“look；　look　into　the　eyes　of　Death。　See　how　men　do　not　fear　Death；　but　rather

the　violence　implicit　in　the　desire　to　be　one…of…a…kind；　unique　and　exceptional。

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Look　at　this　illustration　and　write　an　account　of　it。　Give　voice　to　Death。　Here’s

paper　and　pen。　I　shall　give　what　you　write　to　the　calligrapher　straightaway。”

He　stared　at　the　picture　in　silence。　“Who　painted　this？”　he　asked　later。

“Butterfly。 He’s the most talented of the lot。 Master Osman had been in

love　with　and　awed　by　him　for　years。”

“I’ve seen rougher versions of this depiction of a dog at the coffeehouse

where　the　storyteller　performs；”　Black　said。

“My illustrators； most of whom are spiritually bound to Master Osman

and the workshop； take a dim view of the labors performed for my book。

When　they　leave　here　at　night　I　imagine　they　have　their　vulgar　fun　over　these

illustrations　which　they　draw　for　money　and　ridicule　me　at　the　coffeehouse。

And who among them will ever forget the time Our Sultan had the young

Veian　artist；　whom　He’d　invited　from　the　embassy　at　my　behest；　paint　His

portrait。　Thereafter；　He　had　Master　Osman　make　a　copy　of　that　oil　painting。

Forced　to　imitate　the　Veian　painter；　Master　Osman　held　me　responsible　for

this unseemly coercion and the shameful portrait that came of it。 He was

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