Madonna in a Fur Coat by Sabahattin Ali (1943): A Review
Author: Sabahattin Ali
Publication Year: 1943
Rating: ⭐⭐⭐💫
Pages: 192
Source: physical book (English) & audiobook @storytel.tr (Turkish)
Genre: literary fiction, romance, historical fiction
Madonna in a Fur Coat follows an unnamed narrator in Ankara (my current hometown), who plays a sort of Nick Carraway role from The Great Gatsby — quietly observing and recounting the life of someone else. That “someone else” is Raif: not a glamorous Gatsby figure at all, but much closer to Melville’s Bartleby, the Scrivener. This is a love story, yes, but not the kind you expect when you hear the word “romance.”
Our narrator is jobless, penniless, and essentially homeless when he bumps into an old friend who helps him land a position. That’s how he meets Raif, the German language translator at the office. The novel is set in the 1930s, and that timing really matters: the love story, the social issues, the gender dynamics — they all make more sense when you read them through the lens of their era, instead of judging them by 2020s standards.
Where were we? Ah, yes—Raif. Our narrator tries to understand this strange, withdrawn man, who seems almost misanthropic, and slowly befriends him. But he truly comes to know Raif only through Raif’s journal, which contains the story of his great love in Germany.
Up to that point, it’s all a mix of suspense and slight frustration. Who is this man we’re supposed to care about? Why is he so unknowable? We don’t even know much about our narrator — fair enough, he’s not the main act — but is Raif really worth the trouble? The answer is: yes… or at least a very complicated “maybe.”
Raif is a deeply melancholic figure who avoids people, yet he falls in love with a self-portrait of a painter in an art gallery. The entire love story begins with a single painting. You might suspect that, in addition to channelling Fitzgerald and Melville, Sabahattin Ali is about to pull a reverse-Poe-style twist where the portrait comes to life and Raif falls for a woman emerging from the canvas. But no—it’s closer to a Russian kind of romance: gloomy, introspective, and quietly devastating.
Raif’s passivity and sadness may drive you up the wall. You might want to shake him, yell at him, and never fully forgive him. But then comes Maria. Through her, Ali introduces ideas about women and their role in society that were remarkably ahead of their time. In a romance published in the 1940s, this is a bold and genuinely interesting move, but maybe not enough for our 21st-century taste!
As for the writing, it’s smooth, simple, and very readable in both Turkish and English. You can easily finish it in a single day if you’re invested enough. Still, at its core, this is a 1940s Turkish romance, with all the baggage that implies. What kept me hooked were the philosophical, political, and melancholic layers woven into the story — especially important for someone like me who’s not exactly a fan of romance, and certainly not the classic, old-fashioned Turkish variety.
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