l,and,inshort,Iwasashamed.

    IquicklykhatIwouldn’tbeabletoremainathome,andboltingoutside,Iwalkedbrisklydownthedarkereets.AsSheikhOsmanBabawroteinhisLivesoftheSaints,inorderfenuinewanderingdervishtoescapethedevilwithiroamhisentirelifewithoutremainingaoolong.Afterroamingfromcitytocityforsixty-sevenyears,hetiredofrunningandsurreheDevil.Thisistheagewhenmasterminiaturistsattainblindness,orthedarknessofAllah,theagewhentheyinvoluntarilyachieveastyle,whilefreeingthemselvesofallintimationsofstyle.

    IwahroughtheChi-SellersMarketinBayazid,throughtheemptysquareoftheslavemarket,amidthepleasantaromasofsoupandpuddingshops,asifsearg.Ipassedthecloseddoorsofbarbershops,clothespressers,anoldbreadbakerwhowastinghismoneyandlookingatmeinsurprise;Ipassedagrocer’sshopsmellingofpicklesandsaltedfish,andsincemyeyesweretakenonlybycolors,Iwalkedintoaherbsandnotionsshopwheresomethingwasbeingweighed,andinthelightofalamp,staredpassiohewayonelooksatone’sbeloved,atthesacksofcoffee,ginger,saffronandamon,thecolorfulmastic,theaniseedwhosestwaftedfromtheter,andatmoundsofbrownandblack.SometimesIwanttoputeverythingintomymouth;sometimesIwanttofillapageictureofallcreation.

    IwalkedintotheplacewhereI’dfilledmystomachtwicebeforeiweek,whichI’dpersonallyhe“soupkitofthedowntrodden”—actually,ofthe“miserable”would’vebeenmoreappropriate.Itenuntilmidnighttothosewhoknewaboutit.Insidewereafewunfortunatesdressedlikehorsethievesorlikemenwho’descapedthegalloleofpatheticcharacterswhose

    sorrowandhopelessnessc