Yesterday I found a nice oriental-rug shop in Oxford, and in it a nice bag from Nasrabad, a Persian village southeast of Esfahan famous for its rugs. The bag is about thirty years old and is in mint condition still. Both sides are piled in vivid colors. On one side there is a man in an elaborate skirt. His arms are outstretched, and his hands are open wide. The fingers are enormous and tangled improbably. Picasso would have loved them, I am sure. On the other side there are flowers and animals. The bag itself is a joy to look at and touch, but there is much more to it than that which is available to the senses. The very names of Nasrabad and Esfahan are among the bag’s hidden charms. They throb through my mind whenever I remember my new treasure.