"it was if Flecther was too much himself. this was too perfect an image of him: the contemplative, staring at the sun, his every pore and pucker demanding the attention of Jaffe's aching retina, as if his portrait had been painted by a thousand miniaturists, all of whom had been granted an inch of their subject and with brushes bearing a single hair rendered their portion in nauseating detail. the rest of the room-- the walls, the window, even the chair on which Fletcher sat-- swam out of focus, unable to compete with the too-thorough reality of this man."