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paintings are more pelling because they more closely resemble life itself。
They don’t paint the world as seen from the balcony of a minaret； ignoring
what they call perspective； they depict what’s seen at street level； or from the
inside of a prince’s room； taking in his bed； quilt； desk； mirror； his tiger； his
daughter and his coins。 They include it all； as you know。 I’m not persuaded by
everything they do。 Attempting to imitate the world directly through painting
seems dishonorable to me。 I resent it。 But there’s an undeniable allure to the
paintings they make by those new methods。 They depict what the eye sees just
as the eye sees it。 Indeed； they paint what they see； whereas we paint what we
look at。 Beholding their work； one es to realize that the only way to have
one’s face immortalized is through the Frankish style。 And it’s not only the
inhabitants of Venice who are captured by this notion； but all the tailors；
butchers； soldiers； priests and grocers in all the Frankish lands…They all have
their portraits made this way。 Just a glance at those paintings and you too
would want to see yourself this way； you’d want to believe that you’re
different from all others； a unique； special and particuliar human being。
Painting people； not as they are perceived by the mind； but as they are actually
seen by the naked eye； painting in the new method； allows for this possibility。
One day everyone will paint as they do。 When ”painting‘ is mentioned； the
world will think of their work！ Even a poor foolish tailor who understands
nothing of illustrating will want such a portrait so he might be convinced；
upon seeing the unique curve of his nose； that he’s not an ordinary simpleton；
but an extraordinary man。“
“So？ We can make that portrait； as well；” quipped the witty assassin。
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“We won’t！” I replied。 “Haven’t you learned from your victim； the late
Elegant Effendi； how afraid we are of being labeled imitators of the Franks？
Even if we venture bravely to paint like them； it’ll amount to the same thing。
In the end； our methods will die out； our colors will fade。 No one will care
about our books and our paintings； and those who do express interest will ask
with a sneer； with no understanding whatsoever； why there’s no perspective—
or else they won’t be able to find the manuscripts at all。 Indifference； time and
disaster will destroy our art。 The Arabian glue used in the bindings contains
fish； honey and bone； and the pages are sized and polished with a finish made
from egg white and starch。 Greedy； shameless mice will nibble these pages
away； termites； worms and a thousand varieties of insect will gnaw our
manuscripts out of existence。 Bindings will fall apart and pages will drop out。
Women lighting their stoves； thieves； indifferent servants and children will
thoughtlessly tear out the pages and pictures。 Child princes will scrawl over the
illustrations with toy pens。 They’ll blacken people’s eyes； wipe their runny
noses on the pages； doodle in the margins with black ink。 And religious
censors will blacken out whatever is left。 They’ll tear and cut up our paintings；
perhaps use them to make other pictures or for games and such
entertainment。 While mothers destroy the illustrations they consider obscene；
fathers and older brothers will jack off onto the pictures of women and the
pages will stick together； not only because of this； but also due to being
smeared with mud； water； bad glue； spit and all manner of filth and food。
Stains of mold and dirt will blossom like flowers where the pages have stuck
together。 Rain； leaky roofs； floods and dirt will ruin our books。 Of course；
together with the tattered； faded and unreadable pages； which water；
humidity； bugs and neglect will have reduced to pulp； the one last volume to
emerge intact； like a miracle； from the bottom of a bone…dry chest will also
one day disappear； swallowed up in the flames of a merciless fire。 Is there a
neighborhood in Istanbul that hasn’t been burned to the ground at least once
every twenty years that we might expect such a book to survive？ In this city；
where every three years more books and libraries disappear than those the
Mongols burned and plundered in Baghdad； what painter could possibly
imagine that his masterpiece might last more than a century； or that one day
his pictures might be seen； and he revered like Bihzad？ Not only our own art；
but every single work made in this world over the years will vanish in fires； be
destroyed by worms or be lost out of neglect： Shirin proudly watching Hüsrev
from a window； Hüsrev delightfully spying on Shirin as she bathes by
moonlight； lovers gazing at each other with grace and subtlety； Rüstem’s
wrestling a white demon to death at the bottom of a well； the anguished state
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of a lovelorn Mejnun befriending a white tiger and a mountain goat in the
desert； the capture and hanging of a deceitful shepherd dog who presents a
sheep from his flock to the she…wolf he mates with each night； the flower；
angel； leafy twig； bird and teardrop border illuminations； the lute players that
embellish Hafiz’s enigmatic poems； the wall ornamentations that have ruined
the eyes of thousands； nay tens of thousands of miniaturist apprentices； the
small plaques hung above doors and on walls； the couplets secretly written
between the embedded borders of illustrations； the humble signatures hidden
at the bases of walls； in corners； in facade embellishments； under the soles of
feet； beneath shrubbery and between rocks； the flower…covered quilts covering
lovers； the severed infidel heads patiently awaiting Our Sultan’s late
grandfather as he victoriously marches upon an enemy fortress； the cannon；
guns and tents that even in your youth you helped illustrate and that appeared
in the background as the ambassador of the infidels kissed the feet of Our
Sultan’s great…grandfather； the devils； with and without horns； with and
without tails； with pointed teeth and with pointed nails； the thousands of
varieties of birds including Solomon’s wise hoopoe； the jumping swallow； the
dodo and the singing nightingale； the serene cats and restless dogs； fast…
moving clouds； the small charming blades of grass reproduced in thousands of
pictures； the amateurish shadows falling across rocks and tens of thousands of
cypress； plane and pomegranate trees whose leaves were drawn one after
another with the patience of Job； the palaces—and their hundreds of
thousands of bricks—which were modeled on palaces from the time of
Tamerlane or Shah Tahmasp but acpanied stories from much earlier eras；
the tens of thousands of melancholy princes listening to music played by
beautiful women and boys sitting on magnificent carpets in fields of flowers
and beneath flowering trees； the extraordinary pictures of ceramics and
carpets that owe their perfection to the thousands of apprentice illustrators
from Samarkand to Islambol beaten to the point of tears over the last one
hundred fifty years； the sublime gardens and the soaring black kites that you
still depict with your old enthusiasm； your astounding scenes of death and
war； your graceful hunting sultans； and with the same finesse； your startled
fleeing gazelles； your dying shahs； your prisoners of war； your infidel galleons
and your rival cities； your shiny dark nights that glimmer as if night itself had
flowed from your pen； your stars； your ghostlike cypresses； your red…tinted
pictures of love and death； yours and all the rest； all of it will vanish…”
Raising the inkpot； he struck me on the head with all his strength。
I tottered forward under the force of the blow。 I felt a horrible pain that I
could never even hope to describe。 The entire world was wrapped in my pain
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and faded to yellow。 A large portion of my mind assumed that this attack was
intentional； yet； along with the blow—or perhaps because of it—another；
faltering part of my mind； in a sad show of goodwill； wanted to say to the
madman who aspired to be my murderer： “Have mercy； you’ve attacked me in
error。”
He raised the inkpot again and brought it down upon my head。
This time； even the faltering part of my mind understood that this was no
mistake； but madness and wrath that might very well end in my death。 I was
so terrified by this state of affairs that I began to raise my voice； howling with
all my strength and suffering。 The color of this howl would be verdigris； and in
the