i shall go, then, back to the counting house. but i swear an oath enjoy it not. for if i allow myself to enjoy this labor that takes me away from you and from my prayer shawl, i shall hate myself as i do now. but if i do it as i would as if a slave, then i can accept it, do it as a servant should. a servant does not serve out of pride of service. a servant serves by merest demand and necessity. the master is all, and the server must adopt an air of resignation, of passivity, of blankness, upon which the master sees his own stamp and not the servant beneath.
and that it what i shall be. i shall be a stamp, faceless, unloved. but i will still have the respite that god grants to all creatures, blessed sleep. and in my blessed sleep, i shall dream and live with the almighty. blessed be the name of the lord. for this is the promise of heaven; no future reward, but the reward within, the reward that gives hope and strength to plow with the whip-master but feet away. as i cannot love the world, please allow me to submit or god. for i fear penury, and cannot bring my children to beg, or to make myself a burden upon my poor parents. and perhaps, perhaps, i shall become a slave-king. with scented robes and oiled hair. but one that lays flat before the sultan in abject fear nonetheless.
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