rightly—yes；　in　good　measure—whispered　to　him　that　in　his　work　everything

was　as　joyous　as　a　holiday；　but　devoid　of　depth。　Child　princes　and　senile　old

harem　women　on　the　verge　of　death　enjoy　his　paintings；　not　men　of　the　world

forced　to　struggle　with　evil。　Because　Butterfly　is　well　aware　of　these　criticisms；

poor　man；　he　at　times　grows　jealous　of　average　miniaturists　who　though　much

less　talented　than　he　are　possessed　of　demons　and　jinns。　What　he　mistakenly

believes to be devilry and the work of jinns is more often than not

straightforward　evil　and　envy。

He　aggravates　me　because　when　he　paints；　he　doesn’t　lose　himself　in　that

wondrous world； surrendering to its ecstasy； but only reaches that height

when he imagines his work will please others。 He aggravates me because he

thinks　about　the　money　he’ll　earn。　It’s　another　of　life’s　ironies：　There　are　many

artists with much less talent yet more able than Butterfly to surrender

themselves　to　their　art。

In　his　need　to　make　up　for　his　shortings；　Butterfly　is　preoccupied　with

proving that he has sacrificed himself to art。 Like those birdbrained

miniaturists who paint on fingernails and pieces of rice； pictures almost

invisible to the naked eye； he’s engrossed with minute and delicate

craftsmanship。 I’d once a