Painting by Lucien Freud. From here.

Also, I'm reading Middlemarch and loving it.

Here and there a cygnate is reared uneasily among duckings in the brown pond, and never finds the living stream in fellowship with its own oary-footed kind. Here and there is born a Saint Theresa, foundress of nothing, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of centering in some long-recognizable deed.