Frustrating

My Name is Red is the second book I've had to quit recently that I was really anticipating enjoying. The subject matter (art! love! death!) makes me salivate, but I find it incoherent and poorly characterized. Like the other one, it's a translation - I hope this is the source of these flaws. (At one point a drawing is described as being 'faintly, yet unnoticeably, crumpled' - oh my God! If a character is perceiving this fact, it is by definition noticeable!)

I made it about halfway through, propelled by the occasional lovely passage. To whit, this description of a miniature:

Every detail, the finely wrought wall, window, and frame ornamentation, the curves and circular designs in the red rug, the color of the silent scream emanating from your clamped throat and the yellow and purple flowers embroidered with incredible finesse and vigor on the magnificent quilt upon which the bare and vile foot of your murderer mercilessly steps as he ends your life, all of these details serve the same purpose: While augmenting the beauty of the painting, they remind you just how exquisite are the room in which you will soon die and the world you will soon leave. The indifference of the painting's beauty and of the world to your death, the fact of your being totally alone in death despite the presence of your wife, this is the inescapable meaning that strikes you.