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lar voice； which would’ve remained my only voice had I not

bee a murderer。 But when I speak under my workshop name； I’ll never

admit to being “a murderer。” Let no one try to associate these two voices； I

have no individual style or flaws in artistry to betray my hidden persona。

Indeed； I believe that style； or for that matter； anything that serves to

distinguish one artist from another； is a flaw—not individual character； as

some　arrogantly　claim。

I　do　admit　that　in　my　own　situation；　this　presents　a　problem。　For　though　I

might speak through my workshop name； lovingly given to me by Master

Osman　and　used　by　Enishte　Effendi；　who　also　admired　it；　in　no　wise　do　I　want

you to figure out whether I am Butterfly； Olive or Stork。 For if you do you

won’t　hesitate　to　turn　me　over　to　the　torturers　of　the　Sultan’s　mander　of

the　Imperial　Guard。

And；　I　must　mind　what　I　think　about　and　say。　Actually；　I　know　that　you’re

listening　to　me　even　when　I’m　mulling　over　matters　in　private。　I　can’t　afford

careless contemplation of my frustrations or the incriminating details of my

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life。 Even when recounting the “Alif；” “Ba” and “Djim” stories。 I was always

mindful　of　your　gaze。

One side of the warriors； lovers； princes and legendary heroes that I’ve

illustrated　tens　of　thousands　of　times　faces　whatever　is　depicted　there；　in　that

mythical time—the enemies they’re battling； for example； or the dragons

they’re　slaying；　or　the　beautiful　maidens　over　whom　they　weep。　But　another

aspect；　and　another　side