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