The Luster of Things
Or, how Lust reduces the human to animal, architecture, machinery, and wilderness
As an art school professor, I’ve learned to appreciate artists’ perspectives, which is best achieved by viewing their work. Unlike AI-generated visuals, a human-made work of art isn’t merely a visual, it’s an artifact born out of a complex thought process carried out through bodily behaviors acting on resisting material. So when I agreed to write this post for The Deadly Seven, I decided to start by asking an artist for a perspective on Lust.
Since Lust is a corporeal sin that’s long been associated with the color pink (as opposed to Anger’s redness), I decided to call Kevin Brent Morris, a painter here in Kansas City, because the color pink is a major theme in his artwork and he often paints bodies. When we met at his studio, Kevin intimated that he not only paints with pink quite a bit, he really loves painting with pink. He’s particularly fascinated with beetles, which he associates with regeneration, and he’s fond of painting what he calls “objects of affection,” material goods such as shoes, kitchen appliances, even cigarettes—objects that attract people, for which they feel a profound, perhaps even an inordinate affection. And pink finds its way into all of these subjects. What would Kevin’s brush have to say about Lust?
When I read his book The Seven Deadly Sins Today in my twenties, I encountered Henry Fairlie’s idiosyncratic habit of referring to the Seven by both their English and Latin names. The Latin term for Lust was Luxuria, which is also the root of our modern English word “luxury.” When Kevin and I agreed to collaborate, I loaned him Fairlie’s book so we’d be working off a similar set of ideas. Here’s what happened:
Now if you just blew past that painting, let me encourage you to return to it and spend more time. Give Kevin a bit longer to speak to you before reading on. And I highly recommend a look at Kevin’s other artwork.
Kevin’s painting reminds me of a diagram I often draw for my students to help them understand phenomenology, the theory of our internal experiences. (Artists love visuals, especially when we’re talking about abstractions.) To the right of the subject’s face we see a sensory world; to the left, behind his eyes, almost like a thought cloud looming out of his head, we have a sense of his interior world. I can’t look at this painting without thinking of Aerosmith’s song “Pink”, but Kevin has cast a pall over that exuberant ode, suggesting that what Steven Tyler is praising (with that enormous mouth of his) has to it a dark internal dimension that neither Tyler nor any of his fans, myself included, prefer to acknowledge.
By posing his subject this way, Kevin invites us to consider the gaze’s role in Lust. And the golden figure on which his gaze rests, the object upon which he’s fixated, reads as an object of desire. The gold makes this figure shine like a wonder or maybe like a trophy, a luxuria, a luxury desired and commodified. Also, the subject’s face dominates the canvas, reducing the trophy to a prospective acquisition. The golden figure seems blissfully unaware of the pinkness of the world and even more unaware of the darkness of the subject’s mind, which threatens to subsume the painting. As the father of daughters, but also as a human being who has crossed paths with old Lust many times, I find this painting—or is it a mirror?—disturbing.
Kevin’s painting reminds us that Lust reduces both its victims and its perpetrators to mere material, even though they’re so much more than that.1 Lust often performs this reduction through the gaze: the perpetrator’s gaze objectifies—it identifies, isolates, targets, analyzes, and slowly reduces the victim to an animal, an object, a technology, to nature itself, which is to say Lust reduces its victim to a tool for the luster’s use. In the longstanding tradition that comes to us through the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, Avarice, Gluttony, and Lust are inherently materialistic sins.
At Art School I teach courses in Philosophy, focused primarily on the New Materialisms—on new ways of thinking about the terms “human,” “object,” “animal,” and “nature.” The New Materialisms share a mission: they aim to decenter humanity by eroding the boundaries between the human and animals, objects, nature, and technologies. If the notion of “eroding the boundaries” is confusing to you, think of it as trying to convince people that “you are that other thing.” What does a theorist of the New Materialisms have to say about sin—especially Lust? As it turns out, quite a lot.
Before I delve into this further, it’s probably worth noting that Fairlie mentioned an order to the Seven Deadly Sins “established by Gregory the Great, maintained throughout the Middle Ages, and followed by both Dante and Chaucer”: Pride, Envy, Anger, Sloth, Avarice, Gluttony, and Lust.2 This list isn’t sorted in descending order from most to least morally heinous. Instead, Fairlie framed “Pride and Envy and Anger [as] sins of perverted love,” “Sloth… as a sin of defective love,” and “Avarice and Gluttony and Lust [as] sins of excessive love.”3
He also noted that “There has been a tendency in modern times to advance Lust in the order, which could be said to reveal [modern society’s] obsession with sex, and to alter the placing of some of the others.” But the “warm” sins of Avarice, Gluttony, and Lust shouldn’t be placed above the “cold” sins of Pride, Envy, and Anger,
as long as it is understood that their placing in no way diminishes the devastation that they cause to oneself and to others. Because our societies are so abundant in material goods, and provide so many opportunities for physical gratification, we need to be reminded that these more physical sins can devour us spiritually. But at the top must still stand the sin of cold egotism.4
So while Fairlie denies that the historically established order lists the Seven from worst to least bad, he still had good reasons for repeating the order.
The fact that the Seven have historically been listed in any order at all matters when we think about Dorothy Sayers’s scathing critique, “The Other Six Deadly Sins,” in which she raked modern Christians over the coals for fixating on Lust while behaving as though the rest of the Seven were somehow less grievous. Christopher Sykes once pithily observed that “Promiscuous love necessitates hypocrisy”5; perhaps this is true of all sins. As a Christian myself, for a long time I’ve chuckled darkly at the fact that Lust appears last while American Christians have howled at it—indeed, still are howling at it—more often and more loudly than they have at the other six. Certainly the advent of social media has heightened everyone’s awareness of sex scandals, from which Christian leaders hardly seem immune. And among the Christians who aren’t living scandalous lives we find some whose anti-Lust invective on social media is often fueled by Pride, Anger, Sloth, and Avarice. To my fellow Christians I’d simply say that our hypocrisy is rank, and since our self-styled righteousness is an affront to God (Isa. 64.6), we owe our neighbors an apology for thinking we’re better than they are.
We also see hypocrisy in how laughably bashful Christians are about naming Lust outright; but some of this is a historical inheritance. Writing in 1941, Sayers pointed out that Christians had become too squeamish even to use the word Lust:
Perhaps the bitterest commentary on the way in which Christian doctrine has been taught in the last few centuries is the fact that to the majority of people the word immorality has come to mean one thing and one thing only. By a hideous irony, our shrinking reprobation of that sin has made us too delicate so much as to name it, so that we have come to use for it the words that were made to cover the whole range of human corruption.6
Notably, Billy Graham’s writing on Lust suffered from the same puritanism that defines his controversial “Billy Graham Rule.”7 Here’s the table of contents from Graham’s book, The 7 Deadly Sins:
Graham’s euphemistic use of “Impurity,” which was doubtless an attempt at wholesome discretion, covered up too much. The resulting imprecision generated in some headscratchers like, “In my opinion sex is probably America’s greatest sin.”8 Huh? Maybe this kind of euphemism was a specifically American problem, because scarcely three years earlier C.S. Lewis pointedly stated that “sex in itself (apart from the excesses and obsessions that have grown round it) is ‘normal’ and ‘healthy.’”9 But that didn’t mean Lewis was unaware of or comfortable with a culture that was institutionalizing Lust. Especially in a time when truth is often in jeopardy, we need to be able to speak plainly about what we mean. And that’s what I intend to do here.
Lusty Animality
Lust erodes the human/animal boundary. Sayers pointed out that people turn to lust either “through sheer exuberance of animal spirits,” or, “when philosophies are bankrupt and life appears without hope[,] men and women may turn to lust in sheer boredom and discontent, trying to find in it some stimulus that is not provided by the drab discomfort of their mental and physical surroundings.”10 Graham wrote that Lust distorts human love “and drags it down to the level of the beast.”11 And in Mere Christianity, Lewis took the “Lust animalizes us” argument to a whole new level:
You can get a large audience together for a strip-tease act—that is, to watch a girl undress on the stage. Now suppose you come to a country where you could fill a theatre by simply bringing a covered plate on to the stage and then slowly lifting the cover so as to let everyone see, just before the lights went out, that it contained a mutton chop or a bit of bacon, would you not think that in that country something had gone wrong with the appetite for food? And would not anyone who had grown up in a different world think there was something equally queer about the state of the sex instinct among us?12
Here the victim is likened to a piece of meat.13 Since we’re not cannibals, by implication she’s likened to a piece of cooked animal. (At this point it’s difficult to avoid thinking of Lady Gaga’s meat dress.) “Everyone knows that the sexual appetite, like our other appetites, grows by indulgence. Starving men may think much about food, but so do gluttons,” as Griffin Gooch’s upcoming post on Gluttony will show us. Lewis continues, “the gorged, as well as the famished, like titillations.”14 The luster is a distortion of a human being, either an engorged glutton or an emaciated waif. Either way, he’s an addict. Lust is either a force that erodes the human/animal boundary, or a symptom of that erosion by other forces.
Given that the Latin name for Lust is Luxuria—“luxury”—we have to consider the myriad ways our culture commodifies this erosion. Right now there’s a low-grade moral panic over “furries,” which is only the latest in a long string of episodes of Victorian pearl-clutching over people’s embrace of the erosion of the human/animal boundary. But the moralizers often overlook the erosion when it’s non-sexual and earns money. Lewis gets it: “There are people who want to keep our sex instinct inflamed in order to make money out of us. Because, of course, a man with an obsession is a man who has very little sales-resistance.”15 This is, to borrow Sayers’s words quoted above, our culture’s fix for “sheer boredom and discontent.”
About a year ago I wrote a series of posts here on Substack about the ways twentieth-century television commercials from the Big Three American auto manufacturers animalized vehicles. These commercials deployed a sexual politics aimed at seducing buyers by situating each model year’s hard bodies within a nexus of ideas that incited Lust, and animalization was essential to the work of inciting desire for the advertised objects. For example, the 1974 Cougar was sold as a lustrous trophy car for a lusty trophy wife; and it was sold by drawing (male) viewers’ gazes to a svelte cat and to Farrah Fawcett’s golden form.
So why the hypocrisy? Why do we condemn “furries” after we’ve happily purchased Cougars?
Perhaps it’s best not to strain out gnats while swallowing camels.
The Edifice Rex
Considering the link between Lust and Luxuria, Lewis’s remark about “sales-resistance,” and the commodification of Farrah Fawcett as a trophy, we shouldn’t be surprised that Lust erodes the human/object boundary. Or, as Fairlie so succinctly put it, “It is significant that we say we lust after a person or object.”16
Interestingly, Lust is often associated with buildings, with architecture. Fairlie mused that when he heard people talk casually about sex, he wished “to remind them that people still get hurt. They get hurt in their bodies, not merely from slappings and beatings”—at this point I become sort of fearfully curious about who Fairlie was talking to about sex and what exactly they were into (do we really want to know?)—“but from more subtle humiliations of which our sexual feelings are registers. Lust is a humiliation of the flesh, of another’s and of one’s own; and it is a perversity of our times that, in the name of a freedom that is delusive, we not only tolerate this humiliation, but exalt it as a wonder of the modern age, like the lighthouse at Pharos.”17
That word, “wonder,” is a highly nuanced term, as I’ve noted in a previous post. Wonders have frequently been biomorphic, made out of body parts (usually animal) or resembling bodies or body parts (human or animal). Fairlie’s choice of a rather phallic Pharos here is the point: Lust is the shape of our social structure, the Edifice Rex that rules our interactions. As Fairlie sees it, we praise what we have erected—even though it objectifies us—because it’s easier than tearing it down and starting over.
Lust erodes the human/object boundary specifically because it (Lust) is as socially endemic as commerce; and Kevin captured it beautifully in his painting. I almost missed it, but the trophy figure held in his subject’s gaze is engaged in commerce—she is either buying or selling something. The scenery is faded, faint, almost imperceptible. This is how both commerce and Lust do their best work, with a guileful subtlety. And it’s “guileful” because even when we do notice it, it explains itself in terms that make it appear far more innocent than it actually is, like the Starbucks logo, which was apparently derived from the imagery of Lust, as seen in this capital from a cathedral in France:
But Fairlie also undermines the wonder of Pharos by showing Lust’s ultimate effects. Lust, he said, is a building with a sign on it that says, “This Property is Vacant.” And “anyone may take possession of it for a while. Lustful people may think that they can choose a partner at will for sexual gratification. But they do not really choose. They accept what is available. Lust accepts any partner for a momentary service… It has nothing to give, and so it has nothing to ask.”18 So Lust isn’t so much the order of things as the disorder of things. Ultimately, it self-isolates and self-destructs. It’s inimical to relationship. “Lust is not interested in its partners, but only in the gratification of its own craving, not in the satisfaction of our whole natures, but only in the appeasement of an appetite that we are unable to subdue. It is therefore a form of self-subjection, in fact, of self-emptying.”19 Lust is ultimately nihilistic.
Sex Machines
If you’re looking for an apt condemnation of screwing, Fairlie nails it: “In the morning Lust is always furtive. It dresses as mechanically as it undressed and heads straight for the door, to return to its own solitude. Like all the sins, it also makes us solitary.”20 That is, lust looses its nuts and bolts. Paradoxically, for all of the fastener language, Lust is a sin that breeds disconnection. And its self-vaunting prowess in the bedroom (or wherever) amounts to total flaccidity when it comes to loyalty, allegiance, and showing up to fulfill commitments.
Here's the other half of the logic behind the Mercury Cougar commercial I discussed in connection with Lust’s erosion of the human/animal binary above:
If people now engage in indiscriminate and short-lived relationships more than in the past, it is not really for some exquisite sexual pleasure that is thus gained but because they refuse to become involved and to meet the demands that love will make. They are asking for little more than servicing, such as they might get at a gas station. That fact that one may go to bed with a lot of people is, in itself, less Lust’s offense than the fact that one goes to bed with people for whom one does not care, for whom there is never any intention that one will care.21
(If you find the Lust-as-servicing-a-car metaphor here passé, Björk updated it for you.) Suffice it to say, whether you think of us as cyborgs or as cars, the application of corporeal rhetoric to our machines (cars have “quarter panels” and sometimes need “body work”) is at least a two-hundred-year-old trope; but only in the past century or so has it been applied to human beings themselves. At the end of the day, Lust is not only mechanical, making machines of us, it’s transactional, like buying gas, which is to say it reduces relationships to a trade of titillations. And the luster only cares about one side of that trade.
Bewilderment
“This is a slippery and dangerous concept,” Tom Shippey wrote in The Road to Middle-Earth. And as apt a description as that is for Lust, he was actually writing about bewilderment.22 The overlap isn’t a coincidence; and once we recognize it, it is difficult to separate Lust and Avarice because bewilderment links them. Lust is avaricious, it has a desire to possess whomever it has objectified, and this desire erodes the human/nature boundary, leaving both the luster and the lusted-after bewildered, a barren waste.
Last month, Los Angeles reminded us that no matter how hot it blazes, wildfire eventually burns out, leaving only destruction in its wake. “What is left to Lust when its cravings at last subside?” Fairlie asks. For in the end they most certainly will. By that point, Lust “has died. It has made no bonds and is in the desert that it has made, with no longer even a craving. It is in its own black hole”—and Kevin aptly captured the horror of this—“where no voice can reach it, and from which its own voice cannot be heard. It has collapsed into nothingness. It has burned itself out.”23
Whomever we have become by this point, that person is desolate. Anyone who’s been through a bad breakup knows this: you not only lose the relationship that ends, you lose a lot of friendships, forever taint many favorite places, songs, foods, and other memories, and all at once discover yourself in the ruin of what’s left.
This experience is bewildering in the fullest sense of the term. Shippey exposited the term in a study of J.R.R. Tolkien’s fiction; but Shippey is an etymologist par excellence and his study transfers easily. “Bewilderment” means “mental confusion,” “being lost in the wild,” and “a tangled or labyrinthine condition of objects.”24 This is ruinous, apocalyptic imagery: Lust makes of us a hellscape, a ruinous tangle of yesterday’s possibilities.
Distressing as Shippey’s definition is, the famous ecocritic William Cronon offered one that I find even more terrifying. To be a wilderness is to be “‘deserted,’ ‘savage,’ ‘desolate,’ ‘barren.’” All of these words describe the bewilderment of a life with sex but no relationships; especially no familial relationships. Cronon continues: “in short, a ‘waste,’ the word’s nearest synonym. [The connotations of ‘wilderness’] were anything but positive, and the emotion one was most likely to feel in its presence was ‘bewilderment’—or terror.”25 Whether we pursue in-person sexploits or succumb to whatever images the Internet offers, at the end of the way Lust beckons us lies the wreckage of our lives and the bewilderment of finding that we have made of ourselves and our relationships a desert.
No matter how glamorous Lust may appear from the outside, it is a wasteland yawning to engulf us.
Hypocrisy and Hope
In addition to the ways it erodes the boundaries between the human and animals, objects, machines, and nature, those who have written about Lust agree that it makes hypocrites of us all. We’ve already seen Sayers’s critique of Christians’ prudish inability even to talk about Lust in any but euphemistic terms. Sykes began a column in The Sunday Times with what he called “an intercession”: “May I resist the awful temptation of hypocrisy and coyness.”26 He went on to note that “Of the seven deadly sins, Lust is the only one about which all mankind (with very few exceptions) knows something from experience. People own to this awkward fact in general, but not in particular.” They “usually remain careful to avoid any suggestion that they themselves are prone to unlawful passions, or to the extravaganza which goes with erotic feeling… All men are lustful, and a huge proportion are so in practice.”27 We can call Sykes cynical; but I will suspect anyone who does—and I daresay you will too—of covering their own tracks. It’s been that way since Genesis 3.
Instead, we’re much more comfortable with a radical sexual subjectivism, a social armistice wherein we agree not to share. “Don’t ask, don’t tell” because “I’m okay, you’re okay”; and whatever you do, “Don’t say ‘gay.’” And we think this will safeguard us from shame, and conflict, and the impasses that issue from trying to distinguish Lust from Love. In fact, I’m not sure this post will do anything to resolve the definition of Lust for public use; nor will it resolve the impasses we’re at in our culture and politics. One thing I hope it does is confront us with a new dimension of our lustiness: its tendency to reduce others and ourselves to less than we are. Perhaps the way out of temptation, or habit, or addiction even, is to recognize just how much destruction issues from the thought lives we assume are private when they’re really not.
To return to hypocrisy, Fairlie railed against this assumption that our Lust is a private affair: “There is no more pat shibboleth of our time than the idea that what consenting adults do in private is solely their own business. This is false. What we do in private has repercussions on ourselves, and what we are and believe has repercussions on others.” As COVID-19 so brutally taught us, “What we do in our own homes will inevitably affect not only our own behavior outside them, but what we expect and tolerate in the behavior of others, and what we expect the rulers of our societies to tolerate.”28 Is it any surprise, then, that we’ve twice elected someone who said what we heard on the Access Hollywood tapes? How did that happen? Well, “Some of the evils to which theology says that Lust will give rise are: blindness of the intellect in respect of divine things; precipitancy [that is, haste] in acting without judgment; want of regard for what befits one’s state or person; inconstancy in good; hatred of God as an Avenger of such sins; love of this world and its pleasures; inordinate fear of death.”29
Perhaps the greatest irony here is that Fairlie would know. I loaned Fairlie’s book to Kevin, to read while he was painting, and when he returned it his first reaction was to flip the book over and show me Fairlie’s photo on the back of the dust jacket. “Just looks like a guy who’d write a book on sin,” Kevin said to me with a smirk. “A real finger-wagger,” I agreed with a chuckle.
According to her obituary in The Sunday Times, Hilary Kilmarnock, the wife of the famous author Kingsley Amis, had an affair with Fairlie in 1956; Fairlie was married at the time.30 The Wikipedia entry for “Henry Fairlie” suggests that this was one of “a series of extramarital affairs.” When I shared it with Kevin, that put a whole new spin on Fairlie, for both of us.
Did Fairlie so aptly describe Lust because he had lived through it? Or maybe the question I’m really asking, which is about Lust here but probably applies to each of the Seven and to sin more generally, is this: What’s the difference between a hypocritical condemnation of our own sins when we see them in others, and a renunciation of our own sins–sins against others but also against ourselves as well? When someone speaks or writes about sin, they can be engaged in either of these, perhaps both at various turns in the same speech or piece of writing.
But I think Fairlie was renouncing his own sins.
Perhaps we’d best read Fairlie and these other authors in light of something Lewis wrote:
Very often what God first helps us towards is not the virtue [of chastity] itself but just this power of always trying again. For however important chastity (or courage, or truthfulness, or any other virtue) may be, this process trains us in habits of the soul which are more important still. It cures our illusions about ourselves and teaches us to depend on God. We learn, on the one hand, that we cannot trust ourselves even in our best moments, and, on the other, that we need not despair even in our worst, for our failures are forgiven. The only fatal thing is to sit down content with anything less than perfection.31
As we reckon with the Lenten season, I’m not saying that reckoning must take the form of a book about sin, or a painting, or even a Substack post. There are, after all, many other ways to try to love again.
Dr. Aaron M. Long is a Lecturer in English at a flagship state university, and a Lecturer in Philosophy at a historied regional art school. He writes a Substack called Salvage and has published articles in Twentieth-Century Literature, The Nautilus, and Science Fiction Film & Television, among others. Here on Substack he has collaborated on The Deadly Seven. You can find him on LinkedIn and his website is here.
According to recent Pew Research Center data, 86% of Americans surveyed believe “People have a soul or spirit in addition to a physical body.”
Henry Fairlie, The Seven Deadly Sins Today (Washington, D.C.: New Republic Books, 1978), 33-34.
Fairlie, 34.
Fairlie, 35.
Christopher Sykes, “Lust,” in The Seven Deadly Sins (London, England, UK: Sunday Times Publications Ltd., 1962), 66-76; see 76.
Dorothy Sayers, “The Other Six Deadly Sins,” in Letters to a Diminished Church (Nashville, TN: W. Publishing Group, 2004), 81-107; see 81.
For what it’s worth, I appreciate Billy Graham and his legacy. I spent my undergraduate years at his alma mater, Wheaton College. Most of my courses met in the Billy Graham Center, which houses an inspiring museum dedicated to his legacy; and I visited that museum every few weeks, taking inspiration from his life. But his generation strove admirably for an innocence my own has lost; and even if we had it, culture and media in our century are such that it would be difficult to sustain. Besides, what better witness to a post-truth age than to call a thing what it is? As we have seen over the past decade, when Christians sugarcoat, excuse, or explain away sin, it does untold damage to their culture.
Billy Graham, The 7 Deadly Sins (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan Publishing, 1955), 58.
C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity (San Francisco, CA: HarperSanFrancisco, 1952), 100.
Sayers, 82-83. Italics here are my own.
Graham, 56. I read the “down” here as a direction on the Renaissance Scala Natura, which located various beings in a hierarchy with God at the apex. In the illustration linked above, beneath God we see the angels, then humankind, then the animals (birds first, then fish, then ‘beasts’--land animals, some of which are now recognizable as mythical), then plants, then the ground. Graham’s language here suggests he’s inherited the mental furniture of Victorian Britain, where, especially post-Darwin, there was a great deal of paranoia about the so-called “descent of Man” toward a state of nature, that barbaric state in which humankind emerged as itself before beginning its painstaking, millennia-long effort at civilization. Descent thinking like this has been complicit in eugenics, oppression of the poor, imperialism, and the mistreatment of animals. Note: by recognizing that connection I’m in no way indicting Billy Graham as either responsible or complicit in such atrocities, only noting that he was, in this instance, a man of his time and place.
Lewis, 96.
Some may want to quibble about whether she’s had any hand in her own situation, but that’s beside the point. If you find that impulse in yourself I’d encourage you to reconsider it because it’s unkind to blame victims, even when they have made choices that have abetted their subjugators; and it’s especially unkind if you’ve never been victimized in that particular way yourself.
Lewis, 97.
Lewis, 99. Last fall,
made a similar point in an interview with , recounted in India’s post here on Substack, “Rejecting the Machine.”Fairlie, 179.
Fairlie, 177.
Fairlie, 175.
Fairlie, 175.
Fairlie, 175.
Fairlie, 176. Italics are my own.
Tom Shippey, The Road to Middle-Earth: How J.R.R. Tolkien Created a New Mythology (New York, NY: Houghton Mifflin Company, 2003), 88.
Fairlie, 178-179.
Shippey, 88.
William Cronon, “The Trouble With Wilderness; or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature,” in Uncommon Ground, ed. William Cronon (New York, NY: W. W. Norton & Company, 1995), 70.
Sykes, 67.
Sykes, 67.
Fairlie, 184.
Fairlie, 185.
“Hilary Kilmarnock, Abu Daoud & Alf Carretta,” The Sunday Times (11 July 2010). See https://www.thetimes.com/article/hilary-kilmarnock-abu-daoud-and-alf-carretta-t85sn9kmkhz.
Lewis, 101-102.
Incredible post, commission, and just when I thought the post would end it kept going. Really thought provoking read.
Aaron, you captured so well in words what I tried to capture in paint. Thanks for inviting me into this reflection this Lenten season.