"Calligraphers never blow on the ink: accelerating this drying process is the same as expelling this divine presence. So I would slide the fleshy part of my index finger across the paper, a drop of flesh on the wet ink that grew smaller as one watched. Calligraphers have all tried to seize this divine presence, but none has ever succeeded.
We calligraphers know this by heart.
The years went by, and from being a pupil I passed to being a teacher. Why hurry? Now that I am dead I no longer have to count the minutes. My memory is intact; memories are more tangible than reality. My life flashes past in front of me at the speed of light, assails me and then withdraws without warning. All that I could not grasp while still alive comes back to me intermittently. I am a witness to the visible and the invisible: now I can tell the whole story."
The Calligraphers' Night by Yasmine Ghata
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