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caused me to fall out with the Almighty in the first place。 Even though I can
assume every imaginable form； and though it’s been recorded in numerous
books tens of thousands of times that I’ve successfully tempted the pious；
especially in the lust…kindling guise of a beautiful woman； can the miniaturist
brethren before me tonight please explain why they persist in picturing me as
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a misshapen； horned； long…tailed and gruesome creature with a face covered
with protruding moles？
Like so； we arrive at the heart of the matter： figurative painting。 An Istanbul
street mob incited by a preacher whose name I won’t mention so he won’t
bother you later on； condemns the following as being contrary to the word of
God： the calling of the azan like a song； the gathering of men in dervish lodges；
sitting in each other’s laps； and chanting with abandon to the acpaniment
of musical instruments； and the drinking of coffee。 I’ve heard that some of the
miniaturists among us who fear this preacher and his mob claim that I’m the
one behind all this painting in the Frankish style。 For centuries； countless
accusations have been leveled at me； but none so far from the truth。
Let’s start from the beginning。 Everybody gets caught up in my provoking
Eve to eat of the forbidden fruit and forgets about how this whole matter
began。 No； it doesn’t begin with my hubris before the Almighty； either。 Before
anything else； there’s the matter of His presenting man to us and expecting us
to bow down to him； which met with my quite appropriate and decisive
refusal—though the other angels obeyed。 Do you think it fitting that； after
creating me from fire； He require me to bow before man； whom He created
out of the crudest mud？ Oh my brethren； speak the truth of your conscience。
All right； then； I know you’ve been thinking about it and fear that anything
said here will not just remain between us： He will hear it all and one day He’ll
call you to account。 Fine； never mind why He’s provided you with that
conscience in the first instance； I agree； you’re justified in being afraid； and I’ll
forget about this question and the mud…versus…fire debate。 But there’s
something I’ll never forget—yes indeed； something I’ll always be proud of： I
never bowed down before man。
This； however； is precisely what the new European masters are doing； and
they’re not satisfied with merely depicting and displaying every single detail
down to the eye color； plexion； curvy lips； forehead wrinkles； rings and
disgusting ear hair of gentlemen； priests； wealthy merchants and even
women—including the lovely shadows that fall between their breasts。 These
artists also dare to situate their subjects in the center of the page； as if man
were meant to be worshiped； and display these portraits like idols before
which we should prostrate ourselves。 Is man important enough to warrant
being drawn in every detail； including his shadow？ If the houses on a street
were rendered according to man’s false perception that they gradually
diminish in size as they recede into the distance； wouldn’t man then
effectively be usurping Allah’s place at the center of the world？ Well； Allah；
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almighty and omnipotent； would know better than I。 But surely it’s absurd on
the face of it to credit me with the idea of these portraits； I； who having
refused to prostrate myself before man suffered untold pain and isolation； I；
who fell from God’s grace to bee the subject of curses。 It would be more
reasonable to hold me responsible； as some mullahs and preachers do； for all
the children who play with themselves and everyone who farts。
I have one last ment on this subject； but my words aren’t for men who
can’t think beyond their eagerness to show off； their carnal desires； lust for
money or other absurd passions！ Only God； in His infinite wisdom； will
understand me： Was it not You who instilled man with pride by making the
angels bow before him？ Now they regard themselves as Your angels were made
to regard them； men are worshiping themselves； placing themselves at the
center of the world。 Even your most devoted servants want to be depicted in
the style of the Frankish masters。 I know it as well as I know my own name
that this narcissism will end in their forgetting You entirely。 And I’m the one
who’ll be blamed。
How might I convince you that I don’t take all of this to heart？ Naturally；
by standing firmly on my own two feet despite centuries of merciless stonings；
curses； damnings and denouncements。 If only my angry and shallow enemies；
who never tire of condemning me； would remember that it was the Almighty
Himself who granted me life until Judgment Day； while allotting them no
more than sixty or seventy years。 If I were to advise them that they could
extend this period by drinking coffee； I knoe； because it
was Satan speaking； would do the exact opposite and refuse coffee entirely； or
worse yet； stand on their heads and try pouring it into their asses。
Don’t laugh。 It’s not the content； but the form of thought that counts。 It’s
not what a miniaturist paints； but his style。 Yet these things should be subtle。 I
was going to conclude with a love story； but it’s gotten quite late。 The honey…
tongued master storyteller who’s given me voice tonight promises to tell this
story of love when he hangs up the picture of a woman the day after
tomorrow； on Wednesday night。
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I； SHEKURE
I dreamed that my father was telling me inprehensible things； and it was
so terrifying that I woke up。 Shevket and Orhan were clinging tightly to me on
either side； and their warmth made me sweat。 Shevket had his hand on my
stomach。 Orhan was resting his sweaty head on my bosom。 Somehow； I wa