o strangle each

other；　their　children　sobbing　at　their　feet。

For a couple of nights in a row； I came to this coffeehouse to relive the

happiness　I’d　felt　before　being　a　murderer；　to　raise　my　spirits　and　to　listen

to　the　storyteller。　Most　of　my　miniaturist　friends；　the　brethren　with　whom　I’d

spent my entire life； came here every night。 Since I’d silenced that lout with

whom　I’d　made　illustrations　since　childhood　I　didn’t　want　to　see　any　of　them。

Much　embarrasses　me　about　the　lives　of　my　brethren；　who　can’t　do　without

gossiping； and about the disgraceful atmosphere of joviality in this place。 I

even　sketched　a　few　pictures　for　the　storyteller　so　they　wouldn’t　accuse　me　of

conceit；　but　that　failed　to　put　an　end　to　their　envy。

They’re justified in being jealous。 Not one of them could surpass me in

mixing colors； in creating and embellishing borders； posing pages；

selecting subjects； drawing faces； arranging bustling war and hunting scenes

and　depicting　beasts；　sultans；　ships；　horses；　warriors　and　lovers。　Not　one　could

approach　my　mastery　in　imbuing　illustrations　with　the　poetry　of　the　soul；　not

even　in　gilding。　I’m　not　bragging；　but　explaining　this　to　you　so　you　might　fully

understand　me。　Over　time；　jealousy　bees　an　element　as　indispensable　as

paint　in　the　life　of　the　master　arti