Though　you　know　very

well that I’m not real—like children who give themselves over to a game—

you’re still seized by horror； as if you’d actually met Death himself。 This

pleases　me。　As　you　look　at　me；　you　sense　that　you’ll　soil　yourselves　out　of　fear

when　that　unavoidable　last　moment　is　upon　you。　This　is　no　joke。　When　faced

with Death； people lose control of their bodily functions—particularly the

majority of those men who are known to be brave…hearted。 For this reason；

the corpse…strewn battlefields that you’ve depicted thousands of times reek

not of blood； gunpowder and heated armor as is assumed； but of shit and

rotting　flesh。

I　know　this　is　the　first　time　you’ve　seen　a　depiction　of　Death。

One　year　ago；　a　tall；　thin　and　mysterious　old　man　invited　to　his　house　the

young　master　miniaturist　who　would　soon　enough　illustrate　me。　In　the　half…

dark　workroom　of　the　two…story　house；　the　old　man　served　an　exquisite　cup　of

silky； amber…scented coffee to the young master； which cleared the youth’s

mind。　Next；　in　that　shadowy　room　with　the　blue　door；　the　old　man　excited　the

master　miniaturist　by　flaunting　the　best　paper　from　Hindustan；　brushes　made

of squirrel hair； varieties of gold leaf； all manner of reed pens and coral…

handled　penknives；　indicating　that　he　would　be　able　to　pay　handsomely。

“Now　then；　draw　Death　for　me；”　the　old　man　said。

“I　cannot　draw　a　picture　of　Death　without　ever；　not　once　in　my　entire　life；

having seen a picture of Death；” said the miraculously sure…handed

miniaturist；　who　would　shortly；　in　fact；