“When my hospitable host left me alone to roam as I wished throughout his palazzo, which he’d proudly given me a tour of, I saw that these supposedly important infidels—most of whom appeared to be real and some of whom looked me straight in the eye—had attained their importance in this world solely on account of having their portraits made. Their likenesses had imbued them with such magic, had so distinguished them, that for a moment among the paintings I felt flawed and impotent. Had I been depicted in this fashion, it seemed, I’d better understand why I existed in this world.”
