serves to tell a story,” I said. “turist, in order to beautify t s t vital scenes: t time lovers lay eyes on eacem cutting off ter; Rüstem’s grief ranger e and ure among lions, tigers, stags and jackals; to t before a battle to divine its outcome from tnesses a great falcon tear apart igued from reading tales, rest upon tures. If text t our intellect and imagination are at pains to conjure, tration comes at once to our aid. tory’s blossoming in color. But painting  its accompanying story is an impossibility.

    “Or so I used to tfully. “But te possible. traveled once again to Venice as tan’s ambassador. I observed at lengtraits t tian masters  knoo ures belonged, and I struggled to extract tory from ting hanging on a palazzo wall and was dumbfounded.

    “More t  one of us. As I stared at  as if I resembled   resemble me at all.  seemed to lack crace of my marvelous c look anyture, for some reason, my  fluttered as if it rait.

    “I learned from tian gentleman  trait  in rait: In tic-looking forest. Resting on table before time, Evil, Life, a calligrapaining gold coins, bric-a-brac, odds and ends, inscrutable yet distinguis ures, sure of tunningly beautiful daugood beside her.

    “ ive t tation  to embellise? As I regarded t tale ure itself. ting  tension of a story at all, it s o.

    “I never forgot ting t be turned to taying as a guest and pondered ture tire nigoo, ed to be portrayed in t, no, t  appropriate, it an o be trayed! Our Sultan ougo be rendered