My Name is Red Read Online Free Page B

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, composing 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 becomes an element as indispensable as paint in the life of the master artist.
    During my walks, which grow increasingly longer due to my restlessness, I come face-to-face occasionally with one of our most pure and innocent religious countrymen, and a strange notion suddenly enters my head: If I think about the fact that I’m a murderer, the man before me will read it on my face. Therefore, I force myself to think of different things, just as I forced myself, writhing in embarrassment, to banish thoughts of women when performing prayers as an adolescent. But unlike those days of youthful fits when I couldn’t get the act of copulation out of my thoughts, now, I can indeed forget the murder that I’ve committed.
    You realize, in fact, that I’m explaining all these things because they relate to my predicament. But if I were to divulge even one detail related to the killing itself, you’d figure it all out and this would relieve me from being a nameless, faceless murderer roaming among you like an apparition and relegate me to the status of an ordinary, confessed criminal who has given himself up, soon to pay for his crime with his head. Give me the license not to dwell on every single detail, allow me to keep some clues to myself: Try to discover who I am from my choice of words and colors, as attentive people like yourselves might examine footprints to catch a thief. This, in turn, brings us to the issue of “style,” which is now of widespread interest: Does a miniaturist, ought a miniaturist, have his own personal style? A use of color, a voice all his own?
    Let’s consider a piece by Bihzad, the master of masters, patron saint of all miniaturists. I happened across this masterpiece, which also nicely pertains to my situation because it’s a depiction of murder, among the pages of a flawless ninety-year-old book of the Herat school. It emerged from the library of a Persian prince killed in a merciless battle of succession and recounts the story of Hüsrev and Shirin. You, of course, know the fate of Hüsrev and Shirin, I refer to Nizami’s version, not Firdusi’s:
    The two lovers finally marry after a host of trials and tribulations; however, the young and diabolical Shiruye, Hüsrev’s son by his previous wife, won’t give them any peace. The prince has his eye on not only his father’s throne but also his father’s young wife, Shirin. Shiruye, of whom Nizami writes, “His breath had the stench of a lion’s mouth,” by hook or crook imprisons his father and succeeds to the throne. One night, entering the bedchamber of his father and Shirin, he feels his way in the dark, and on finding the pair in bed, stabs his father in the chest with his dagger. Thus, the father’s blood flows till dawn and he slowly dies in the bed that he shares with the beautiful Shirin, who remains sleeping peacefully beside him.
    This picture by the great master Bihzad, as much as the tale itself, addresses a grave fear I’ve carried within me for years: The horror of waking in the black of night to