Sunday, May 12, 2013

infinity

é preciso legar alguma coisa ao fim-de-semana-
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With a flick of my brush, here and there, I was touching up the illustration, whose composition I had arranged while delegating the rendering of the horse, the sword, the prince and the spectator-ambassadors to various apprentices. I applied purple to some of the leaves of the plane tree in the Hippodrome. I dabbed yellow upon the caftan-buttons of the Tatar Khan's ambassador. As I was brushing a sparse amount of gold wash onto the horse's reins, somebody knocked at the door. I quit what I was doing.

It was an imperial pageboy. The Head Treasurer had summoned me to the palace. My eyes ached ever so mildly. I placed my magnifying lens in my pocket, and left with the boy.

Oh, how nice it is to walk through the streets after having worked without a break for so long! At such times, the whole world strikes one as original and stunning, as if Allah had created it all the day before.

I noticed a dog, more meaningful than all the pictures of dogs I'd ever seen. I saw a horse, a lesser creation than what my master miniaturists might make. I spied a plane tree in the Hippodrome, the same tree whose leaves I'd just now accented with tones of purple.

Strolling through the Hippodrome, whose parades I'd illustrated over the last two years, was like stepping into my own painting. Let's say we were to turn down a street: In a Frankish painting, this would result in our stepping outside both the frame and the painting; in a painting made following the example of the great masters of Herat, it'd bring us to the place from which Allah looks upon us; in a Chinese painting, we'd be trapped, because Chinese illustrations are infinite.

Pamuk em My Name is Red.
se eu tivesse algum paper em mente, não posso dizer que não seria abismos eufrásticos em My Name is Red.

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