corpses sliced in two； the clash of opposing armies； the soldiers of the

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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。”