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迪文小说>我的名字是红色 > 第31部分(第2页)

第31部分(第2页)

handled penknives; indicating that he would be able to pay handsomely。

“Now then; draw Death for me;” the old man said。

“I cannot draw a picture of Death without ever; not once in my entire life;

having   seen   a   picture   of   Death;”   said   the   miraculously   sure…handed

miniaturist; who would shortly; in fact; end up doing the drawing。

“You do not always need to have seen an illustration of something in order

to depict that thing;” objected the refined and enthusiastic old man。

“Yes; perhaps not;” said the master illustrator。 “Yet; if the picture is to be

perfect; the way the masters of old would’ve made it; it ought to be drawn at

least  a  thousand  times  before  I  attempt  it。  No  matter  how  masterful  a

miniaturist might be; when he paints an object for the first time; he’ll render

it as an apprentice would; and I could never do that。 I cannot put my mastery

aside while illustrating Death; this yself。”

“Such  a  death  might  put  you  in  touch  with  the  subject  matter;”  quipped

the old man。

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“It’s  not  experience  of  subject  matter  that  makes  us  masters;  it’s  never

having experienced it that makes us masters。”

“Such mastery ought to be acquainted with Death then。”

In  this  manner;  they  entered  into  an  elevated  conversation  with  double

entendre;   allusions;   puns;   obscure   references   and   innuendos;   as   befit

miniaturists who respected both the old masters as well as their own talent。

Since it was my existence that was being discussed; I listened intently to the

conversation;  the  entirety  of  which;  I  know;  would  bore  the  distinguished

miniaturists  among  us  in  this  good  coffeehouse。  Let  me  just  say  that  there

came a point when the discussion touched upon the following:

“Is  the  measure  of  a  miniaturist’s  talent  the  ability  to  depict  everything

with the same perfection as the great masters or the ability to introduce into

the picture subject matter which no one else can see?” said the sure…handed;

stunning…eyed; brilliant illustrator; and although he himself knew the answer

to this question; he remained quite reserved。

“The  Veians  measure  a  miniaturist’s  prowess  by  his  ability  to  discover

novel  subject  matter  and  techniques  that  have  never  before  been  used;”

insisted the old man arrogantly。

“Veians  die  like  Veians;”  said  the  illustrator  who  would  soon  draw

me。

“All our deaths resemble one another;” said the old man。

“Legends  and  paintings  recount  how  men  are  distinct  from  one  another;

not  how  everybody  resembles  one  another;”  said  the  wise  illustrator。  “The

master  miniaturist  earns  his  mastery  by  depicting  unique  legends  as  if  we

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