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intently into my eyes as if to say; “I understand; I’m listening to you with

reverence” when I tell him something of import; or the way he nods his head

with a subtle rhythm matching the measure of my words are all quite

appropriate。 Now that I’ve reached this age; I know that true respect arises not

from the heart; but from discrete rules and deference。

During the years Black’s mother brought him frequently to our house

under every pretense because she anticipated a future for him here; I

understood that books pleased him; and this brought us together。 As those in

the house used to put it; he would serve as my “apprentice。” I explained to

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him how miniaturists in Shiraz had created a new style by raising the horizon

line clear to the top of the border; and that while everyone depicted Mejnun

in a wretched state in the desert; crazed with love for his Leyla; the great

master Bihzad was better able to convey Mejnun’s loneliness by portraying

him walking among groups of women cooking; attempting to ignite logs by

blowing on them or walking between tents。 I remarked how absurd it was that

most of the illustrators who depicted the moment when Hüsrev spied the

naked Shirin bathing in a lake at midnight had whimsically colored the lovers’

horses and clothes without having read Nizami’s poem; my point being that a

miniaturist who took up a brush without the care and diligence to read the

text he was illustrating was motivated by nothing more than greed。

I’m delighted now to see that Black has acquired another essential vi

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