After a time,my hand had become as skilled as my eyes.So if I was drawing a very fine tree , it folt as if my hand was moving without me directly it.As I wathced the pencil race across the page,I would look on it in amazement ,as if the drawing were the proof of another presence , as if someone else had taken up residence in my body.As I marvelled at his work aspiring to beome his equal , another part of my brain was busy inspecting the curves of the branches , the placement of mountains , the composition as a whole , reflecting that I had created this scene on a blank piece of paper.My mind was at the tip of my pen , acting before I could think ; at the same time it could survey what I had already done.This second line of perception , this ability to analyse my progress , was the pleasure this small artist felt when he looked at the discovery of his courage and freedom.To step outside myslef , to know the second pesron who had taken up residence inside me , was to retrace the dividing line that appeared as my pencil slipped across the paper.like a boy sledding in the snow. pg.135

— Orhan Pamuk

#business