My Name is Red

But painting without its accompanying story is an impossibility.

my story bore a promise of both sorrow and bliss that would bind the two of us together.

Now that I’ve reached this age, I know that true respect arises not from the heart, but from discrete rules and deference.

Panicking, I grabbed a stone that lay beside the well. While he was still on the seventh or eighth step, I caught up to him and struck him on the back of his head with all my strength. I struck him so swiftly and brutally that I was momentarily startled, as if the blow had landed on my own head. Aye, I felt his pain.

“The old masters of Shiraz and Herat,” I said, “claimed that a miniaturist would have to sketch horses unceasingly for fifty years to be able to truly depict the horse that Allah envisioned and desired. They claimed that the best picture of a horse should be drawn in the dark, since a true miniaturist would go blind working over that fifty-year period, but in the process, his hand would memorize the horse.”

What was venerated as style was nothing more than an imperfection or flaw that revealed the guilty hand.

My death conceals an appalling conspiracy against our religion, our traditions and the way we see the world.

love is the ability to make the invisible visible and the desire always to feel the invisible in one’s midst.

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

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.