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Color is the touch of the eye; music to the deaf; a word out of the darkness。
Because I’ve listened to souls whispering—like the susurrus of the wind—
from book to book and object to object for tens of thousands of years; allow
me to say that my touch resembles the touch of angels。 Part of me; the serious
half; calls out to your vision while the mirthful half soars through the air with
your glances。
I’m so fortunate to be red! I’m fiery。 I’m strong。 I know men take notice of
me and that I cannot be resisted。
I do not conceal myself: For me; delicacy manifests itself neither in
weakness nor in subtlety; but through determination and will。 So; I draw
attention to myself。 I’m not afraid of other colors; shadows; crowds or even of
loneliness。 How wonderful it is to cover a surface that awaits me with my own
victorious being! Wherever I’m spread; I see eyes shine; passions increase;
eyebrows rise and heartbeats quicken。 Behold how wonderful it is to live!
Behold how wonderful to see。 Behold: Living is seeing。 I am everywhere。 Life
begins with and returns to me。 Have faith in what I tell you。
Hush and listen to how I developed such a magnificent red tone。 A master
miniaturist; an expert in paints; furiously pounded the best variety of dried
red beetle from the hottest climes of Hindustan into a fine powder using his
mortar and pestle。 He prepared five drachmas of the red powder; one drachma
of soapwort and a half drachma of lotor。 He boiled the soapwort in a pot
containing three okkas of water。 Next; he mixed thoroughly the lotor into the
water。 He let it boil for as long as it took to drink an excellent cup of coffee。 As
he enjoyed his coffee; I grew as impatient as a child about to be born。 The
coffee had cleared the master’s mind and given him the eyes of a jinn。 He
sprinkled the red powder into the kettle and carefully mixed the concoction
with one of the thin; clean sticks reserved for this task。 I was ready to bee
genuine red; but the issue of my consistency was of utmost importance: The
liquid shouldn’t be permitted to just boil away。 He drew the tip of his stirring
stick across the nail of his thumb (any other finger was absolutely
unacceptable)。 Oh; how exquisite it is to be red! I gracefully painted that
thumbnail without running off the side in watery haste。 In short; I was the
right consistency; but I still contained sediment。 He took the pot off the stove
and strained me through a clean piece of cheesecloth; purifying me even
further。 Next; he heated me up again; bringing me to a frothy boil twice more。
After adding a pinch of crushed alum; he left me to cool。
A few days passed and I sat there quietly in the pan。 In the anticipation of
being applied to pages; of being spread everywhere and onto everything;
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