And in his art he tells not a half-truth but a truth-and-a-half.

He whispers to me, in hushed, shameful tones that he has put too much of himself in the canvas, and I scoff because I know it to be true. I have seen it. I have seen Basil beneath the blue eyes and the sun-gold hair, and every time I do I feel a pang of jealousy for the man who can preserve himself in such a way. How would it be to paint your own face over that of youth in full bloom, to see oneself through the eyes of an Adonis? How would it be to unveil your portrait in the front of a crowded room, to display one's own naked self parading as a god on mortal's earth? What would it be like for no one to see through the façade?

But ah, Basil, I see through it. I view the painting as one might a grand symphony: glorious in all its entirety, the culmination of both art – beauty – and intellect, but formed from pieces that are not quite whole; fragments, fractures, discord. I see you, Basil, as you truly are, in all your broken glory, and you love and loathe me for it.