rightly—yes； in good measure—whispered to him that in his work everything
was as joyous as a holiday； but devoid of depth。 Child princes and senile old
harem women on the verge of death enjoy his paintings； not men of the world
forced to struggle with evil。 Because Butterfly is well aware of these criticisms；
poor man； he at times grows jealous of average miniaturists who though much
less talented than he are possessed of demons and jinns。 What he mistakenly
believes to be devilry and the work of jinns is more often than not
straightforward evil and envy。
He aggravates me because when he paints； he doesn’t lose himself in that
wondrous world； surrendering to its ecstasy； but only reaches that height
when he imagines his work will please others。 He aggravates me because he
thinks about the money he’ll earn。 It’s another of life’s ironies： There are many
artists with much less talent yet more able than Butterfly to surrender
themselves to their art。
In his need to make up for his shortings； Butterfly is preoccupied with
proving that he has sacrificed himself to art。 Like those birdbrained
miniaturists who paint on fingernails and pieces of rice； pictures almost
invisible to the naked eye； he’s engrossed with minute and delicate
craftsmanship。 I’d once asked him whether he gave himself over to this
ambition； which has blinded many illustrators at an early age； because he was
ashamed of the excessive talent Allah had granted him。 Only inept miniaturists
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paint each leaf of a tree they’ve drawn on a grain of ric