Though his works helped to introduce the movement, they're
void of any sense of self - promotion or indulgence that one conjures when considering the likes of Warhol, Lichtenstein or Rauschenberg.
This
self of hers, which, if it had become «his» beloved, she would have been rid
of in the most blissful way, or would have lost, this
self is now a torment to her when it has to be a
self without «him»; this
self which would have been to her riches (though in another
sense equally in despair) has now become to her a loathsome
void, since «he» is dead, or it has become to her an abhorrence, since it reminds her
of the fact that she was betrayed.