Brother Grimm
joewig
He walks the street, his face filled with purpose and alight with holy certainty. It’s a face that exists out of time, the face of a 14th century monk. A face out of dark times, capable of dark deeds done through unwavering devotion and piety.
It’s a face that draws the eye and holds the eye, then turns the eye away. We cannot resist looking, but neither can we look long on such a face. Such unshakable certainty is discomfiting. It is like looking at the sun. When we turn away, when we close our eyes, the indistinct image of that face remains imprinted for a time on our retina.
Lady MacBeth had it almost right. “Your face,” she said, “is as a book where men may read strange matters.” We can read the strange matters; there is no guarantee we will understand them.
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