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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第29章

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for  centuries  by  hundreds  of  master  miniaturists;  as  a  figure  with  his  index 
finger  inserted  into  the  circle  of  his  mouth;  but  made  the  whole  painting 
embody surprise。 This; I acplished by inviting the Sovereign to rise to His 
feet。” 
I  was  intrigued  and  bothered  by  how  he  scrutinized  my  possessions  and 
illustrating tools; nay my whole life; looking for a clue; and then; I began to see 
my own house through his eyes。 
You know those palace; hamam and castle pictures that were made in Tabriz 
and Shiraz for a time; so that the picture might replicate the piercing gaze of 
Exalted Allah; who sees and understands all; the miniaturist would depict the 
palace  in  cross…section  as  though  having  cut  it  in  half  with  a  huge;  magical 
straight razor; and he’d paint all the interior details—which could otherwise 
never be seen from outside—down to the pots and pans; drinking glasses; wall 
ornamentation;  curtains;  caged  parrots;  the  most  private  corners;  and  the 
pillows on which reclined a lovely maiden such as had never seen the light of 
day。  Like  a  curious  awestruck  reader;  Black  was  examining  my  paints;  my 
papers; my books; my lovely assistant; the pages of a Book of Costumes and the 
collage album that I’d made for a Frankish traveler; scenes of fucking and other 
indecent  pages  I’d  secretly  dashed  off  for  a  pasha;  my  inkpots  of  variously 
colored  glass;  bronze  and  ceramic;  my  ivory  penknives;  my  gold…stemmed 
brushes; and yes; the glances of my handsome apprentice。 
“Unlike  the  old  masters;  I’ve  seen  a  lot  of  battle;  a  lot;”  I  said  to  fill  the 
silence with my presence。 “War machines; cannonballs; armies; corpses; it was 
I  who  embellished  the  ceilings  of  the  tents  of  Our  Sultan  and  our  generals。 
After a military campaign; upon returning to Istanbul; it was I who recorded 
in pictures the scenes of battle that everyone would otherwise have forgotten; 
corpses  sliced  in  two;  the  clash  of  opposing  armies;  the  soldiers  of  the 
83 
 
miserable  infidels  quaking  before  our  cannon;  the  troops  defending  the 
crenellated towers of besieged castles; rebels being decapitated and the fury of 
horses attacking at full gallop。 I mit everything I behold to memory: a new 
coffee grinder; a style of window grating that I’ve never seen before; a cannon; 
the trigger of a new style of Frankish rifle; who wore what color robe during a 
feast; who ate what; who placed his hand where and how…” 
“What  are  the  morals  of  the  three  stories  you’ve  told?”  asked  Black  in  a 
manner that summed everything up and ever so slightly called me to account。 
“Alif;” I said。 “The first story with the minaret demonstrates that no matter 
how talented a miniaturist might be; it is time that makes a picture ”perfect。“ 
”Ba;“  the  second  story  with  the  harem  and  the  library;  reveals  that  the  only 
way to escape time is through skill and illustrating。 As for the third story; you 
proceed to tell me; then。” 
“Djim!”  said  Black  confidently;  “the  third  story  about  the  one…hundred…
and…nieen…year…old  miniaturist  unites  ”Alif‘  and  “Ba’  to  reveal  how  time 
ends for the one who forsakes the perfect life and perfect illuminating; leaving 
nothing but death。 Indeed; this is what it demonstrates。” 
 
 
   
84 
 
I AM CALLED “OLIVE” 
 
After  the  midday  prayers;  I  was  ever  so  swiftly  yet  pleasurably  drawing  the 
darling  faces  of  boys  when  I  heard  a  knock  at  the  door。  My  hand  jerked  in 
surprise。 I put down my brush。 I carefully placed the work…board that was on 
my knees off to the side。 Rushing like the wind; I said a prayer before opening 
the door。 I won’t withhold anything from you; because you; who can hear me 
from  within  this  book;  are  much  nearer  to  Allah  than  we  in  this  filthy  and 
miserable  world  of  ours。  Akbar  Khan;  the  Emperor  of  Hindustan  and  the 
world’s richest shah; is preparing what will one day bee a legendary book。 
To plete his project; he sent word to the four corners of Islamdom inviting 
the world’s greatest artists to join him。 The men he’d sent to Istanbul visited 
me yesterday; inviting me to Hindustan。 This time; I opened the door to find; 
in  their  place;  my  childhood  acquaintance  Black;  about  whom  I’d  forgotten 
entirely。 Back then he wasn’t able to keep our pany; he was jealous of us。 
“Yes?” 
He said he’d e to converse; to pay a friendly visit; to have a look at my 
illustrations。 I weled him so he might see it all。 I learned he’d just today 
visited Head Illuminator Master Osman and kissed his hand。 The great master; 
he  explained;  had  given  him  wise  words  to  ponder:  “A  painter’s  quality 
bees evident in his discussions of blindness and memory;” he’d said。 So let 
it be evident: 
 
Blindness and Memory 
 
Before the art of illumination there was blackness and afterward there will also 
be blackness。 Through our colors; paints; art and love; we remember that Allah 
had manded us to “See”! To know is to remember that you’ve seen。 To see 
is   to   know   without   remembering。   Thus;   painting   is   remembering   the 
blackness。 The great masters; who shared a love of painting and perceived that 
color and sight arose from darkness; longed to return to Allah’s blackness by 
means  of  color。  Artists  without  memory  neither  remember  Allah  nor  his 
blackness。  All  great  masters;  in  their  work;  seek  that  profound  void  within 
color and outside time。 Let me explain to you what it means to remember this 
darkness; which was revealed in Herat by the great masters of old。 
   
85 
 
Three Stories on Blindness and Memory 
 
ALIF 
In  Lami’i  Chelebi’s  Turkish  translation  of  the  Persian  poet  Jami’s  Gifts  of 
Intimacy;  which  addresses  the  stories  of  the  saints;  it  is  written  that  in  the 
bookmaker’s workshop of Jihan Shah; the ruler of the Blacksheep nation; the 
renowned  master  Sheikh  Ali  Tabrizi  had  illustrated  a  magnificent  version  of 
Hüsrev and Shirin。 According to what I’ve heard; in this legendary manuscript; 
which  took  eleven  years  to  plete;  the  master  of  master  miniaturists; 
Sheikh Ali; displayed such talent and skill and painted such wonderful pictures 
that  only  the  greatest  of  the  old  masters;  Bihzad;  could  have  matched  him。 
Even  before  the  illuminated  manuscript  was  half  finished;  Jihan  Shah  knew 
that he would soon possess a spectacular book without equal in all the world。 
He  thus  lived  in  fear  and  jealousy  of  young  Tall  Hasan;  the  ruler  of  the 
Whitesheep  nation;  and  declared  him  his  archenemy。  Moreover;  Jihan  Shah 
quickly sensed that though his prestige would grow immensely after the book 
was  pleted;  an  even  better  version  of  the  manuscript  could  be  made  for 
Tall  Hasan。  Being  one  of  those  truly  jealous  men  who  poisoned  his  own 
contentment  with  the  thought  “What  if  others  e  to  know  such  bl
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