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I have to say, it's been a while since I liked a novel as much as this one and it's been even longer that I've had the chance to lie on a beach and read for a week, so I will say that you may want to take this review with a grain of sand. Pamuk reminded me of what really defines a novel, what moves it beyond a series of events and into a world and Pamuk's Kars is certainly its own world, full of characters whose degree of nuance is exactly as deep as those in a real place--in life you don't know everyone well and so to should it be in a novel. But if what makes a novel a novel is the creation of a world, what makes a novel good is the creation of a tone, a space, a way of seeing the world that reaches outside and it is this quality which I really loved. It's hard to describe, and I think the Russians do it best, Gogol in particular, but Pamuk constantly maintains a funny sadness that is neither light nor depressing. I am sure there is a word for this in some language, but it is complete and it made me forget that I was reading at many points. However, it is also distinct enough that I can see how not everyone would love it. You have to read for the humor, indulge the poetry (this is not a veiled language reference, I mean the actual poetry in the text) and take the characters just seriously enough to care but not to mourn. So maybe, just to indulge my english teacher self once more, what makes a novel great is also this quality--it must be singular enough to be disliked and good enough to love.