Daniel Ridgway Knight WaitingClaude Monet Vase Of FlowersClaude Monet The women in the GardenClaude Monet The Picnic
oot izh oot on i ed. Ang et ogg a ire-erk. I or ing un ah-ay a-ong Or-oh-Erns Eet.'
Holofernes Street, Vimes translated. Whoever it was would be well away by now.
'Ee ad a ick,' Cornice volunteered. A ire-erk htick.'
A what?'
'Ire-erk. Oo oh? Ang! Ock! Arks! Ockekts! Ang!'
'Oh, murder solved by the careful discovery of a vital footprint or a cigarette end, a hundred failed to be resolved because the wind blew some leaves the wrong way or it didn't rain the night before. So many crimes are solved by a happy accident – by the random stopping of a car, by an overheard remark, by someone of the right nationality happening to be within five miles of the scene of the crime without an alibi . . .
Even Vimes knew about the power of chance.fireworks.''Egg. Aks ot I ed.'A firework stick? Like . . . like a rocket stick?''Oh, ih-ee-ot! A htick, oo oint, ik koes ANG!''You point it and it goes bang?''Egg!'Vimes scratched his head. Sounded like a wizard's staff. But they didn't go bang.'Well . . . thanks,' he said. 'You've been . . . eh-ee elkfhull.'He turned back towards the stairs.Someone had tried to kill him.And the Patrician had warned him against investigating the theft from the Assassins' Guild. Theft, he said.Up until then, Vimes hadn't even been certain there had been a theft.And then, of course, there are the laws of chance. They play a far greater role in police procedure than narrative causality would like to admit. For every
Tuesday 28 April 2009
Edvard Munch Nude
Edvard Munch NudeEdvard Munch MoonlightEdvard Munch Girls on a BridgeUnknown Artist Brent Heighton After the Rain
'Well, I'm not going to—' Colon began, and got off his stool.
He hopped. He jumped up and down a bit, his mouth opening and shutting. Then the words managed to come out.
'My foot!'
'What about can get stuck to your boots in this town,' said Carrot.
'There's something on the bottom of your sandal,' said Angua. 'Stop waving it about, you silly man.'
She drew her dagger.
'Bit of card or something. With a drawing pin in it. You picked it up somewhere. Probably took a while for you to tread it through . . . there.'
'Bit of card?' said Carrot.
'There's something written on it . . .' Angua scraped away the mud.
your foot?''Something stuck in it!'He hopped backwards, clutching at one sandal, and fell over Detritus.'You'd be amazed what
'Well, I'm not going to—' Colon began, and got off his stool.
He hopped. He jumped up and down a bit, his mouth opening and shutting. Then the words managed to come out.
'My foot!'
'What about can get stuck to your boots in this town,' said Carrot.
'There's something on the bottom of your sandal,' said Angua. 'Stop waving it about, you silly man.'
She drew her dagger.
'Bit of card or something. With a drawing pin in it. You picked it up somewhere. Probably took a while for you to tread it through . . . there.'
'Bit of card?' said Carrot.
'There's something written on it . . .' Angua scraped away the mud.
your foot?''Something stuck in it!'He hopped backwards, clutching at one sandal, and fell over Detritus.'You'd be amazed what
Sunday 26 April 2009
Jean Fragonard The Bathers
Jean Fragonard The BathersThomas Gainsborough Mrs SheridanSandro Botticelli Venus and Mars
he doesn't like trolls much,' he said. 'We couldn't get a word out of him all day when he heard we had to advertise for a troll recruit. And then we had to have a dwarf, otherwise they'd be trouble. I'm a dwarf, too, but the dwarfs here don't believe it.'
'You don't say?' said 'The Patrician said we had to have a bit of representation from the minority groups,' said Carrot.
'Minority groups!'
'Sorry. Anyway, he's only got a few more days—'
There was a splintering noise across the street. They turned as a figure sprinted out of a tavern and hared away up the street, closely followed – at least for a few steps – by a fat man in an apron.
'Stop! Stop! Unlicensed thief!'Angua, looking up at him.'My mother had me by adoption.''Oh. Yes, but I'm not a troll or a dwarf,' said Angua sweetly.'No, but you're a w—'Angua stopped. 'That's it, is it? Good grief! This is the Century of the Fruitbat, you know. Ye gods, does he really think like that?''He's a bit set in his ways.''Congealed, I should think.'
he doesn't like trolls much,' he said. 'We couldn't get a word out of him all day when he heard we had to advertise for a troll recruit. And then we had to have a dwarf, otherwise they'd be trouble. I'm a dwarf, too, but the dwarfs here don't believe it.'
'You don't say?' said 'The Patrician said we had to have a bit of representation from the minority groups,' said Carrot.
'Minority groups!'
'Sorry. Anyway, he's only got a few more days—'
There was a splintering noise across the street. They turned as a figure sprinted out of a tavern and hared away up the street, closely followed – at least for a few steps – by a fat man in an apron.
'Stop! Stop! Unlicensed thief!'Angua, looking up at him.'My mother had me by adoption.''Oh. Yes, but I'm not a troll or a dwarf,' said Angua sweetly.'No, but you're a w—'Angua stopped. 'That's it, is it? Good grief! This is the Century of the Fruitbat, you know. Ye gods, does he really think like that?''He's a bit set in his ways.''Congealed, I should think.'
Friday 24 April 2009
Henri Matisse The Green Line
Henri Matisse The Green LineHenri Matisse Red FishHenri Matisse Pink NudeHenri Matisse Odalisques
plough with iron. They ravage the land.”
“Some do, I’ll grant you that. Others put back more’n they take. They put back love. They’ve got soil in their bones. They tell the land what it is. That’s what humans are for. Without humans, Lancre’d just be a bit of ground with green bits on it, but not necessarily up to date.
273
Verence sat beside the Queen. His pupils were tiny pin-points; he smiled faintly, permanently, in a way very reminis-cent of the Bursar.
“Ah. But when we are married,” said the Queen, “the land must accept me. By your own rules. I know how it works. There’s more to being a king than wearing a crown. The king and the land are one. The king and the queen are one. And I shall be queen.”. They wouldn’t even know they’re trees. We’re all down here together, madam—us and the land. It’s not just land anymore, it’s a country. It’s like a horse that’s been broken and shod or a dog that’s been tamed. Every time people put a plough in the soil or planted a seed they took the land further away from you,” said Granny. “Things change.”l The Monks of Cool, whose tiny and exclusive monastery is hidden in areally cool and laid-back valley in the lower Ramtops, have a passing-outtest for a novice. He is taken into a room full of all types of clothing andasked: Yo,+ my son, which of these is the most stylish thing to wear? Andthe correct answer is: Hey, whatever I select. tCool
plough with iron. They ravage the land.”
“Some do, I’ll grant you that. Others put back more’n they take. They put back love. They’ve got soil in their bones. They tell the land what it is. That’s what humans are for. Without humans, Lancre’d just be a bit of ground with green bits on it, but not necessarily up to date.
273
Verence sat beside the Queen. His pupils were tiny pin-points; he smiled faintly, permanently, in a way very reminis-cent of the Bursar.
“Ah. But when we are married,” said the Queen, “the land must accept me. By your own rules. I know how it works. There’s more to being a king than wearing a crown. The king and the land are one. The king and the queen are one. And I shall be queen.”. They wouldn’t even know they’re trees. We’re all down here together, madam—us and the land. It’s not just land anymore, it’s a country. It’s like a horse that’s been broken and shod or a dog that’s been tamed. Every time people put a plough in the soil or planted a seed they took the land further away from you,” said Granny. “Things change.”l The Monks of Cool, whose tiny and exclusive monastery is hidden in areally cool and laid-back valley in the lower Ramtops, have a passing-outtest for a novice. He is taken into a room full of all types of clothing andasked: Yo,+ my son, which of these is the most stylish thing to wear? Andthe correct answer is: Hey, whatever I select. tCool
Wednesday 22 April 2009
Pablo Picasso Large Nude in Red Armchair
Pablo Picasso Large Nude in Red ArmchairTamara de Lempicka Woman in RedTamara de Lempicka Two Girls
unicorn, which had been trying to decide between targets, was left with Ridcully.
It could count up to one.
It lowered its head.
Ridcully had were hardly any books in the castle, except for serious volumes on etiquette and animal breeding and estate management. As a rule, roy-alty doesn’t read much.
194
LORQ& ft/YQ Lft0/£6
He wasn’t expecting to be amazed at the Entertainment. He’d peered behind the bit of sacking that was doing service as a dressing room, and seen half a dozen heavily built men arguing with one another. This did not bode well for an evening of thespianic splendor, although there was always the possibility that one of them might hit another one in the face with a custard pie. never liked horses, animals which seemedto him to have only the weakest possible grip on sanityAs the unicorn charged, he vaulted the parapet and dropped, without much aerodynamic grace, into the icy waters of the Lancre.The Librarian liked the stage. He was always in the front seat on the first night of a new production at any of Ankh’s theaters, his prehensile abilities allowing him to clap twice as hard as anyone else or, if necessary, hurl peanut shells.And he was feeling let down. There
unicorn, which had been trying to decide between targets, was left with Ridcully.
It could count up to one.
It lowered its head.
Ridcully had were hardly any books in the castle, except for serious volumes on etiquette and animal breeding and estate management. As a rule, roy-alty doesn’t read much.
194
LORQ& ft/YQ Lft0/£6
He wasn’t expecting to be amazed at the Entertainment. He’d peered behind the bit of sacking that was doing service as a dressing room, and seen half a dozen heavily built men arguing with one another. This did not bode well for an evening of thespianic splendor, although there was always the possibility that one of them might hit another one in the face with a custard pie. never liked horses, animals which seemedto him to have only the weakest possible grip on sanityAs the unicorn charged, he vaulted the parapet and dropped, without much aerodynamic grace, into the icy waters of the Lancre.The Librarian liked the stage. He was always in the front seat on the first night of a new production at any of Ankh’s theaters, his prehensile abilities allowing him to clap twice as hard as anyone else or, if necessary, hurl peanut shells.And he was feeling let down. There
Tuesday 21 April 2009
Cao Yong FRIENDS
Cao Yong FRIENDSCao Yong FreedomCao Yong Day of Love
ought to have a Poet Laureate,” said Verence, mark-ing his place in a book. “Kingdoms have to have one. They write poems for special celebrations.”
“Yes?”
“I thought perhaps Mrs. Ogg? I hear she’s quite an amusing songstress.”
Magrat kept a straight face.
“I... er ... I “It says here the role of the Poet Laureate is to recite poems on State occasions,” said Verence.
Magrat had witnessed some of Nanny Ogg’s humorous recitations, especially the ones with the gestures. She nod-ded gravely.
“Provided,” she said, “and I want to be absolutely sure you understand me on this, provided she takes up her post after the wedding.” think she knows lots of rhymes for certain words,” she said.“Apparently the going rate is fourpence a year and a butt of sack,” said Verence, peering at the page. “Or it may be a sack of butt.”“What exactly will she have to do?” said Magrat.I.QRQ6 fttYO Lft0f£6
ought to have a Poet Laureate,” said Verence, mark-ing his place in a book. “Kingdoms have to have one. They write poems for special celebrations.”
“Yes?”
“I thought perhaps Mrs. Ogg? I hear she’s quite an amusing songstress.”
Magrat kept a straight face.
“I... er ... I “It says here the role of the Poet Laureate is to recite poems on State occasions,” said Verence.
Magrat had witnessed some of Nanny Ogg’s humorous recitations, especially the ones with the gestures. She nod-ded gravely.
“Provided,” she said, “and I want to be absolutely sure you understand me on this, provided she takes up her post after the wedding.” think she knows lots of rhymes for certain words,” she said.“Apparently the going rate is fourpence a year and a butt of sack,” said Verence, peering at the page. “Or it may be a sack of butt.”“What exactly will she have to do?” said Magrat.I.QRQ6 fttYO Lft0f£6
Monday 20 April 2009
George Inness Coast Scene
George Inness Coast ScenePierre Auguste Renoir Au bord de la merGustave Caillebotte Paris Street rainy weather
perfectly accurate descrip-tion. And it would be, as Nanny Ogg would say, a bugger to carpet.
“Why? Why a . He’d tried to introduce Ephebian democracy to Lancre, giving the vote to everyone, or at least everyone “who be of good report and who be male and hath forty years and owneth a hosue* worth more than three and a half goats a year,” because there’s no sense in being stupid about things and giving the vote to people who were poor or criminal or insane or female, who’d only use it irresponsibly. It worked, more or less, although the Members of Parliament only turned up when they felt like it and in any case no one ever wrote any-thing down and, besides, no one ever disagreed castle in Lancre?” she said, mainly to her-self, because talking to Millie was like talking to yourself. “We’ve never fought anyone. Apart from outside the tavern on a Saturday night.”“Couldn’t say, I’m sure, m’m,” said Millie.Magrat sighed.“Where’s the king today?”“He’s opening Parliament, m’m.”“Hah! Parliament!”Which had been another of Verence’s ideas
perfectly accurate descrip-tion. And it would be, as Nanny Ogg would say, a bugger to carpet.
“Why? Why a . He’d tried to introduce Ephebian democracy to Lancre, giving the vote to everyone, or at least everyone “who be of good report and who be male and hath forty years and owneth a hosue* worth more than three and a half goats a year,” because there’s no sense in being stupid about things and giving the vote to people who were poor or criminal or insane or female, who’d only use it irresponsibly. It worked, more or less, although the Members of Parliament only turned up when they felt like it and in any case no one ever wrote any-thing down and, besides, no one ever disagreed castle in Lancre?” she said, mainly to her-self, because talking to Millie was like talking to yourself. “We’ve never fought anyone. Apart from outside the tavern on a Saturday night.”“Couldn’t say, I’m sure, m’m,” said Millie.Magrat sighed.“Where’s the king today?”“He’s opening Parliament, m’m.”“Hah! Parliament!”Which had been another of Verence’s ideas
Friday 17 April 2009
Cao Yong KOI POND
Cao Yong KOI PONDCao Yong GIRL WITH MUSICIANCao Yong GARDEN SPLENDOR
ftWO Lft0/£6
“In the middle of my bloody herbs!” said Granny Weatherwax.
“On the palace garden!” said Magrat.
“Poor little mite! And he was holding it up to show me, too!” said Nanny Ogg.
Granny Weatherwax paused.
“What’re you talking about, Gytha Ogg?” she said.
“Our Pewsey was growing mustard-and-cress on a flan-nel for his Nan,” said Nanny Ogg, patiently. “He shows it to me, right enough, and just as I bends down and—splat! Crop circle!”
“This,” saidsaid anything about why.”
The older witches shared a glance.
“Never told you about the Dancers?” said Granny Weatherwax. Granny Weatherwax, “is serious. It’s beenyears since they’ve been as bad as this. We all know what itmeans, don’t we. What we’ve got—““Um,” said Magrat.“—to do now is—““Excuse me,” said Magrat. There were some things you had to be told.“Yes?”“I don’t know what it means,” said Magrat. “I mean, oldGoodie Whemper—““—maysherestinpeace—“ the older witches chorused.“—told me once that the circles were dangerous, but she never
ftWO Lft0/£6
“In the middle of my bloody herbs!” said Granny Weatherwax.
“On the palace garden!” said Magrat.
“Poor little mite! And he was holding it up to show me, too!” said Nanny Ogg.
Granny Weatherwax paused.
“What’re you talking about, Gytha Ogg?” she said.
“Our Pewsey was growing mustard-and-cress on a flan-nel for his Nan,” said Nanny Ogg, patiently. “He shows it to me, right enough, and just as I bends down and—splat! Crop circle!”
“This,” saidsaid anything about why.”
The older witches shared a glance.
“Never told you about the Dancers?” said Granny Weatherwax. Granny Weatherwax, “is serious. It’s beenyears since they’ve been as bad as this. We all know what itmeans, don’t we. What we’ve got—““Um,” said Magrat.“—to do now is—““Excuse me,” said Magrat. There were some things you had to be told.“Yes?”“I don’t know what it means,” said Magrat. “I mean, oldGoodie Whemper—““—maysherestinpeace—“ the older witches chorused.“—told me once that the circles were dangerous, but she never
Thursday 16 April 2009
Titian The Three Ages of Man
Titian The Three Ages of ManLorenzo Lotto Lotto ArchitectTitian Venus with Organist and Cupid
stomach. Urn wasn't strong, but it was a long spanner, and the wellknown principles of leverage did the rest. He doubled up and then sagged backwards against one of the weights.
What happened next happened in frozen time. Deacon Cusp grabbed at the weight for support. It sank down, ponderously, his extra poundage adding to the weight of the water. He clawed higher. It sank further, dropping below the lip of the pit. He a distant creaking of bronze against bronze.
"Let's get out of here," said Urn. "Only the gods know what's happening up there."
And blows rained on the unmoving Moving Turtle's carapace.
"Damn! Damn! Damn!" shouted Simony, thumping it again. "Move! I command sought for balance again, but this time it was against fresh air, and he tumbled on top of the falling weight.Urn saw his face staring up at him as the weight fell into the gloom.With a lever, he could change the world. It had certainly changed it for Deacon Cusp. It had made it stop existing.Fergmen was standing over the guard, his pipe raised."I know this one," he said. "I'm going to give him a-”"Never mind about that!""But-”Above them linkage clanked into action. There was
stomach. Urn wasn't strong, but it was a long spanner, and the wellknown principles of leverage did the rest. He doubled up and then sagged backwards against one of the weights.
What happened next happened in frozen time. Deacon Cusp grabbed at the weight for support. It sank down, ponderously, his extra poundage adding to the weight of the water. He clawed higher. It sank further, dropping below the lip of the pit. He a distant creaking of bronze against bronze.
"Let's get out of here," said Urn. "Only the gods know what's happening up there."
And blows rained on the unmoving Moving Turtle's carapace.
"Damn! Damn! Damn!" shouted Simony, thumping it again. "Move! I command sought for balance again, but this time it was against fresh air, and he tumbled on top of the falling weight.Urn saw his face staring up at him as the weight fell into the gloom.With a lever, he could change the world. It had certainly changed it for Deacon Cusp. It had made it stop existing.Fergmen was standing over the guard, his pipe raised."I know this one," he said. "I'm going to give him a-”"Never mind about that!""But-”Above them linkage clanked into action. There was
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Paul Gauguin Les Alyscamps
Paul Gauguin Les AlyscampsPaul Gauguin By the SeaPaul Gauguin Breton Girls Dancing
? They belong to all mankind!" snapped Didactylos.
"Then if all mankind will come and help us carry them, that's fine," said Urn. "But if it's just the two of us, I prefer to carry something useful."
"Useful? Books on mechanisms?"
"Yes! They can show people how to live better!"
"And these show people how to be people," said Didactylos. "Which reminds me. Find me another lantern. I feel quite blind without one-”
The Library door shook to a thunderous knocking. It wasn't the knocking of people who expected the door to be opened.
"We could throw some of the others into the-”
The hinges leapt out of the walls. The door thudded down.
Soldiers scrambled over it, swords drawn.
"Ah, . "You are to search the palace for books. Leavegentlemen," said Didactylos. "Pray don't disturb my circles."The corporal in charge looked at him blankly, and then down at the floor."What circles?" he said."Hey, how about giving me a pair of compasses and coming back in, say, half an hour?""Leave him, corporal," said Brutha.He stepped over the door."I said leave him.""But I got orders to-”"Are you deaf? If you are, the Quisition can cure that," said Brutha, astonished at the steadiness of his own voice."You don't belong to the Quisition," said the corporal."No. But I know a man who does," said Brutha him with me. He's an old man. What harm can he do?"
The corporal looked hesitantly from Brutha to his prisoners.
"Very good, corporal. I will take over."
? They belong to all mankind!" snapped Didactylos.
"Then if all mankind will come and help us carry them, that's fine," said Urn. "But if it's just the two of us, I prefer to carry something useful."
"Useful? Books on mechanisms?"
"Yes! They can show people how to live better!"
"And these show people how to be people," said Didactylos. "Which reminds me. Find me another lantern. I feel quite blind without one-”
The Library door shook to a thunderous knocking. It wasn't the knocking of people who expected the door to be opened.
"We could throw some of the others into the-”
The hinges leapt out of the walls. The door thudded down.
Soldiers scrambled over it, swords drawn.
"Ah, . "You are to search the palace for books. Leavegentlemen," said Didactylos. "Pray don't disturb my circles."The corporal in charge looked at him blankly, and then down at the floor."What circles?" he said."Hey, how about giving me a pair of compasses and coming back in, say, half an hour?""Leave him, corporal," said Brutha.He stepped over the door."I said leave him.""But I got orders to-”"Are you deaf? If you are, the Quisition can cure that," said Brutha, astonished at the steadiness of his own voice."You don't belong to the Quisition," said the corporal."No. But I know a man who does," said Brutha him with me. He's an old man. What harm can he do?"
The corporal looked hesitantly from Brutha to his prisoners.
"Very good, corporal. I will take over."
Tuesday 14 April 2009
Gustav Klimt The Fulfillment (detail I)
Gustav Klimt The Fulfillment (detail I)Gustav Klimt The Embrace (detail_ square)Gustav Klimt Schloss Kammer Am Attersee II
of course there had been the eight compulsory prayers every day, but in the pit of the wretched night he knew them for what they were. A habit. A time for thought, perhaps. And method of measuring time.
He wonderedput their dead in pyramids. He'd even been to far Ankh-Morpork, across the water, where they'd worship any god at all so long as he or she had money. Yes, Ankh-Morpork-where there were streets and streets of gods, squeezed together like a deck of cards. And none of them wanted to set fire to anyone else, or at least any more than was normally the case in Ankh-Morpork. They just wanted to be left in peace, so that everyone went to heaven or hell in their own way. if he'd ever prayed, if he'd ever opened heart and mind to something out there, or up there. He must have done, mustn't he? Perhaps when he was young. He couldn't even remember that. Blood had washed away the memories.It was his fault. It had to be his fault. He'd been to Ephebe before, and had rather liked the white marble city on its rock overlooking the blue Circle Sea. And he'd visited Djelibeybi, those madmen in their little river valley who believed in gods with funny heads and
of course there had been the eight compulsory prayers every day, but in the pit of the wretched night he knew them for what they were. A habit. A time for thought, perhaps. And method of measuring time.
He wonderedput their dead in pyramids. He'd even been to far Ankh-Morpork, across the water, where they'd worship any god at all so long as he or she had money. Yes, Ankh-Morpork-where there were streets and streets of gods, squeezed together like a deck of cards. And none of them wanted to set fire to anyone else, or at least any more than was normally the case in Ankh-Morpork. They just wanted to be left in peace, so that everyone went to heaven or hell in their own way. if he'd ever prayed, if he'd ever opened heart and mind to something out there, or up there. He must have done, mustn't he? Perhaps when he was young. He couldn't even remember that. Blood had washed away the memories.It was his fault. It had to be his fault. He'd been to Ephebe before, and had rather liked the white marble city on its rock overlooking the blue Circle Sea. And he'd visited Djelibeybi, those madmen in their little river valley who believed in gods with funny heads and
Monday 13 April 2009
George Frederick Watts Charity
George Frederick Watts CharityFrancisco de Goya Nude MajaFrancisco de Goya Clothed MajaEdgar Degas The RehearsalEdgar Degas The Bellelli Family
man looked down. Then he looked back up into her face.
"A miracle!" he said, waving his hands dramatically. "The time of miracles is at hand!"
The eagle shifted uneasily.
It recognized humans only as pieces of mobile landscape which, in the lambing season in the high hills, might be associated get out of its way as it dipped across the flagstones and then rose majestically toward the turrets of the Great Temple and the hot sky.
Below it, the doors of the Great Temple, each one made of forty tons of gilded bronze, opened by the breath (it was said) of the Great God Himself, swung open ponderously and-and this was the holy part-silently.with thrown stones when it stooped upon the newborn lamb, but which otherwise were as unimportant in the scheme of things as bushes and rocks. But it had never been so close to so many of them. Its mad eyes swiveled backward and forward uncertainly.At that moment trumpets rang out across the Place.The eagle looked around wildly, its tiny predatory mind trying to deal with this sudden overload.It leapt into the air. The worshipers fought to
man looked down. Then he looked back up into her face.
"A miracle!" he said, waving his hands dramatically. "The time of miracles is at hand!"
The eagle shifted uneasily.
It recognized humans only as pieces of mobile landscape which, in the lambing season in the high hills, might be associated get out of its way as it dipped across the flagstones and then rose majestically toward the turrets of the Great Temple and the hot sky.
Below it, the doors of the Great Temple, each one made of forty tons of gilded bronze, opened by the breath (it was said) of the Great God Himself, swung open ponderously and-and this was the holy part-silently.with thrown stones when it stooped upon the newborn lamb, but which otherwise were as unimportant in the scheme of things as bushes and rocks. But it had never been so close to so many of them. Its mad eyes swiveled backward and forward uncertainly.At that moment trumpets rang out across the Place.The eagle looked around wildly, its tiny predatory mind trying to deal with this sudden overload.It leapt into the air. The worshipers fought to
Salvador Dali The Rose
Salvador Dali The RoseSalvador Dali Paysage aux papillons (Landscape with Butterflies)Salvador Dali Mirage
there were the postcards on the wall. It was traditional that, when an inquisitor went on holiday, he'd send back a crudely colored woodcut of the local view with some suitably jolly and risque message on the back. And there was the pinned-up tearful letter from Inquisitor First Class Ishmale "Pop" Quoom,
thanking on which lay what was still, technically, the trembling body of Brother Sasho, formerly his secretary.
He looked up at the duty inquisitor, who nodded. Vorbis leaned over the chained secretary.
"What were their names?" he repeated.
". . . don't know . . ."
"I know you gave them copies of my correspondence, Sasho. They all the lads for collecting no fewer than seventyeight obols for his retirement present and the lovely bunch of flowers for Mrs. Quoom, indicating that he'd always remember his days in No. 3 pit, and was looking forward to coming in and helping out any time they were short-handed.And it all meant this: that there are hardly any excesses of the most crazed psychopath that cannot easily be duplicated by a normal, kindly family man who just comes in to work every day and has a job to do.Vorbis loved knowing that. A man who knew that, knew everything he needed to know about people.Currently he was sitting alongside the bench
there were the postcards on the wall. It was traditional that, when an inquisitor went on holiday, he'd send back a crudely colored woodcut of the local view with some suitably jolly and risque message on the back. And there was the pinned-up tearful letter from Inquisitor First Class Ishmale "Pop" Quoom,
thanking on which lay what was still, technically, the trembling body of Brother Sasho, formerly his secretary.
He looked up at the duty inquisitor, who nodded. Vorbis leaned over the chained secretary.
"What were their names?" he repeated.
". . . don't know . . ."
"I know you gave them copies of my correspondence, Sasho. They all the lads for collecting no fewer than seventyeight obols for his retirement present and the lovely bunch of flowers for Mrs. Quoom, indicating that he'd always remember his days in No. 3 pit, and was looking forward to coming in and helping out any time they were short-handed.And it all meant this: that there are hardly any excesses of the most crazed psychopath that cannot easily be duplicated by a normal, kindly family man who just comes in to work every day and has a job to do.Vorbis loved knowing that. A man who knew that, knew everything he needed to know about people.Currently he was sitting alongside the bench
Friday 10 April 2009
Henri Matisse Moroccan Landscape
Henri Matisse Moroccan LandscapeHenri Matisse Moorish ScreenHenri Matisse Luxe I
you might be leading your mutinous colleagues to the captain's cabin and you hammer on the door and he sticks his great head out with a cutlass in either hand and you say 'We're taking over the ship, you scum, and the lads are right with me!' and he says 'What lads?' and you suddenly feel a great emptiness behind you and you say was the presence of the University, which was so heavy with magic it lay like a cannonball on the incontinence blanket of the Universe, stretching reality very thin. Ankh was where things started, and finished.
It was also his home, such as it was, and it called to him.
It has already been indicated that Rincewind appeared to have a certain amount of'Um ...'In other words, it's the familiar hot sinking feeling experienced by everyone who has let the waves of their own anger throw them far up on the beach of retribution, leaving them, in the poetic language of the everyday, up shit creek.Rincewind was still angry and humiliated and so forth, but these emotions had died down a bit and something of his normal character had reasserted itself. It was not very pleased to find itself on a few threads of blue and gold wool high above the phosphorescent waves.He'd been heading for Ankh-Morpork. He tried to remember why.Of course, it was where it had all started. Perhaps it
you might be leading your mutinous colleagues to the captain's cabin and you hammer on the door and he sticks his great head out with a cutlass in either hand and you say 'We're taking over the ship, you scum, and the lads are right with me!' and he says 'What lads?' and you suddenly feel a great emptiness behind you and you say was the presence of the University, which was so heavy with magic it lay like a cannonball on the incontinence blanket of the Universe, stretching reality very thin. Ankh was where things started, and finished.
It was also his home, such as it was, and it called to him.
It has already been indicated that Rincewind appeared to have a certain amount of'Um ...'In other words, it's the familiar hot sinking feeling experienced by everyone who has let the waves of their own anger throw them far up on the beach of retribution, leaving them, in the poetic language of the everyday, up shit creek.Rincewind was still angry and humiliated and so forth, but these emotions had died down a bit and something of his normal character had reasserted itself. It was not very pleased to find itself on a few threads of blue and gold wool high above the phosphorescent waves.He'd been heading for Ankh-Morpork. He tried to remember why.Of course, it was where it had all started. Perhaps it
Wednesday 8 April 2009
Juan Gris Violin and Glass
Juan Gris Violin and GlassJuan Gris Violin and CheckerboardJuan Gris Man in the Cafe
face of them, the Troll's Head's clientele lost interest.
'Someone got the hat,' Rincewind muttered through dry lips, 'They slipped out of the back way.'
She glared at him 'Why's he stopped?'
'I'll ask him,' said Conina, firmly.
'Why's he covered in snow?'
She stopped and turned around, arms thrust into her sides, one foot tapping impatiently on the damp cobbles.and made for the door. The Head's crowd of customers parted automatically, like sharks recognising another shark, and Rincewind darted anxiously after her before they came to any conclusion about him.They ran out into another alley and pounded down it. Rincewind tried to keep up with the girl; people following her tended to tread on sharp things, and he wasn't sure she'd remember he was on her side, whatever side that was.A thin, half-hearted drizzle was falling. And at the end of the alley was a faint blue glow.'Wait!'The terror in Rincewind's voice was enough to slow her down.'What's wrong?'
face of them, the Troll's Head's clientele lost interest.
'Someone got the hat,' Rincewind muttered through dry lips, 'They slipped out of the back way.'
She glared at him 'Why's he stopped?'
'I'll ask him,' said Conina, firmly.
'Why's he covered in snow?'
She stopped and turned around, arms thrust into her sides, one foot tapping impatiently on the damp cobbles.and made for the door. The Head's crowd of customers parted automatically, like sharks recognising another shark, and Rincewind darted anxiously after her before they came to any conclusion about him.They ran out into another alley and pounded down it. Rincewind tried to keep up with the girl; people following her tended to tread on sharp things, and he wasn't sure she'd remember he was on her side, whatever side that was.A thin, half-hearted drizzle was falling. And at the end of the alley was a faint blue glow.'Wait!'The terror in Rincewind's voice was enough to slow her down.'What's wrong?'
Tuesday 7 April 2009
Thomas Kinkade Hometown Pride
Thomas Kinkade Hometown PrideThomas Kinkade HOMETOWN EVENINGThomas Kinkade HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
light three hundred million years, but Death travels inside that space where Time has no meaning. Light thinks it travels And landed.
He dismounted, and stood in the silence. Then he went down on one knee.
Change the perspective. The furrowed landscape falls away into immense distances, curves at the edges, becomes a fingertip. Azrael raised his finger to a face that filled the sky, lit by the faint glow of dying galaxies.
There are a billion Deaths, but they are all aspects of
faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.There was company on the ride - galaxies, stars, ribbons of shining matter, streaming and eventually spiralling towards the distant goal. Death on his pale horse moved down the darkness like a bubble on a river.And every river flows somewhere.And then, below, a plain. Distance was as meaningless here as time. but there was a sense of hugeness. The plain could have been a mile away, or a million miles; it was marked by long valleys or rills which flowed away to either side as he got closer.
light three hundred million years, but Death travels inside that space where Time has no meaning. Light thinks it travels And landed.
He dismounted, and stood in the silence. Then he went down on one knee.
Change the perspective. The furrowed landscape falls away into immense distances, curves at the edges, becomes a fingertip. Azrael raised his finger to a face that filled the sky, lit by the faint glow of dying galaxies.
There are a billion Deaths, but they are all aspects of
faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.There was company on the ride - galaxies, stars, ribbons of shining matter, streaming and eventually spiralling towards the distant goal. Death on his pale horse moved down the darkness like a bubble on a river.And every river flows somewhere.And then, below, a plain. Distance was as meaningless here as time. but there was a sense of hugeness. The plain could have been a mile away, or a million miles; it was marked by long valleys or rills which flowed away to either side as he got closer.
Monday 6 April 2009
Edward Hopper Morning in a City
Edward Hopper Morning in a CityEdward Hopper High NoonEdward Hopper Four Lane Road
another, the wizards staggered ahead of the trolleys. Streams of them were surging out of the city and across the fields.
‘Know what this reminds me of?’ said Ridcully, as they fought their way through.
‘Do tell, ‘ ,’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Right, we’re in the open now, this is where we out-flank ‘em,’ said Ridcully. ‘We’ll just aim for a clear space and - ‘ ‘I don’t think so,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. Every direction was filled with an advancing, grinding, fighting wall of trolleys.
‘They’re coming to get us ! They’re coming to get us !’ wailed the Bursar.
The Dean snatched his staff.muttered the Senior Wrangler.‘Salmon run, ‘ said the Archchancellor.‘What?’ ‘Not in the Ankh, of course,’ said Ridcully.’I don’t reckon a salmon could get upstream in our river - ‘ ‘Unless it walked,’ said the Senior Wrangler.‘- but I’ve seen ‘em thick as milk in some rivers,’ said Ridcully. ‘Fightin ‘ to get ahead. The whole river just a mass of silver.’ ‘Fine, fine,’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘What’d they do that for?’‘Well . . . it’s all to do with breeding.’‘Disgusting. And to think we have to drink water
another, the wizards staggered ahead of the trolleys. Streams of them were surging out of the city and across the fields.
‘Know what this reminds me of?’ said Ridcully, as they fought their way through.
‘Do tell, ‘ ,’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Right, we’re in the open now, this is where we out-flank ‘em,’ said Ridcully. ‘We’ll just aim for a clear space and - ‘ ‘I don’t think so,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. Every direction was filled with an advancing, grinding, fighting wall of trolleys.
‘They’re coming to get us ! They’re coming to get us !’ wailed the Bursar.
The Dean snatched his staff.muttered the Senior Wrangler.‘Salmon run, ‘ said the Archchancellor.‘What?’ ‘Not in the Ankh, of course,’ said Ridcully.’I don’t reckon a salmon could get upstream in our river - ‘ ‘Unless it walked,’ said the Senior Wrangler.‘- but I’ve seen ‘em thick as milk in some rivers,’ said Ridcully. ‘Fightin ‘ to get ahead. The whole river just a mass of silver.’ ‘Fine, fine,’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘What’d they do that for?’‘Well . . . it’s all to do with breeding.’‘Disgusting. And to think we have to drink water
Friday 3 April 2009
Wassily Kandinsky Several Circles
Wassily Kandinsky Several CirclesWassily Kandinsky Composition VIIIVincent van Gogh Sunflowers
deathright. ‘Mr Poons here wants to ask you a question, One-Man-Bucket,’ said Mrs Cake. she is happy here anddisappointed.
‘Only hundreds?’ he said.’That doesn’t sound a lot.’ ‘Not many people become ghosts,’ said Mrs Cake. ‘To be a ghost, you got to have, like, serious unfinished business, or a terrible revenge to take, or a cosmic purpose in which you are just a pawn.’ or a cruel thirst, said One-Man-Bucket.
‘Will you hark at him,’ said Mrs Cake.
I wanted to stay in the spirit world. or even wire and beer. hngh. hngh. hngh. waiting for you to join her, said One-Man-Bucket. ‘Who is?’ said Windle.This seemed to fox One-Man-Bucket. It was a line, that generally satisfied without further explanation. who would you like? he asked cautiously. can I have that ?cerink? now?‘Not yet, One-Man-Bucket,’ said Mrs Cake.well, I need it. it’s bloody crowded in here. ‘What?’ said Windle quickly. ‘With ghosts, you mean?’ there’s hundreds of ‘em, said the voice of One-Man-Bucket. Windle was
deathright. ‘Mr Poons here wants to ask you a question, One-Man-Bucket,’ said Mrs Cake. she is happy here anddisappointed.
‘Only hundreds?’ he said.’That doesn’t sound a lot.’ ‘Not many people become ghosts,’ said Mrs Cake. ‘To be a ghost, you got to have, like, serious unfinished business, or a terrible revenge to take, or a cosmic purpose in which you are just a pawn.’ or a cruel thirst, said One-Man-Bucket.
‘Will you hark at him,’ said Mrs Cake.
I wanted to stay in the spirit world. or even wire and beer. hngh. hngh. hngh. waiting for you to join her, said One-Man-Bucket. ‘Who is?’ said Windle.This seemed to fox One-Man-Bucket. It was a line, that generally satisfied without further explanation. who would you like? he asked cautiously. can I have that ?cerink? now?‘Not yet, One-Man-Bucket,’ said Mrs Cake.well, I need it. it’s bloody crowded in here. ‘What?’ said Windle quickly. ‘With ghosts, you mean?’ there’s hundreds of ‘em, said the voice of One-Man-Bucket. Windle was
Thursday 2 April 2009
Franz Marc Blue Horse
Franz Marc Blue HorseMarc Chagall The Three CandlesMarc Chagall Paris Through the Window
meant I didn’t hear you.’ She stood back and looked him up and down. ‘There’s still something about you I can’t put my finger on, Bill Door,’ she said. ‘Wish I knew what it was.’
The seven-foot skeleton regarded her stoically. He felt there was nothing he could say.
‘What do you ?
‘It’s sharp enough, for goodness sake.’
HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT MORE?
‘You can’t. Sharp’s sharp. You can’t get sharper than that.’
He’d swished it aimlessly, and made a disappointed hissing noise.
And there was the grass, too.want for breakfast?’ said the old woman.‘Not that it’ll make any difference, ‘cos it’s porridge.’ Later she thought: he must have eaten it, because the bowl is empty. Why can’t I remember?And then there was the matter of the scythe. He looked at it as if he’d never seen one before. She pointed out the grass nail and the handles. He looked at them politely.HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT, MISS FLITWORTH
meant I didn’t hear you.’ She stood back and looked him up and down. ‘There’s still something about you I can’t put my finger on, Bill Door,’ she said. ‘Wish I knew what it was.’
The seven-foot skeleton regarded her stoically. He felt there was nothing he could say.
‘What do you ?
‘It’s sharp enough, for goodness sake.’
HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT MORE?
‘You can’t. Sharp’s sharp. You can’t get sharper than that.’
He’d swished it aimlessly, and made a disappointed hissing noise.
And there was the grass, too.want for breakfast?’ said the old woman.‘Not that it’ll make any difference, ‘cos it’s porridge.’ Later she thought: he must have eaten it, because the bowl is empty. Why can’t I remember?And then there was the matter of the scythe. He looked at it as if he’d never seen one before. She pointed out the grass nail and the handles. He looked at them politely.HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT, MISS FLITWORTH
Wednesday 1 April 2009
William Beard Phantom Crane
William Beard Phantom CraneWilliam Beard OwlsWilliam Beard Majestic StagWilliam Beard Dancing BearsAndy Warhol Shot Orange Marilyn 1964
which would have been a totally useless spade for anyone with un-zombie-like strength.
Turning on to his stomach, tucking the earth around him with his impromptu spade and ramming it back with his feet, Windle wood. There’s a notice pinned to it. The sun has faded the letters, but they are still readable. Picture a shadow, falling across the notice. You can almost hear it reading both the words.
There’s a track leading off the road, towards a small group of bleached buildings.
Picture dragging footsteps.
Picture a door, open.
Picture a cool, dark room, glimpsed through the open Poons dug his way towards a fresh start.Picture a landscape, a plain with rolling curves.It’s late summer in the octarine grass country below the towering peaks of colours are umber and gold. Heat sears the landscape. Grasshoppers sizzle, as in a frying pan. Even the air is too hot to move. It’s the hottest summer in living memory and, - in these parts, that’s a long, long time. Picture a figure on horseback, moving slowly along a road that’s an inch deep in dust between fields of corn that already promise an unusually rich harvest.Picture a fence of baked, dead
which would have been a totally useless spade for anyone with un-zombie-like strength.
Turning on to his stomach, tucking the earth around him with his impromptu spade and ramming it back with his feet, Windle wood. There’s a notice pinned to it. The sun has faded the letters, but they are still readable. Picture a shadow, falling across the notice. You can almost hear it reading both the words.
There’s a track leading off the road, towards a small group of bleached buildings.
Picture dragging footsteps.
Picture a door, open.
Picture a cool, dark room, glimpsed through the open Poons dug his way towards a fresh start.Picture a landscape, a plain with rolling curves.It’s late summer in the octarine grass country below the towering peaks of colours are umber and gold. Heat sears the landscape. Grasshoppers sizzle, as in a frying pan. Even the air is too hot to move. It’s the hottest summer in living memory and, - in these parts, that’s a long, long time. Picture a figure on horseback, moving slowly along a road that’s an inch deep in dust between fields of corn that already promise an unusually rich harvest.Picture a fence of baked, dead
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