As I see it, painting and religious experience are the same thing, and what we are all searching for is the understanding and realization of infinity.
Cruelty has a Human Heart, And Jealousy a Human Face; Terror the Human Form Divine, And Secrecy the Human Dress.
The Human Dress is forged in Iron, The Human Form a fiery Forge, The Human Face a Furnace seal'd, The Human Heart its hungry Gorge.
They love truth when it reveals itself, and they hate it when it reveals themselves.
He becomes beyond all others the great Invalid, the great Criminal, the great Accursed One - and the Supreme Knower. For he reaches the unknown.
For Cynthia and Sidney Nolan
It was Sunday, and Mumma had gone next door with Lena and the little ones.
'Oh my God my live my lovely.' 'Miss Courtney the bell I tell.' 'Whoever it is they won't dare!' 'Miss Couter? Soon here.' 'Yes Don. The amble. My dear-rest Lord.' O rose Rose. Too tierd too end-less obvi indi-ggoddd.
Hurtle Duffield, a painter, coldly dissects the weaknesses of any and all who enter his circle. His sister's deformity, a grocer's moonlight indiscretion, the passionate illusions of the women who love him-all are used as fodder for his art. It is only when Hurtle meets an egocentric adolescent whom he sees as his spiritual child does he experience a deeper, more treacherous emotion in this tour de force of sexual and psychological menace that sheds brutally honest light on the creative experience.
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Hurtle Duffield, a painter, is the vivisector. Dissecting peoples' weaknesses with cruel precision.