lly　all　through　the　night　by　flickering　candlelight　on

the　last　of　those　legendary　books；　which　are　unknown　to　us　today　because　in

the　span　of　a　few　days；　they　were　one　by　one　torn　up；　shredded；　burned　and

tossed　into　the　Tigris　River　by　the　soldiers　of　the　Mongol　Khan　Hulagu。　Just　as

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the master Arab calligraphers； mited to the notion of the endless

persistence　of　tradition　and　books；　had　for　five　centuries　been　in　the　habit　of

resting　their　eyes　as　a　precaution　against　blindness　by　turning　their　backs　to

the rising sun and looking toward the western horizon； Ibn Shakir ascended

the　minaret　of　the　Caliphet　Mosque　in　the　coolness　of　morning；　and　from　the

balcony where the muezzin called the faithful to prayer； witnessed all that

would　end　a　five…centuries…long　tradition　of　scribal　art。　First；　he　saw　Hulagu’s

pitiless soldiers enter Baghdad； and yet he remained where he was atop the

minaret。 He watched the plunder and destruction of the entire city； the

slaughter of hundreds of thousands of people； the killing of the last of the

Caliphs of Islam who’d ruled Baghdad for half a millennium； the rape of

women；　the　burning　of　libraries　and　the　destruction　of　tens　of　thousands　of

volumes　as　they　were　thrown　into　the　Tigris。　Two　days　later；　amid　the　stench

of corpses and cries