The Curious and the Crooked

Not all that is foul repels. There exist certain evils that do not arrive with crude vulgarity, but rather with the sickly grace of a once beautiful swan now malformed, gliding upon dark waters that give back no reflection. This is not the coarse corruption of vice as one commonly imagines it. It is something more unsettling, more peculiar, a wickedness that carries not the stench of decay, but a strange refinement, a splendor that has turned inward upon itself.

There is a kind of evil that entrances not despite its wrongness, but precisely because of it. One feels, upon encountering such a thing, an involuntary pause. It is not fear, nor exactly revulsion, but a stillness that descends like snowfall at dusk. It resembles the hush before a dying star, or the eerie silence around a fossil half-unearthed. It ought not to be, and yet it is. This evil does not shroud itself in shadows, but cloaks itself in order and symmetry, though both are tainted. It is not chaos, but something worse. It is purpose turned poisonous.

To behold it is to be drawn in. It does not hide. It does not tremble in corners. It steps forward like a host at an evening ball, dressed in garments that glisten too brightly, with a smile too fixed to be real. Its wrongness is not accidental. It has been honed. Every glimmer, every curve, every perfect angle has been fashioned to lure the eye and hold it. This is not the madness of ruin, but the precision of an artist whose canvas was meant for saints but now displays only horror.

We do not love such a thing. At least, not rightly or truly. Yet we lean nearer, as one leans over the railing to gaze into the abyss. The heart beats faster, not from joy but from the thrill of something forbidden, something that gleams where it ought to rot. This evil is not obvious in its intent. It was perhaps meant for greatness. That is what makes it so dreadful. It is not low. It is fallen.

It does not hide in the alley. It walks the halls of high places. It does not roar. It speaks softly. It is not gross in appearance, but elaborate, even noble in bearing. It does not boast of disorder. Instead, it offers harmony with a hidden hook. It is symmetry turned to trap, logic turned to seduction, beauty inverted.

It does not conquer through fear. It wins its ground through suggestion. Its voice is calm. Its promises are quiet. It never forces, only offers. Look how rare I am, it says. Look how unlike the rest. And the mind, weary from the clamor of the world and the drabness of dull goodness, may pause. It may consider. It may wonder whether this wrongness, refined and radiant, might not be a path worth following.

Yet the soul recoils, even if the eyes remain. For something within remembers. This is not beauty. It is the husk of beauty. It is splendor hollowed out. It shines, but with a light that does not warm. Like moonlight on darkened glass, it dazzles only to deceive.

To find it fascinating may be no sin. Yet to remain too long in its presence is to risk becoming like it. For the one who studies crookedness too intently forgets how to measure by what is straight. And the heart, once bent in admiration of such finely wrought corruption, may lose its taste for the gentle things that once brought peace.

It was an ugliness of distinction - it fascinated rather than repelled. (Christie, Murder on the Orient Express)

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