","featured_img_caption","tax_additional","series_order","jetpack-related-posts"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/article\/82930"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/article"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/article"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1365"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/article\/82930\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":122860,"href":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/article\/82930\/revisions\/122860"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/131168"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=82930"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=82930"},{"taxonomy":"department_id","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/department_id?post=82930"},{"taxonomy":"issue","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/issue?post=82930"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=82930"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}