being “a murderer.” Let no one try to associate tistry to betray my  style, or for t matter, anyt serves to distinguisist from anot individual cer, as some arrogantly claim.

    I do admit t in my ouation, ts a problem. For t speak to me by Master Osman and used by Enis, in no  you to figure out ork. For if you do you  ate to turn me over to torturers of tan’s Commander of the Imperial Guard.

    And, I must mind  and say. Actually, I kno you’re listening to me even e. I can’t afford careless contemplation of my frustrations or ting details of my life. Even ories. I was always mindful of your gaze.

    One side of t I’ve illustrated tens of times faces ed t mytime—ttling, for example, or tiful maidens over , and

    anoto be gazing at t painting. If I do yle and cer, it’s not only  in my crime and in my ry to discover whe color of my words!

    I, too, kno if you catc’ll bring consolation to unfortunate Elegant Effendi’s miserable soul. t on and rees, amid ccers of tanbul, and discovering aneo be alive. Patic Elegant Effendi, soon after  fierce-broely; yet, in ty-five years t rated books for Our Sultan, times o eacy years ago, e fat sultan. But  illustrated plates t o accompany a collection of Fuzuli poems. One summer evening back to andable but illogical desires—apparently a miniaturist ougo feel in ext rating—I came iently listened to entiously recite lines from Fuzuli’s collected tered above us in a frenzy. I still recall a line recited t evening: “I am not