»Že vse življenje zavzeto in zvesto služiva kot slikarja, zato zdaj, ko sva slepa, do obisti poznava rdečo in se natanko spominjava, kakšna barva je to in kakšen občutek daje,« je rekel tisti, ki je naslikal konja po spominu. »Ampak kako bi bilo, če bi se slepa že rodila? Kako bi sploh lahko doumela to rdečo, ki jo uporablja najin lepi vajenec?«  
»Odlično vprašanje,«  rekel oni drugi. »A ne pozabi, da barve ne moreš doumeti, ampak jo lahko samo občutiš.«  
 »Moj dragi Mojster, pa pojasni, kaj je rdeča, nekomu, ki je ni nikoli videl.« 
 »Če bi se je dotaknil s konico prsta, bi zatipal nekaj med železom in bakrom. Če bi jo vzela v dlan, bi naju opekla. Če bi jo okusila, bi imela močan okus, kakor slano meso. Če bi jo vtaknila med ustnice, bi nama zapolnila usta. Če bi jo povohala, bi vonjala po konju. Če bi bila cvetlica, bi dišala po marjetici, ne po rdeči vrtnici.« […]
 »In kaj pomeni ta rdeča?« je še enkrat vprašal slepi miniaturist, ki je narisal konja po spominu.
»Pomen barve je v tem, da je tu pred nami in da jo vidimo,« je odvrnil drugi. »Rdeče ni mogoče pojasniti nekomu, ki ne vidi. […] ta, ki vidi in oni, ki ne vidi, nikdar ne bosta enaka.«
 
Orhan Pamuk, Ime mi je Rdeča


“Because we’ve spent our entire lives ardently and faithfully working as painters, naturally, we, who have now gone blind, know red and remember what kind of color and what kind of feeling it is,” said the one who’d made the horse drawing from memory. “But, what if we’d been born blind? How would we have been truly able to comprehend this red that our handsome apprentice is using?”
“An excellent issue,” the other said. “But do not forget that colors are not known, but felt.”
“My dear master, explain red to somebody who has never known red.”
“If we touched it with the tip of a finger, it would feel like something between iron and copper. If we took it into our palm, it would burn. If we tasted it, it would be full-bodied, like salted meat. If we took it between our lips, it would fill our mouths. If we smelled it, it’d have the scent of a horse. If it were a flower, it would smell like a daisy, not a red rose.” […]
“What is the meaning of red?” the blind miniaturist who’d drawn the horse from memory asked again.
“The meaning of color is that it is there before us and we see it,” said the other. “Red cannot be explained to he who cannot see.”
[…] the blind and the seeing are not equal.”
 
Orhan Pamuk, My Name is Red