About

I do not know precisely how to describe the image that takes shape before me in the mirror and trembles back toward my gaze. It is not the portrait that held Dorian Gray—or the ill-fated Oscar Wilde himself—spellbound, until it grew so dreadful that it forced him to bow before it and suffer a tragic fall. Nor is it the reflection that drew Narcissus into the depths of his own vanity and self-worship. What I see in the mirror is the figure of a man standing atop the colossal watchtowers of ancient Constantinople, one who has accepted the fate of both himself and his ancestral homeland, yet still refuses to lower his head in surrender. And at the same time, I see a resemblance to that ancient blacksmith of epic legend, who, in a final attempt to save his last hope—the last fruit of his life, his youngest son—storms into the hall of the Serpent-King with righteous fury.