The face of a man gives us a fuller and more interesting information than his tongue; for his face is the compendium of all he will ever say, as it is the one record of all his thoughts and endeavors.
Some of the greatest criminals I have known had the faces of angels. A malformation of the grey cells may coincide quite easily with the face of a Madonna.
Once you saw the face of a god in those jumbled blacks and whites, it was everybody out of the pool—you could never unsee it. Others might laugh and say it’s nothing, just a lot of splotches with no meaning, give me a good old Craftmaster paint-by-the-numbers any day, but you would always see the face of Christ-Our-Lord looking out at you. You had seen it in one gestalt leap, the conscious and unconscious melding in that one shocking moment of understanding. You would always see it. You were damned to always see it.
But a man’s beauty represents inner, functional truths: his face shows what he can do. And what is that compared to the magnificent uselessness of a woman’s face?