Il misantropo

Bruegel painted this round little picture in 1568, near the end of his short life, on cloth in pale, chalky tones. An old man in a black hooded robe walks with his hands folded and his eyes shut to the world, wrapped in his own bitterness. A line of Flemish text runs along the bottom in his voice: because the world is so treacherous, I go into mourning. And while he sulks, the world robs him. A small figure sealed inside a glass orb, the kind that stands for worldly vanity, has crept up behind him and is slicing the strings of his purse. The old man notices nothing, not even the vicious spiked traps scattered in the grass right in front of his feet.