Franz Marc Blaues Pferd 1Franz Marc AffenfriesGarmash Sleeping Beauty
him look like a lizard that had lost a lot of weight very quickly.
“Where’s the coach driver?” said Shawn Ogg.
“He’s ill,” said Ridcully. “He had a sudden attack of ban-dits. What do we do with the mail?”
“I take theand hung the sack on the aforesaid nail.
“Yes, that’s another thing they used to have round here,”
said Ridcully. “Witches! Let me tell you about the witches
round here—“
“Our mum’s a witch,” said Shawn conversationally, rum-maging in the sack.
“As fine a body of women as you could hope to meet,” said Ridcully, with barely a hint of mental gear-clashing. “And not a bunch of interfering power-mad old crones at all, whatever anyone might say.” palace stuff, and we generally leave the sack161Terry Pratehetthanging up on a nail outside the tavern so that people can help themselves,” said Shawn.“Isn’t that dangerous?” said Ponder.“Don’t think so. It’s a strong nail,” said Shawn, rummag-ing in the sack.“I meant, don’t people steal letters?”“Oh, they wouldn’t do that, they wouldn’t do that. One of the witches’d go and stare at ‘em if they did that.” Shawn stuffed a few packages under his arm
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
John William Waterhouse Flora and the Zephyrs
John William Waterhouse Flora and the ZephyrsJohn William Waterhouse Apollo and DaphneVincent van Gogh On the Outskirts of Paris
Diamanda,” she said, meekly.
“This is the Moon,” Diamanda repeated, “for those who weren’t paying attention.” She held up the card. “And what do we see here—you, Muscara?”
“Um . . . it’s got a picture of the moon on it?” said Muscara (nee Susan) in a hopeful voice.
“Of course it’s not the moon. It’s a nonmimetic conven-tion, not tied to a conventional referencing system, actually,” On the other hand, the coven was helping people . . . more or less. Raising power and all that sort of thing. Oh dear, supposing she asks me?
Perdita realized that she was feeling worried. Something was wrong. It had just gone wrong. She didn’t know what it was, but it had gone wrong now. She looked up.
“Blessings be upon this house,” said Granny Weatherwax.said Diamanda.“Ah.”A gust rocked the cottage. The door burst open and slammed back against the wall, giving a glimpse of cloud-wracked sky in which a non-mimetic convention was show-ing a crescent.Diamanda waved a hand. There was a brief flash of octarine light. The door jerked shut. Diamanda smiled in what Perdita thought of as her cool, knowing way.She placed the card on the black velvet cloth in front of her.Perdita looked at it gloomily It was all very pretty, the cards were colored like little pasteboard jewels, and they had interesting names. But that little traitor voice whis-pered: how the hell can they know what the future holds? Cardboard isn’t very bright.
Diamanda,” she said, meekly.
“This is the Moon,” Diamanda repeated, “for those who weren’t paying attention.” She held up the card. “And what do we see here—you, Muscara?”
“Um . . . it’s got a picture of the moon on it?” said Muscara (nee Susan) in a hopeful voice.
“Of course it’s not the moon. It’s a nonmimetic conven-tion, not tied to a conventional referencing system, actually,” On the other hand, the coven was helping people . . . more or less. Raising power and all that sort of thing. Oh dear, supposing she asks me?
Perdita realized that she was feeling worried. Something was wrong. It had just gone wrong. She didn’t know what it was, but it had gone wrong now. She looked up.
“Blessings be upon this house,” said Granny Weatherwax.said Diamanda.“Ah.”A gust rocked the cottage. The door burst open and slammed back against the wall, giving a glimpse of cloud-wracked sky in which a non-mimetic convention was show-ing a crescent.Diamanda waved a hand. There was a brief flash of octarine light. The door jerked shut. Diamanda smiled in what Perdita thought of as her cool, knowing way.She placed the card on the black velvet cloth in front of her.Perdita looked at it gloomily It was all very pretty, the cards were colored like little pasteboard jewels, and they had interesting names. But that little traitor voice whis-pered: how the hell can they know what the future holds? Cardboard isn’t very bright.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Mark Spain A Moment Of Tranquility
Mark Spain A Moment Of Tranquility
hunt again,” it said. “When? When?”“Soon,” said the Queen. “Soon.”It was a dark night, the kind of darkness which is not simply explainable by absence of moon or stars, but the darkness that appears to flow in from somewhere else—so thick and tangible that maybe you could snatch a handful of air and squeeze the night out of it.It was the kind of darkness which causes sheep to leap fences and dogs to skulk in kennels.Yet the wind was warm, and not so much
Mark Spain Timeless BeautyMark Spain The Pink Dress
The time is right, Lankin. The circles are opening. Soon we can return.”
The second rider leaned on the saddlehom.
“And I can strong as loud—it howled around the forests and wailed in chimneys.
On nights like this, normal people would pull the covers over their head, sensing that there were times when the world belonged to something else. In the morning it would be human again; there would be fallen branches, a few tiles off the roof, but human. For now . . . better to snuggle down.. .
But there was one man awake.
Jason Ogg, master blacksmith and farrier, pumped the bellows of his forge once or twice for the look of the thing, and sat down on his anvil again. It was always warm in the forge, even with the wind whistling around the eaves.
“He could shoe anything, could Jason Ogg. They’d
hunt again,” it said. “When? When?”“Soon,” said the Queen. “Soon.”It was a dark night, the kind of darkness which is not simply explainable by absence of moon or stars, but the darkness that appears to flow in from somewhere else—so thick and tangible that maybe you could snatch a handful of air and squeeze the night out of it.It was the kind of darkness which causes sheep to leap fences and dogs to skulk in kennels.Yet the wind was warm, and not so much
Mark Spain Timeless BeautyMark Spain The Pink Dress
The time is right, Lankin. The circles are opening. Soon we can return.”
The second rider leaned on the saddlehom.
“And I can strong as loud—it howled around the forests and wailed in chimneys.
On nights like this, normal people would pull the covers over their head, sensing that there were times when the world belonged to something else. In the morning it would be human again; there would be fallen branches, a few tiles off the roof, but human. For now . . . better to snuggle down.. .
But there was one man awake.
Jason Ogg, master blacksmith and farrier, pumped the bellows of his forge once or twice for the look of the thing, and sat down on his anvil again. It was always warm in the forge, even with the wind whistling around the eaves.
“He could shoe anything, could Jason Ogg. They’d
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Thomas Kinkade Make a Wish Cottage
Thomas Kinkade Make a Wish CottageThomas Kinkade Key WestThomas Kinkade Golden Gate Bridge San Francisco
Ungulant looked down sadly at Brutha helping Vorbis away across the wilderness.
"And afterward there's probably mints!" he shouted, through cupped hands. "No?"
Soon the figures of brackish water and chew the odd lizard leg for medicinal purposes was a small price to pay.
He turned back to the laden table that shimmered in the air. All this . . . and all the little gods wanted was someone to know about them, someone to even believe that they existed.
There was jelly and ice-cream today, too.
"All the more for us, eh, Angus?"were mere dots on the sand."There may be visions of sexual grati-no, I tell a lie, that's Fridays . . ." St. Ungulant murmured.Now that the visitors had gone, the air was once again filled with the zip and whine of the small gods. There were billions of them.St. Ungulant smiled.He was, of course, mad. He'd occasionally suspected this. But he took the view that madness should not be wasted. He dined daily on the food of the gods, drank the rarest vintages, ate fruits that were not only out of season but out of reality. Having to drink the occasional mouthful
Ungulant looked down sadly at Brutha helping Vorbis away across the wilderness.
"And afterward there's probably mints!" he shouted, through cupped hands. "No?"
Soon the figures of brackish water and chew the odd lizard leg for medicinal purposes was a small price to pay.
He turned back to the laden table that shimmered in the air. All this . . . and all the little gods wanted was someone to know about them, someone to even believe that they existed.
There was jelly and ice-cream today, too.
"All the more for us, eh, Angus?"were mere dots on the sand."There may be visions of sexual grati-no, I tell a lie, that's Fridays . . ." St. Ungulant murmured.Now that the visitors had gone, the air was once again filled with the zip and whine of the small gods. There were billions of them.St. Ungulant smiled.He was, of course, mad. He'd occasionally suspected this. But he took the view that madness should not be wasted. He dined daily on the food of the gods, drank the rarest vintages, ate fruits that were not only out of season but out of reality. Having to drink the occasional mouthful
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Herbert James Draper Lamia
Herbert James Draper LamiaHerbert James Draper Lament for IcarusGeorge Inness The Coming StormGeorge Inness SunsetGeorge Inness Peace and Plenty
intelligent people kept on making the same mistakes.
Candidates for the Tyrantship were elected by the placing of black or white balls in various urns, thus giving rise to a well-known comment about politics.
The Tyrant was a fat little man with skinny legs, giving people the impression of an egg that was hatching upside down. He was sitting alone in the middle of the marble floor, in a chair surrounded by scrolls and scraps of paper. His feet didn't touch the marble, and his face was pink.Tyrant nodded. "As you wish," he said.
"This is intolerable!" snapped Vorbis. "We have been treated-
"Much better than you would have treated us," said the Tyrant mildly. "You sit or you stand, my lord, because this is Ephebe and indeed you may stand on your head for all I care, but don't expect me to believe that if it was I, seeking peace in your Citadel, I would be encouraged to do anything but grovel on what was left of my stomach. Be seated or be upstanding, my lord, but be quiet. I have nearly finished."
"Finished what?" said Vorbis.
"The peace treaty," said the Tyrant.
Aristocrates whispered something in his ear. The Tyrant looked up from his paperwork.
"Ah, the Omnian delegation," he said, and a smile flashed across his face like something small darting across a stone. "Do be seated, all of you."
He looked down again.
"I am Deacon Vorbis of the Citadel Quisition," said Vorbis coldly.
The Tyrant looked up and gave him another lizard smile.
"Yes, I know," he said. "You torture people for a living. Please be seated, Deacon Vorbis. And your plump young friend who seems to be looking for something. And the rest of you. Some young women will be along in a moment with grapes and things. This generally happens. It's very hard to stop it, in fact."
There were benches in front of the Tyrant's chair. The Omnians
intelligent people kept on making the same mistakes.
Candidates for the Tyrantship were elected by the placing of black or white balls in various urns, thus giving rise to a well-known comment about politics.
The Tyrant was a fat little man with skinny legs, giving people the impression of an egg that was hatching upside down. He was sitting alone in the middle of the marble floor, in a chair surrounded by scrolls and scraps of paper. His feet didn't touch the marble, and his face was pink.Tyrant nodded. "As you wish," he said.
"This is intolerable!" snapped Vorbis. "We have been treated-
"Much better than you would have treated us," said the Tyrant mildly. "You sit or you stand, my lord, because this is Ephebe and indeed you may stand on your head for all I care, but don't expect me to believe that if it was I, seeking peace in your Citadel, I would be encouraged to do anything but grovel on what was left of my stomach. Be seated or be upstanding, my lord, but be quiet. I have nearly finished."
"Finished what?" said Vorbis.
"The peace treaty," said the Tyrant.
Aristocrates whispered something in his ear. The Tyrant looked up from his paperwork.
"Ah, the Omnian delegation," he said, and a smile flashed across his face like something small darting across a stone. "Do be seated, all of you."
He looked down again.
"I am Deacon Vorbis of the Citadel Quisition," said Vorbis coldly.
The Tyrant looked up and gave him another lizard smile.
"Yes, I know," he said. "You torture people for a living. Please be seated, Deacon Vorbis. And your plump young friend who seems to be looking for something. And the rest of you. Some young women will be along in a moment with grapes and things. This generally happens. It's very hard to stop it, in fact."
There were benches in front of the Tyrant's chair. The Omnians
Monday, April 13, 2009
Piet Mondrian Gray Tree
Piet Mondrian Gray TreePiet Mondrian Composition with Yellow Blue and RedPiet Mondrian Composition with Red Yellow
Vorbis appeared to reach a decision.
"Send him to see me when he is recovered," he said.
Nhumrod looked panicky.
"I merely wish Bees buzzed in the bean blossoms. And the sun beat down on the upturned shell of Om.
There is also a hell for tortoises.
He was too tired to waggle his legs now. That was all you could do, waggle your legs. And stick your head out as far as it would go and wave it about in the hope that you could lever yourself over.
You died if you had no believers, and that was what a small god generally worried about. But you also died if you died.to talk to him," said Vorbis. "I may have a use for him.""Yes, lord?""For, I suspect, the Great God Om moves in mysterious ways." High above. No sound but the hiss of wind in feathers. The eagle stood on the breeze, looking down at the toy buildings of the Citadel.It had dropped it somewhere, and now it couldn't find it. Somewhere down there, in that little patch of green.
Vorbis appeared to reach a decision.
"Send him to see me when he is recovered," he said.
Nhumrod looked panicky.
"I merely wish Bees buzzed in the bean blossoms. And the sun beat down on the upturned shell of Om.
There is also a hell for tortoises.
He was too tired to waggle his legs now. That was all you could do, waggle your legs. And stick your head out as far as it would go and wave it about in the hope that you could lever yourself over.
You died if you had no believers, and that was what a small god generally worried about. But you also died if you died.to talk to him," said Vorbis. "I may have a use for him.""Yes, lord?""For, I suspect, the Great God Om moves in mysterious ways." High above. No sound but the hiss of wind in feathers. The eagle stood on the breeze, looking down at the toy buildings of the Citadel.It had dropped it somewhere, and now it couldn't find it. Somewhere down there, in that little patch of green.
Marc Chagall The Three Candles
Marc Chagall The Three CandlesMarc Chagall Paris Through the WindowMarc Chagall Adam and Eve
was a sudden flurry of snow across the air where it had been.
Coin wrenched free of the Librarian's grip and ran into the circle, which was already turning white. His feet scuffed up a sprinkle of fine sand.
'He didn't as if by mere concentration he could change what he saw. 'Is he dead?'
'Gook,' observed the Librarian, contriving to imply that Rincewind was in a region where even things like time and space were a bit iffy, and that it was probably not very useful to speculate as to his exact state at this point in time, if indeed he was at any point in time at all, and that, all in all, he might even turn up tomorrow or, for that matter, yesterday, and finally that if there was any chance at all of surviving then Rincewind almost certainly would.come out!' he said.'Oook,' said the Librarian, in a philosophic manner.'I thought he'd come out. You know, just at the last minute.''Oook?'Coin looked closely at the cobbles,
was a sudden flurry of snow across the air where it had been.
Coin wrenched free of the Librarian's grip and ran into the circle, which was already turning white. His feet scuffed up a sprinkle of fine sand.
'He didn't as if by mere concentration he could change what he saw. 'Is he dead?'
'Gook,' observed the Librarian, contriving to imply that Rincewind was in a region where even things like time and space were a bit iffy, and that it was probably not very useful to speculate as to his exact state at this point in time, if indeed he was at any point in time at all, and that, all in all, he might even turn up tomorrow or, for that matter, yesterday, and finally that if there was any chance at all of surviving then Rincewind almost certainly would.come out!' he said.'Oook,' said the Librarian, in a philosophic manner.'I thought he'd come out. You know, just at the last minute.''Oook?'Coin looked closely at the cobbles,
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