It was a terrible face, void, peaked, abstracted almost into meaninglessness by the weight of sensation beneath.

He saw the Pussum in it.

As in a dream, he knew her.
'Why is it art ?' Gerald asked, shocked, resentful.
'It conveys a complete truth,' said Birkin.

'It contains the whole truth of that state, whatever you feel about it.' 'But you can't call it HIGH art,' said Gerald.
'High! There are centuries and hundreds of centuries of development in a straight line, behind that carving; it is an awful pitch of culture, of a definite sort.' 'What culture ?' Gerald asked, in opposition.

He hated the sheer African thing.
'Pure culture in sensation, culture in the physical consciousness, really ultimate PHYSICAL consciousness, mindless, utterly sensual.