
Paradise Lost
Satan rebels in heaven, loses, and comes for the first two people. Milton meant to justify God and produced a devil so magnificent he nearly walks off with the greatest poem in English.

Satan rebels in heaven, loses, and comes for the first two people. Milton meant to justify God and produced a devil so magnificent he nearly walks off with the greatest poem in English.

Vermeer painted his own city from across the harbor, almost his only townscape. Proust called it the most beautiful painting in the world.

The son kneels with his shorn head against his father's chest and the old man's hands come down on his back. Rembrandt painted it near death.

Not a portrait of anyone in particular but a tronie, a study of a type, which somehow made her the most looked-at girl in art.

A kitchen maid pours a thin stream of milk in ordinary daylight, given the weight and stillness usually reserved for saints.

Vermeer never sold this one. The model poses as Clio, muse of history, with a great map of the Netherlands filling the wall behind.

The old painter holds his brushes and palette, and behind him two large arcs are drawn on the wall that nobody has explained.

The scales in her hand are empty and perfectly level, and the painting on the wall behind her is a Last Judgment.

You are already betting on whether God exists, Pascal says, since refusing to choose is a choice. Around that wager sit fragments on why no one can sit alone in a room.

Spinoza proves, in numbered propositions, that God and nature are one substance and that everything follows from it as necessarily as a theorem. Freedom is understanding that necessity, not escaping it.

One hand on the pitcher, one on the window latch, and morning light coming through onto a white cap. Nothing happens, perfectly.

Don Juan seduces, dodges his creditors, and believes in nothing, while his servant argues feebly for God and a stone statue accepts an invitation to dinner. Moliere never wrote anything more dangerous.

The officer's hat and back loom enormous in the foreground while the girl sits small and bright beyond, which is exactly how the eye works.

Alceste cannot tell a lie and is destroying himself over a woman who lives on flattery. Tartuffe, the fake holy man eating his host's house, is hypocrisy caught whole and played for laughs.

Nine years of Restoration London set down every night in shorthand. Pepys watched the Great Fire from a boat and he was as frank about his own adulteries as about the plague.

One child hugs her presents while a boy howls because his shoe held nothing but a birch rod, and the grandmother beckons with a secret.

No landscape, no story, just a man in patched brown wool holding a skull and one shaft of light finding him in the dark.

The parents sing and drink and a toddler is handed a pipe. A note in the picture reads: as the old sing, so the young pipe.

Harpagon keeps a cash box buried in his garden, intends to marry his son's beloved himself, and gives his daughter to whoever asks no dowry. Moliere made him Europe's byword for greed.
Pains of love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are.
Of all human follies there's none could be greater Than trying to render our fellow-men better.
One should look long and carefully at oneself Before one considers judging others.