Salvador Dali Les trois sphinx de bikiniSalvador Dali Enchanted Beach with Three Fluid GracesMark Rothko Untitled 1960Mark Rothko Violet Green and Red
reached out without turning his head and picked him up by his grubby collar without apparent effort.
'A length of string,' he repeated, 'and a nail.'
'Yes, Corporal Carrot.'
'And the rest'How did you know there was someone dead in here?'
'I . . . just had a feeling.'
The beggars returned, so unnerved that of you, go away,' said Angua.They goggled at her.'Do it!' she shouted, clenching her fists. 'And stop staring at her!'The beggars vanished.'It'll take a while to get the string,' said Carrot, brushing aside some glass. 'They'll have to beg it off someone, you see.'He drew his knife and started digging at the floorboards, with care. Eventually he excavated a metal slug, flattened slightly by its passage through the window, the mirror, the floorboards and certain parts of the late Lettice Knibbs that had never been designed to see daylight.He turned it over and over in his hand.'Angua?''Yes?'
Tuesday 28 April 2009
Robert Duval Emotional Dance
Robert Duval Emotional DanceSteve Thoms Field of Red and GoldPedro Alvarez Tango ArgentinoCassius Marcellus Coolidge A Bold Bluff
Trees leaflets, Detritus toppled backwards with his mug still in his hand. Apart from the 90° change in position, he didn't move a muscle.
'It's the sulphur,' said Cuddy, without looking around. 'It goes right to their heads.'
Carrot thumped his fist on the bar.
'We ought to do 'No dwarf did it,' said Cuddy, who was swaying gently. 'No troll, neither.' He tried to tap the side of his nose, and missed. 'The reason being, he still had all his arms and legs on.'
'Captain Vimes'll want it investigated,' said Carrot.
'Captain Vimes is trying to learn to be a civilian,' said Nobby.something!''We could nick his boots,' said Nobby.'I mean about Mr Hammerhock.''Oh, yeah, yeah,' said Nobby. 'You sound like old Vimesy. If we was to worry about every dead body in this town—''But not like this!' snapped Carrot. 'Normally it's just . . . well . . . suicide, or Guild fighting, stuff like that. But he was just a dwarf! Pillar of the community! Spent all day making swords and axes and burial weapons and crossbows and torture implements! And then he's in the river with a great big hole in his chest! Who's going to do anything about it, if not us?''You been putting anything in your milk?' said Colon. 'Look, the dwarfs can sort it out. It's like Quarry Lane. Don't stick your nose where someone can pull it off and eat it.''We're the City Watch,' said Carrot. 'That doesn't mean just that part of the city who happens to be over four feet tall and made of flesh!'
Trees leaflets, Detritus toppled backwards with his mug still in his hand. Apart from the 90° change in position, he didn't move a muscle.
'It's the sulphur,' said Cuddy, without looking around. 'It goes right to their heads.'
Carrot thumped his fist on the bar.
'We ought to do 'No dwarf did it,' said Cuddy, who was swaying gently. 'No troll, neither.' He tried to tap the side of his nose, and missed. 'The reason being, he still had all his arms and legs on.'
'Captain Vimes'll want it investigated,' said Carrot.
'Captain Vimes is trying to learn to be a civilian,' said Nobby.something!''We could nick his boots,' said Nobby.'I mean about Mr Hammerhock.''Oh, yeah, yeah,' said Nobby. 'You sound like old Vimesy. If we was to worry about every dead body in this town—''But not like this!' snapped Carrot. 'Normally it's just . . . well . . . suicide, or Guild fighting, stuff like that. But he was just a dwarf! Pillar of the community! Spent all day making swords and axes and burial weapons and crossbows and torture implements! And then he's in the river with a great big hole in his chest! Who's going to do anything about it, if not us?''You been putting anything in your milk?' said Colon. 'Look, the dwarfs can sort it out. It's like Quarry Lane. Don't stick your nose where someone can pull it off and eat it.''We're the City Watch,' said Carrot. 'That doesn't mean just that part of the city who happens to be over four feet tall and made of flesh!'
Sunday 26 April 2009
Jean Beraud La Rue de la Paix
Jean Beraud La Rue de la PaixHenri Rousseau The Snake CharmerHenri Rousseau The Dream
said Carrot. He crossed the road, with Angua padding along behind him, as the fat man slowed to a waddle.
' 'Morning, Mr Flannel,' he said. 'Bit of trouble?'
'He took seven Angua gave Mr Flannel a smile. He stepped back.
'But she's a—'
'Got to move with the times, Mr Flannel,' said Carrot, putting his notebook away.
Mr Flannel drew his mind back to business.
'In the meantime, there's eighteen dollars of mine that I won't see again,' he said sharply.
'Oh, nil desperandum, Mr Flannel, nil desperandum,' said Carrot cheerfully. 'Come, Constable Angua. Let us proceed upon our inquiries.'
He proceeded off, with Flannel staring at them with his mouth opendollars and I never saw no Thief Licence!' said Mr Flannel. 'What you going to do about it? I pay my taxes!''We shall be hotly in pursuit any moment,' said Carrot calmly, taking out his notebook. 'Seven dollars, was it?''At least fourteen.'Mr Flannel looked Angua up and down. Men seldom missed the opportunity.'Why's she got a helmet on?' he said.'She's a new recruit, Mr Flannel.'
said Carrot. He crossed the road, with Angua padding along behind him, as the fat man slowed to a waddle.
' 'Morning, Mr Flannel,' he said. 'Bit of trouble?'
'He took seven Angua gave Mr Flannel a smile. He stepped back.
'But she's a—'
'Got to move with the times, Mr Flannel,' said Carrot, putting his notebook away.
Mr Flannel drew his mind back to business.
'In the meantime, there's eighteen dollars of mine that I won't see again,' he said sharply.
'Oh, nil desperandum, Mr Flannel, nil desperandum,' said Carrot cheerfully. 'Come, Constable Angua. Let us proceed upon our inquiries.'
He proceeded off, with Flannel staring at them with his mouth opendollars and I never saw no Thief Licence!' said Mr Flannel. 'What you going to do about it? I pay my taxes!''We shall be hotly in pursuit any moment,' said Carrot calmly, taking out his notebook. 'Seven dollars, was it?''At least fourteen.'Mr Flannel looked Angua up and down. Men seldom missed the opportunity.'Why's she got a helmet on?' he said.'She's a new recruit, Mr Flannel.'
Friday 24 April 2009
Henri Matisse Odalisques
Henri Matisse OdalisquesHenri Matisse OdalisqueHenri Matisse MusicHenri Matisse Le bonheur de vivreGeorges Seurat The Circus
at Granny. There was an elf on either side of her and. Granny knew, at least one behind her. Elves were not given to introspection; if she moved without permission, she’d die.
“What you shall be is something I have yet to decide,” said the Queen. She held up an exquisitely thin hand and curled the thumb and forefinger into a ring, which she held up to her eye.
“And now someone “I think it will soon be dawn,” said Granny. “A fine day.
Clear light.”
“Not soon enough,” The Queen stood up. She glanced at King Verence for a moment, and changed. Her dress went from red to silver, catching the torchlight like glittering fish scales. Her hair unraveled and reshaped itself, became corn blond. And a subtle ripple of alterations flowed across her face before she said, “What do you thinkcomes,” she said, “with armor that doesn’t fit and a sword she cannot use and an axe she can hardly even lift, because it is so romantic, is it not? What is her name?”“Magrat Garlick,” said Granny.“She is a mighty enchantress, is she?”“She’s good with herbs.”The Queen laughed.“I could kill her from here.”“Yes,” said Granny, “but that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? Humiliation is the key.”The Queen nodded.“You know, you think very much like an elf.”
at Granny. There was an elf on either side of her and. Granny knew, at least one behind her. Elves were not given to introspection; if she moved without permission, she’d die.
“What you shall be is something I have yet to decide,” said the Queen. She held up an exquisitely thin hand and curled the thumb and forefinger into a ring, which she held up to her eye.
“And now someone “I think it will soon be dawn,” said Granny. “A fine day.
Clear light.”
“Not soon enough,” The Queen stood up. She glanced at King Verence for a moment, and changed. Her dress went from red to silver, catching the torchlight like glittering fish scales. Her hair unraveled and reshaped itself, became corn blond. And a subtle ripple of alterations flowed across her face before she said, “What do you thinkcomes,” she said, “with armor that doesn’t fit and a sword she cannot use and an axe she can hardly even lift, because it is so romantic, is it not? What is her name?”“Magrat Garlick,” said Granny.“She is a mighty enchantress, is she?”“She’s good with herbs.”The Queen laughed.“I could kill her from here.”“Yes,” said Granny, “but that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? Humiliation is the key.”The Queen nodded.“You know, you think very much like an elf.”
Wednesday 22 April 2009
Claude Monet Terrace at St Adresse
Claude Monet Terrace at St AdresseClaude Monet Cliffs Near DieppeClaude Monet A Corner of the Studio
against her and gave it a critical examination.
There was a small mirror against the wall.
After a certain amount of internal tussling Magrat gave in and tried the dress on. It wasn’t as if she’d be wearing it tomorrow. If she never did try it on, she’d always wonder if it had fitted.
It fitted. Or, rather, it didn’t fit but in a flattering way. Whatever Verence had paid, it had been worth it. The dress-maker had done cunning things with the material, so that it went in where Magrat went straight up and down and bil-lowed out . And they’d find out. About the letter. News went around Lancre faster than turpentine through a sick donkey.
She’d have to go away. Perhaps find somewhere where there were no witches and start up again, although at the moment her feelings about witches were such that she’d pre-fer practically any other profession, insofar as there were other professions for an ex-witch.
Magrat stuck out her chin. The way she felt now, withwhere Magrat didn’t.The veil had silk flowers on the headband.I’m not going to start crying again, Magrat told herself. I’m going to stay angry. I’m going to wind up the anger until it’s thick enough to become rage, and when they come back I shall—l what? She could try being icy. She could sweep majestically past them . . . this was a good dress for that . . . and that’d teach them.And then what? She couldn’t stay here, not with every-one knowing
against her and gave it a critical examination.
There was a small mirror against the wall.
After a certain amount of internal tussling Magrat gave in and tried the dress on. It wasn’t as if she’d be wearing it tomorrow. If she never did try it on, she’d always wonder if it had fitted.
It fitted. Or, rather, it didn’t fit but in a flattering way. Whatever Verence had paid, it had been worth it. The dress-maker had done cunning things with the material, so that it went in where Magrat went straight up and down and bil-lowed out . And they’d find out. About the letter. News went around Lancre faster than turpentine through a sick donkey.
She’d have to go away. Perhaps find somewhere where there were no witches and start up again, although at the moment her feelings about witches were such that she’d pre-fer practically any other profession, insofar as there were other professions for an ex-witch.
Magrat stuck out her chin. The way she felt now, withwhere Magrat didn’t.The veil had silk flowers on the headband.I’m not going to start crying again, Magrat told herself. I’m going to stay angry. I’m going to wind up the anger until it’s thick enough to become rage, and when they come back I shall—l what? She could try being icy. She could sweep majestically past them . . . this was a good dress for that . . . and that’d teach them.And then what? She couldn’t stay here, not with every-one knowing
Tuesday 21 April 2009
Pop art why are you still here
Pop art why are you still herePop art trane in redPop art stevie on brown
Despite her better nature, Magrat felt a spark of righ-teous ire.
“Oh, so suddenly I’m a witch again when you—“
Granny Weatherwax sighed.
“No time for that, either,” she said. “I’m just askin’. All you have to do is say no. Then I’ll take her away and won’t bother you again.”
The quietness of her voice was so unexpected that Magrat tripped over her own anger, and tried to right her-self.
“I wasn’t saying I wouldn’t, I was just—“
“Good.”
There Shawn paused halfway to the door.
“Yes, Miss Queen?”
“On your way out, stop off in the kitchens and ask them
to boil up a lot of water. We can start by getting the wound
clean, at any rate. But look, elves—“was a series of clangs as Nanny Ogg lifted the sil-ver tureen lids.“Hey, they’ve got three kinds of eggs!”“Well, there’s no fever,” said Magrat. “Slow pulse. Eyes unfocused. Shawn?”“Yes, Miss Queen?”“Boiled, scrambled and fried. That’s what I call posh.”“Run down to my cottage and bring back all the books you can find. I’m sure I read something about this once, Granny. Shawn?”
Despite her better nature, Magrat felt a spark of righ-teous ire.
“Oh, so suddenly I’m a witch again when you—“
Granny Weatherwax sighed.
“No time for that, either,” she said. “I’m just askin’. All you have to do is say no. Then I’ll take her away and won’t bother you again.”
The quietness of her voice was so unexpected that Magrat tripped over her own anger, and tried to right her-self.
“I wasn’t saying I wouldn’t, I was just—“
“Good.”
There Shawn paused halfway to the door.
“Yes, Miss Queen?”
“On your way out, stop off in the kitchens and ask them
to boil up a lot of water. We can start by getting the wound
clean, at any rate. But look, elves—“was a series of clangs as Nanny Ogg lifted the sil-ver tureen lids.“Hey, they’ve got three kinds of eggs!”“Well, there’s no fever,” said Magrat. “Slow pulse. Eyes unfocused. Shawn?”“Yes, Miss Queen?”“Boiled, scrambled and fried. That’s what I call posh.”“Run down to my cottage and bring back all the books you can find. I’m sure I read something about this once, Granny. Shawn?”
Monday 20 April 2009
William Etty Hero and Leander
William Etty Hero and LeanderBenjamin Williams Leader The Wengen Alps Morning In SwitzerlandBenjamin Williams Leader Derwentwater
Hodgesaargh had a job to do. The castle was full of people doing jobs. Everyone had something useful to do except Magrat. She just had to exist. Of course, everyone would talk to her, provided she talked to them first. But she was always interrupting, beehives.
One of the hives had the lid off. Beside it, in the middle of a brown cloud, smoking his special bee pipe, was Mr. Brooks.
“Oh,” she said, “it’s you, Mr. Brooks.”
Technically, Mr. Brooks was the Royal Beekeeper. But
the relationship was a careful one. For one thing, although
most of the staff were called by their last names Mr. Brooks something important. Apart from ensuring the royal succession, which Verence had sent off for a book about, she—“You just keep back there, girl. You don’t want to come no further,” said a voice.Magrat bridled.“Girl? One happens to be very nearly of the royal blood by marriage!”“Maybe, but the bees don’t know that,” said the voice.Magrat stopped.She’d stepped out beyond what were the gardens from the point of view of the royal family and into what were the gardens from the point of view of everyone else—beyond the world of hedges and topiary and herb gardens and into the world of old sheds, piles of flowerpots, compost and, just here
Hodgesaargh had a job to do. The castle was full of people doing jobs. Everyone had something useful to do except Magrat. She just had to exist. Of course, everyone would talk to her, provided she talked to them first. But she was always interrupting, beehives.
One of the hives had the lid off. Beside it, in the middle of a brown cloud, smoking his special bee pipe, was Mr. Brooks.
“Oh,” she said, “it’s you, Mr. Brooks.”
Technically, Mr. Brooks was the Royal Beekeeper. But
the relationship was a careful one. For one thing, although
most of the staff were called by their last names Mr. Brooks something important. Apart from ensuring the royal succession, which Verence had sent off for a book about, she—“You just keep back there, girl. You don’t want to come no further,” said a voice.Magrat bridled.“Girl? One happens to be very nearly of the royal blood by marriage!”“Maybe, but the bees don’t know that,” said the voice.Magrat stopped.She’d stepped out beyond what were the gardens from the point of view of the royal family and into what were the gardens from the point of view of everyone else—beyond the world of hedges and topiary and herb gardens and into the world of old sheds, piles of flowerpots, compost and, just here
Friday 17 April 2009
Cao Yong WINDS OF LOVE
Cao Yong WINDS OF LOVECao Yong Walk In GardenCao Yong VILLA ENCANTADA
Ironfoundersson, the dwarf, came down the mountain specially to make the crown,” said Verence.
“And my brother and Mr. Vittoller’s Men can’t come because they’re touring Klatch, apparently, but Hwel the playsmith has written a special play for the wedding enter-tainment. Something even rustics can’t muck up, he says,” said . And he’ll probably come after you.
Very probably.
Urn.
Maybe not that probably. Because he might be a nice lit-
tle man with gentle runny eyes but he’s also a king and he’sVerence.“So that’s all settled then?” said Verence.Finally, Magrat’s voice returned from some distant apogee, slightly hoarse.“Aren’t you supposed to ask me?” she demanded.“What? Urn. No, actually,” said Verence. “No. Kings don’t ask. I looked it up. I’m the king, you see, and you are, no offense meant, a subject. I don’t have to ask.”Magrat’s mouth opened for the scream of rage but, at last, her brain jolted into operation.Yes, it said, of course you can yell at him and sweep away
Ironfoundersson, the dwarf, came down the mountain specially to make the crown,” said Verence.
“And my brother and Mr. Vittoller’s Men can’t come because they’re touring Klatch, apparently, but Hwel the playsmith has written a special play for the wedding enter-tainment. Something even rustics can’t muck up, he says,” said . And he’ll probably come after you.
Very probably.
Urn.
Maybe not that probably. Because he might be a nice lit-
tle man with gentle runny eyes but he’s also a king and he’sVerence.“So that’s all settled then?” said Verence.Finally, Magrat’s voice returned from some distant apogee, slightly hoarse.“Aren’t you supposed to ask me?” she demanded.“What? Urn. No, actually,” said Verence. “No. Kings don’t ask. I looked it up. I’m the king, you see, and you are, no offense meant, a subject. I don’t have to ask.”Magrat’s mouth opened for the scream of rage but, at last, her brain jolted into operation.Yes, it said, of course you can yell at him and sweep away
Thursday 16 April 2009
Filippino Lippi Allegory
Filippino Lippi AllegoryBartolome Esteban Murillo A Girl and her DuennaCaravaggio The Incredulity of Saint Thomas
Brutha could take in the scene. There was the staff of Ossory, and Abbys's cloak, and the sandals of Cena. And, supporting the dome, the massive statues of the first four prophets. He'd never seen them. He'd heard about them every day of his childhood.
And what did they mean now? They didn't mean anything. Nothing meant anything, if Vorbis was Prophet. Nothing meant Smiling.
The part of him still capable of thought was thinking: there is nothing you can say. No one will listen. No one will care. It doesn't matter what you tell people about Ephebe, and Brother Murduck, and the desert. It won't be fundamentally true.
Fundamentally true. That's what the world is, with Vorbis in it.
Vorbis said, "There is something wrong? Something you wish to say?"
The black-on-black eyes filled the world, like two pits.anything, if the Cenobiarch was a man who'd heard nothing in the inner spaces of his own head but his own thoughts.He was aware that Vorbis's gesture had not only halted the guards, although they surrounded him like a hedge. It had also filled the temple with silence. Into which Vorbis spoke."Ah. My Brutha. We had looked for you in vain. And now even you are here . . ."Brutha stopped a few feet away. The moment of . . . whatever it had been . . . that had propelled him through the doors had drained away.Now all there was, was Vorbis.
Brutha could take in the scene. There was the staff of Ossory, and Abbys's cloak, and the sandals of Cena. And, supporting the dome, the massive statues of the first four prophets. He'd never seen them. He'd heard about them every day of his childhood.
And what did they mean now? They didn't mean anything. Nothing meant anything, if Vorbis was Prophet. Nothing meant Smiling.
The part of him still capable of thought was thinking: there is nothing you can say. No one will listen. No one will care. It doesn't matter what you tell people about Ephebe, and Brother Murduck, and the desert. It won't be fundamentally true.
Fundamentally true. That's what the world is, with Vorbis in it.
Vorbis said, "There is something wrong? Something you wish to say?"
The black-on-black eyes filled the world, like two pits.anything, if the Cenobiarch was a man who'd heard nothing in the inner spaces of his own head but his own thoughts.He was aware that Vorbis's gesture had not only halted the guards, although they surrounded him like a hedge. It had also filled the temple with silence. Into which Vorbis spoke."Ah. My Brutha. We had looked for you in vain. And now even you are here . . ."Brutha stopped a few feet away. The moment of . . . whatever it had been . . . that had propelled him through the doors had drained away.Now all there was, was Vorbis.
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Rene Magritte Primevere
Rene Magritte PrimevereRene Magritte Personal ValuesRene Magritte Dangerous LiaisonsFranz Marc Turm der blauen Pferde
Did the Cenobiarch know about this? Did anyone else know about the two kinds of truth? Who else knew that Vorbis was fighting both sides of a war, like a child playing with soldiers? Was it really wrong if it was for the greater glory of . . .
. . . a god who was a tortoise. A god that only Brutha believed in?
Who did Vorbis talk to when he prayed?
Through the mental storm Brutha heard Vorbis's level tones: "If the philosopher who wrote this does not own up, the entirety of you will be put to the flame. Do not doubt that I mean it."
There was a movement in the crowd, and the sound of Didactylos's voice.
"Let go! You "You are blind?"
"Only as far as vision is concerned, my lord."
"Yet you carry a lantern," said Vorbis. "Doubtless for some catchword reason. Probably you'll tell me you're looking for an honest man?"heard him! Anyway . . . I always wanted a chance to do this . . ."A couple of servants were pushed aside and the philosopher stumped out of the crowd, his barren lantern held defiantly over his head.Brutha watched the philosopher pause for a moment in the empty space, and then turn very slowly until he was directly facing Vorbis. He took a few steps forward then, and held the lantern out as he appeared to regard the deacon critically."Hmm," he said."You are the . . . perpetrator?" said Vorbis."Indeed. Didactylos is my name."
Did the Cenobiarch know about this? Did anyone else know about the two kinds of truth? Who else knew that Vorbis was fighting both sides of a war, like a child playing with soldiers? Was it really wrong if it was for the greater glory of . . .
. . . a god who was a tortoise. A god that only Brutha believed in?
Who did Vorbis talk to when he prayed?
Through the mental storm Brutha heard Vorbis's level tones: "If the philosopher who wrote this does not own up, the entirety of you will be put to the flame. Do not doubt that I mean it."
There was a movement in the crowd, and the sound of Didactylos's voice.
"Let go! You "You are blind?"
"Only as far as vision is concerned, my lord."
"Yet you carry a lantern," said Vorbis. "Doubtless for some catchword reason. Probably you'll tell me you're looking for an honest man?"heard him! Anyway . . . I always wanted a chance to do this . . ."A couple of servants were pushed aside and the philosopher stumped out of the crowd, his barren lantern held defiantly over his head.Brutha watched the philosopher pause for a moment in the empty space, and then turn very slowly until he was directly facing Vorbis. He took a few steps forward then, and held the lantern out as he appeared to regard the deacon critically."Hmm," he said."You are the . . . perpetrator?" said Vorbis."Indeed. Didactylos is my name."
Tuesday 14 April 2009
Ford Madox Brown Work
Ford Madox Brown WorkFord Madox Brown Romeo and JulietPierre Auguste Renoir La Promenade
Brutha's brow wrinkled. He couldn't remember that one.
"Walk away," said the voice of the God in his head. "You don't need trouble."
"I hope your journey is a pleasant one," said Brutha politely. "Whatever the destination."
He backed away and headed toward the gate.
"A man who will have to spend some time in the hells of correction, if I am any judge," he said. The god said nothing.
The Ephebian going to Ephebe?"
"Yes."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because I told him so," said the voice of Vorbis, behind the man. "And here he is, mostraveling group was beginning to assemble now. Brutha stood to attention and tried to keep out of everyone's way. He saw a dozen mounted soldiers, but unlike the camel riders they were in the brightly polished fishmail and black-and-yellow cloaks that the Legionaries usually only wore on special occasions. Brutha thought they looked very impressive.Eventually one of the stable servants came up to him."What are you doing here, novice?" he demanded."I am going to Ephebe," said Brutha.The man glared at him and then grinned."You? You're not even ordained! You're t
Brutha's brow wrinkled. He couldn't remember that one.
"Walk away," said the voice of the God in his head. "You don't need trouble."
"I hope your journey is a pleasant one," said Brutha politely. "Whatever the destination."
He backed away and headed toward the gate.
"A man who will have to spend some time in the hells of correction, if I am any judge," he said. The god said nothing.
The Ephebian going to Ephebe?"
"Yes."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because I told him so," said the voice of Vorbis, behind the man. "And here he is, mostraveling group was beginning to assemble now. Brutha stood to attention and tried to keep out of everyone's way. He saw a dozen mounted soldiers, but unlike the camel riders they were in the brightly polished fishmail and black-and-yellow cloaks that the Legionaries usually only wore on special occasions. Brutha thought they looked very impressive.Eventually one of the stable servants came up to him."What are you doing here, novice?" he demanded."I am going to Ephebe," said Brutha.The man glared at him and then grinned."You? You're not even ordained! You're t
Monday 13 April 2009
Frida Kahlo Diego and I
Frida Kahlo Diego and IDouglas Hofmann ModelDouglas Hofmann Jessica
Legion picked up the novice by the elbows, on the second attempt, and marched him swiftly out of the procession's path and hurled him into the crowd.
"Brutha!"
Brutha bounded across the plaza to the statue and leaned against it, panting.
"I'm going to go to hell!" he muttered. "For all eternity! "
"Who cares? Now . . . get me away from here. "
No one was "It wants to eat me," it said patiently.
"But you're a tortoise!"
"I am your God!"
"But currently in the shape of a tortoise. With a shell on, is what I mean."
"That doesn't worry eagles," said the tortoise darkly. "They pick you up, carry you paying him any attention now. They were all watching the procession. Even watching the procession was a holy act. Brutha knelt down and peered into the scrollwork around the base of the statue.One beady eye glared back at him."How did you get under there?""It was touch and go," said the tortoise. "I tell you, when I'm back on form, there's going to be a considerable redesigning of eagles.""What's the eagle trying to do to you?" said Brutha."It wants to carry me off to its nest and give me dinner," snarled the tortoise. "What do you think it wanted to do?" There was a short pause in which it contemplated the futility of sarcasm in the presence of Brutha; it was like throwing meringues at a castle.
Legion picked up the novice by the elbows, on the second attempt, and marched him swiftly out of the procession's path and hurled him into the crowd.
"Brutha!"
Brutha bounded across the plaza to the statue and leaned against it, panting.
"I'm going to go to hell!" he muttered. "For all eternity! "
"Who cares? Now . . . get me away from here. "
No one was "It wants to eat me," it said patiently.
"But you're a tortoise!"
"I am your God!"
"But currently in the shape of a tortoise. With a shell on, is what I mean."
"That doesn't worry eagles," said the tortoise darkly. "They pick you up, carry you paying him any attention now. They were all watching the procession. Even watching the procession was a holy act. Brutha knelt down and peered into the scrollwork around the base of the statue.One beady eye glared back at him."How did you get under there?""It was touch and go," said the tortoise. "I tell you, when I'm back on form, there's going to be a considerable redesigning of eagles.""What's the eagle trying to do to you?" said Brutha."It wants to carry me off to its nest and give me dinner," snarled the tortoise. "What do you think it wanted to do?" There was a short pause in which it contemplated the futility of sarcasm in the presence of Brutha; it was like throwing meringues at a castle.
Diane Romanello Sunset Beach
Diane Romanello Sunset BeachGustav Klimt The Virgins (Le Vergini)Gustav Klimt The Three Ages of Woman
perhaps there was someone who did know all there was to be known about the Citadel. There's always someone who collects knowledge, not because of a love of the stuff but in the same way that a magpie collects glitter or a caddis fly in clay by a child and then rolled out.
The second thing that people noticed about Vorbis was his eyes. His ancestors had come from one of the deep desert tribes that had evolved the peculiar trait of having dark eyes-not just dark of pupil, but almost black of eyeball. It made it very hard to tell where he was looking. It was as if he had sunglasses on under his skin.
But the first thing they noticed was his skull.
Deacon Vorbis was bald by design. Most of the Church's ministers, as soon as they were ordained, cultivated collects little bits of twigs and rock. And there's always someone who has to do all those things that need to be done but which other people would rather not do or, even, acknowledge existed.The third thing the people noticed about Vorbis was his height. He was well over six feet tall, but stickthin, like a normal proportioned person modeled
perhaps there was someone who did know all there was to be known about the Citadel. There's always someone who collects knowledge, not because of a love of the stuff but in the same way that a magpie collects glitter or a caddis fly in clay by a child and then rolled out.
The second thing that people noticed about Vorbis was his eyes. His ancestors had come from one of the deep desert tribes that had evolved the peculiar trait of having dark eyes-not just dark of pupil, but almost black of eyeball. It made it very hard to tell where he was looking. It was as if he had sunglasses on under his skin.
But the first thing they noticed was his skull.
Deacon Vorbis was bald by design. Most of the Church's ministers, as soon as they were ordained, cultivated collects little bits of twigs and rock. And there's always someone who has to do all those things that need to be done but which other people would rather not do or, even, acknowledge existed.The third thing the people noticed about Vorbis was his height. He was well over six feet tall, but stickthin, like a normal proportioned person modeled
Friday 10 April 2009
William Blake The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with Sun
William Blake The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with SunWilliam Blake The Descent of ChristWilliam Blake Los
of natural philosophy was pretty vague, was sure there had been one of those only the other day.
Well, it been able to understand, which is that you can't cross the same river twice. Experiments with a long-legged wizard and a small river say you can cross the same river thirty, thirty-five times a minute.
Wizards don't like philosophy very much. As far as they are concerned, one hand clapping makes a noise like 'cl'.
In this particular case, though, Rincewind couldn't go home because it didn't matter. He'd had enough. He wasn't going to try to understand anything any more. He was going home.Except that wizards can never go home.This is one of the ancient and deeply meaningful sayings about wizards and it says something about most of them that they have never been able to work out what it means. Wizards aren't allowed to have wives but they are allowed to have parents, and many of them go back to the old home town for Hogswatch Night or Soul Cake Thursday, for a bit of a singsong and the heart-warming sight of all their boyhood bullies hurriedly avoiding them in the street.It's rather like the other saying they've never
of natural philosophy was pretty vague, was sure there had been one of those only the other day.
Well, it been able to understand, which is that you can't cross the same river twice. Experiments with a long-legged wizard and a small river say you can cross the same river thirty, thirty-five times a minute.
Wizards don't like philosophy very much. As far as they are concerned, one hand clapping makes a noise like 'cl'.
In this particular case, though, Rincewind couldn't go home because it didn't matter. He'd had enough. He wasn't going to try to understand anything any more. He was going home.Except that wizards can never go home.This is one of the ancient and deeply meaningful sayings about wizards and it says something about most of them that they have never been able to work out what it means. Wizards aren't allowed to have wives but they are allowed to have parents, and many of them go back to the old home town for Hogswatch Night or Soul Cake Thursday, for a bit of a singsong and the heart-warming sight of all their boyhood bullies hurriedly avoiding them in the street.It's rather like the other saying they've never
Wednesday 8 April 2009
Edward Hopper Drug Store
Edward Hopper Drug StoreEdward Hopper Conference at NightEdward Hopper City Sunlight
behind him, humming to herself.
'Are you all right?' she said.
'Nurrgh,' said Rincewind.
'Sorry?'
'Those men,' he bubbled, 'I mean, the way you kicked his ... when you grabbed them by the ... when you stabbed that one right in ... who are you?'
'My name is Conina.'
Rincewindof unseemly scuffles only an hour ago, was a seedy disreputable tavern. In fact it was a reputable disreputable tavern. Its customers had a certain rough-hewn respectability - they might murder each other in an easygoing way, as between equals, but they didn't do it vindictively. A child could go in for a glass of lemonade and be certain of getting nothing worse than a clip ro looked at her blankly for some time.'Sorry,' he said, 'doesn't ring a bell.''I haven't been here long,' she said.'Yes, I didn't think you were from around these parts,' he said. 'I would have heard.''I've taken lodgings here. Shall we go in?'Rincewind glanced up at the dingy pole just visible in the smoky light of the spitting torches. It indicated that the hostelry behind the small dark door was the Troll's Head.It might be thought that the Mended Drum, scene und the ear when his mother heard his expanded
behind him, humming to herself.
'Are you all right?' she said.
'Nurrgh,' said Rincewind.
'Sorry?'
'Those men,' he bubbled, 'I mean, the way you kicked his ... when you grabbed them by the ... when you stabbed that one right in ... who are you?'
'My name is Conina.'
Rincewindof unseemly scuffles only an hour ago, was a seedy disreputable tavern. In fact it was a reputable disreputable tavern. Its customers had a certain rough-hewn respectability - they might murder each other in an easygoing way, as between equals, but they didn't do it vindictively. A child could go in for a glass of lemonade and be certain of getting nothing worse than a clip ro looked at her blankly for some time.'Sorry,' he said, 'doesn't ring a bell.''I haven't been here long,' she said.'Yes, I didn't think you were from around these parts,' he said. 'I would have heard.''I've taken lodgings here. Shall we go in?'Rincewind glanced up at the dingy pole just visible in the smoky light of the spitting torches. It indicated that the hostelry behind the small dark door was the Troll's Head.It might be thought that the Mended Drum, scene und the ear when his mother heard his expanded
Tuesday 7 April 2009
Francois Boucher The Interrupted Sleep
Francois Boucher The Interrupted SleepFrancois Boucher Portrait of Marquise de PompadourFrancois Boucher Diana Resting after her Bath
There was one lifetimer left on Death’s desk. He stared at it.
Swivel, swivel. Swivel, swivel.
In the hall outside, the great clock ticked on, killing time. Death drummed his skeletal fingers on the desk’s scarred He raised the hourglass and watched the draining of Time. And then he paused. There was something he had to know. Bill Door had been curious about things, and he could remember everything about being Bill Door. He could look at emotions laid out like trapped butterflies, pinned on cork, under glass.
Bill Door was dead, or at least had ceased his brief woodwork. In front of him, stacked up with impromptu bookmarks in their pages, were the lives of some of the Discworld’s great lovers.* Their fairly repetitive experiences hadn’t been any help at all.He got up and stalked to a window and stared out at his dark domain, his hands clenching and unclenching behind his back.Then he snatched up the lifetimer and strode out of the room. Binky was waiting in the warm fug of the stables. Death saddled him quickly and led him out into the courtyard, and then rode up into the night, towards the distant glittering jewel of the Discworld. He touched down silently in the farmyard, at sunset.He drifted through a wall.He reached the foot of the stairs.
There was one lifetimer left on Death’s desk. He stared at it.
Swivel, swivel. Swivel, swivel.
In the hall outside, the great clock ticked on, killing time. Death drummed his skeletal fingers on the desk’s scarred He raised the hourglass and watched the draining of Time. And then he paused. There was something he had to know. Bill Door had been curious about things, and he could remember everything about being Bill Door. He could look at emotions laid out like trapped butterflies, pinned on cork, under glass.
Bill Door was dead, or at least had ceased his brief woodwork. In front of him, stacked up with impromptu bookmarks in their pages, were the lives of some of the Discworld’s great lovers.* Their fairly repetitive experiences hadn’t been any help at all.He got up and stalked to a window and stared out at his dark domain, his hands clenching and unclenching behind his back.Then he snatched up the lifetimer and strode out of the room. Binky was waiting in the warm fug of the stables. Death saddled him quickly and led him out into the courtyard, and then rode up into the night, towards the distant glittering jewel of the Discworld. He touched down silently in the farmyard, at sunset.He drifted through a wall.He reached the foot of the stairs.
Monday 6 April 2009
Mary Magdalene at the Tomb
Mary Magdalene at the TombThomas Kinkade yankee stadiumThomas Kinkade ny yankee stadium
it dawned on him that the thing on the other side of the hedge was only a robed assemblage of ribs and femurs and vertebrae if viewed from one point of view but, if looked at slightly differently, was equally just a complexity of sparging arms and reciprocating levers that had been covered by a tarpaulin which was now blowing off.
The . They were red in the face, their
robes were torn, and several over-
enthusiastic shots had resulted in singed beards and burnt hats.
‘Hasn’t anyone got any more spells on them?’ he said.
They thought feverishly.Combination Harvester was in front of him.Bill Door grinned horribly. Un-Bill Door thoughts rose up in his mind. He stepped forward.The wall of trolleys surrounded the wizards.The last flare from a staff melted a hole, which was instantly filled up by more trolleys.Ridcully turned to his fellow wizards
it dawned on him that the thing on the other side of the hedge was only a robed assemblage of ribs and femurs and vertebrae if viewed from one point of view but, if looked at slightly differently, was equally just a complexity of sparging arms and reciprocating levers that had been covered by a tarpaulin which was now blowing off.
The . They were red in the face, their
robes were torn, and several over-
enthusiastic shots had resulted in singed beards and burnt hats.
‘Hasn’t anyone got any more spells on them?’ he said.
They thought feverishly.Combination Harvester was in front of him.Bill Door grinned horribly. Un-Bill Door thoughts rose up in his mind. He stepped forward.The wall of trolleys surrounded the wizards.The last flare from a staff melted a hole, which was instantly filled up by more trolleys.Ridcully turned to his fellow wizards
Friday 3 April 2009
Salvador Dali The Rose
Salvador Dali The RoseSalvador Dali Paysage aux papillons (Landscape with Butterflies)Salvador Dali Mirage
eighths Gripley. You knew where you were with a reciprocating linkage. It either worked or it didn’t. It taking the horse out of the equation. He’d tried clockwork. and that wasn’t powerful enough. Maybe if he tried winding a - Behind him, the kettle boiled over and put the fire out. Simnel fought his way through the steam. That was the bloody trouble, every time. Whenever someone was trying to do a bit of sensible thinking, there was always some pointless distraction.
Mrs Cake drew the curtains.
‘Who exactly is One-Man-Bucket?’ said Windle.
She lit a couple of candles and sat down.certainly didn’t present you with mysteries.He looked proudly at the Combination Harvester. Of course, you needed a horse to pull it. That spoiled things a bit. Horses belonged to Yesterday; Tomorrow belonged to the Combination Harvester and its descendants, which would make the world a cleaner and better place. It wasjust a matter of
eighths Gripley. You knew where you were with a reciprocating linkage. It either worked or it didn’t. It taking the horse out of the equation. He’d tried clockwork. and that wasn’t powerful enough. Maybe if he tried winding a - Behind him, the kettle boiled over and put the fire out. Simnel fought his way through the steam. That was the bloody trouble, every time. Whenever someone was trying to do a bit of sensible thinking, there was always some pointless distraction.
Mrs Cake drew the curtains.
‘Who exactly is One-Man-Bucket?’ said Windle.
She lit a couple of candles and sat down.certainly didn’t present you with mysteries.He looked proudly at the Combination Harvester. Of course, you needed a horse to pull it. That spoiled things a bit. Horses belonged to Yesterday; Tomorrow belonged to the Combination Harvester and its descendants, which would make the world a cleaner and better place. It wasjust a matter of
Thursday 2 April 2009
Henri Matisse Pink Nude
Henri Matisse Pink NudeHenri Matisse OdalisquesHenri Matisse Odalisque
ME BILL.
‘Ah? Used to be a tidy old farm, once upon a time. We never thought the old girl’d stay on.’
‘Ah,’ agreed a couple of old men by the fireplace.
AH.
‘New to these parts, then?’ said the barman.
The sudden silence of the other men in the bar was like a black hole.
NOT PRECISELY.
‘Been here .’
‘All right. Sharp and rich. But still a loony.’
‘You can’t be loony and rich. You’ve got to be eccentric if you’re rich.’ The silence returned and hovered. Bill Door sought desperately for something to say. He had never been very good at small talk. He’d never had much occasion to use it.
What did people say at times like this? Ah. Yes.before, have you?’JUST PASSING THROUGH.‘They say old Miss Flitworth’s a loony,’ said one of the figures on the ?t~inches? around the smoke-blackened walls.‘But sharp as a knife, mind,’ said another hunched drinker.‘Oh, yes. She’s sharp all right. But still a loony.’‘And they say she’s got boxes full of treasure in that old parlour of hers.’‘She’s tight with money, I know that.’‘That proves it. Rich folk are always tight with money
ME BILL.
‘Ah? Used to be a tidy old farm, once upon a time. We never thought the old girl’d stay on.’
‘Ah,’ agreed a couple of old men by the fireplace.
AH.
‘New to these parts, then?’ said the barman.
The sudden silence of the other men in the bar was like a black hole.
NOT PRECISELY.
‘Been here .’
‘All right. Sharp and rich. But still a loony.’
‘You can’t be loony and rich. You’ve got to be eccentric if you’re rich.’ The silence returned and hovered. Bill Door sought desperately for something to say. He had never been very good at small talk. He’d never had much occasion to use it.
What did people say at times like this? Ah. Yes.before, have you?’JUST PASSING THROUGH.‘They say old Miss Flitworth’s a loony,’ said one of the figures on the ?t~inches? around the smoke-blackened walls.‘But sharp as a knife, mind,’ said another hunched drinker.‘Oh, yes. She’s sharp all right. But still a loony.’‘And they say she’s got boxes full of treasure in that old parlour of hers.’‘She’s tight with money, I know that.’‘That proves it. Rich folk are always tight with money
Wednesday 1 April 2009
Daniel Ridgway Knight Hailing the Ferry
Daniel Ridgway Knight Hailing the FerryHorace Vernet The Lion HuntSir Henry Raeburn The Reverend Robert Walker SkatingJean Auguste Dominique Ingres Princesse Albert de BrogliePeter Paul Rubens The Judgment of Paris
block and no-one can move because everyone’s in someone else’s way, right?’
The Dean tried to nod. He had wondered himself about the wisdom of digging the hole at the junction of the Street of Small Gods and Broad Way, two of the busiest streets in Ankh-Morpork. It had seemed logical at the time. Even the most persistent undead ought to stay decently buried under that amount of traffic. The only problem was crossroads thieves?’
He was overjoyed. His long-term policing strategy was paying off! The Archchancellor tipped a shovelful of Ankh-Morpork loam over his boots.
‘Don’t be stupid, man,’ he snapped.’This is vitally important.’ ‘Oh, yes. That’s what they all say,’ said Sergeant Colon, not a man to be easily steered from a particular course of thought once he’d gotthat no-one had thought seriously about the difficulty of digging up a couple of main streets during the busy time of day.‘All right, all right, what’s going on here?’The crowd of spectators opened to admit the bulky figure of Sergeant Colon of the Watch. He moved through the people unstoppably, his stomach leading the way. When he saw the wizards, waist deep in a hole in the middle of the road, his huge red face brightened up.‘What’s this, then?’ he said. ‘A gang of international
block and no-one can move because everyone’s in someone else’s way, right?’
The Dean tried to nod. He had wondered himself about the wisdom of digging the hole at the junction of the Street of Small Gods and Broad Way, two of the busiest streets in Ankh-Morpork. It had seemed logical at the time. Even the most persistent undead ought to stay decently buried under that amount of traffic. The only problem was crossroads thieves?’
He was overjoyed. His long-term policing strategy was paying off! The Archchancellor tipped a shovelful of Ankh-Morpork loam over his boots.
‘Don’t be stupid, man,’ he snapped.’This is vitally important.’ ‘Oh, yes. That’s what they all say,’ said Sergeant Colon, not a man to be easily steered from a particular course of thought once he’d gotthat no-one had thought seriously about the difficulty of digging up a couple of main streets during the busy time of day.‘All right, all right, what’s going on here?’The crowd of spectators opened to admit the bulky figure of Sergeant Colon of the Watch. He moved through the people unstoppably, his stomach leading the way. When he saw the wizards, waist deep in a hole in the middle of the road, his huge red face brightened up.‘What’s this, then?’ he said. ‘A gang of international
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