Mark Rothko Untitled 1962Mark Rothko Untitled 1960Mark Rothko Untitled 1949
blossoming at the top into a complexity of turrets and battlements. A swarm of tiles was hovering over it, individual things to his companions. They didn't seem to grasp ideas properly; more particularly, they didn't seem able to get the hang of doom. They suffered from the terrible delusion that something could be done. They seemed prepared to make the world the way they wanted it or die in the attempt, and the trouble with dying in the attempt was that you died in the attempt.
The whole point about the old University organisation was that it kept a sort of peace tiles swooping down and clinking into place like ceramic bees on a bombing run. It was impossibly high - the stones at the bottom would have been crushed if it wasn't for the magic that crackled through them.Well, that was just about it as far as organised wizardry was concerned. Two thousand years of peaceful magic had gone down the drain, the towers were going up again, and with all this new raw magic floating around something was going to get very seriously hurt. Probably the universe. Too much magic could wrap time and space around itself, and that wasn't good news for the kind of person who had grown used to things like effects following things like causes.And, of course, it would be impossible to explain
Friday, April 10, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Johannes Vermeer Lady Standing at a Virginal
Johannes Vermeer Lady Standing at a VirginalJohannes Vermeer A Lady Writing a LetterUnknown Artist Wooded Landscape
'But you agreed that we should get the hat!'
'But not die a particularly stubborn member of the junior Chamber of Commerce, 'I've had a lot of practice. For the last time, I don't want to buy anyone, you wretched child!'
He looked gloomily at the walls around them. At least there weren't any of those disturbing pictures here, but the hot breeze still blew the dust around him and he was sick and tired of looking at sand. What he wanted was a couple of cool beers, a cold bath and a change of clothing; it probably wouldn't make him feel better, but it would at least make feeling awful more enjoyablein the process,' said Rincewind, wretchedly. 'That won't do anyone any good. Not me, anyway.''My father always said that death is but a sleep,' said Conina.'Yes, the hat told me that,' said Rincewind, as they turned down a narrow, crowded street between white adobe walls. 'But the way I see it, it's a lot harder to get up in the morning.''Look,' said Conina, 'there's not much risk. You're with me.''Yes, and you're looking forward to it, aren't you,' said Rincewind accusingly, as Conina piloted them along a shady alley, with their retinue of pubescent entrepreneurs at their heels. 'It's the old herrydeterry at work.''Just shut up and try to look like a victim, will you?''I can do that all right,' said Rincewind, beating off
'But you agreed that we should get the hat!'
'But not die a particularly stubborn member of the junior Chamber of Commerce, 'I've had a lot of practice. For the last time, I don't want to buy anyone, you wretched child!'
He looked gloomily at the walls around them. At least there weren't any of those disturbing pictures here, but the hot breeze still blew the dust around him and he was sick and tired of looking at sand. What he wanted was a couple of cool beers, a cold bath and a change of clothing; it probably wouldn't make him feel better, but it would at least make feeling awful more enjoyablein the process,' said Rincewind, wretchedly. 'That won't do anyone any good. Not me, anyway.''My father always said that death is but a sleep,' said Conina.'Yes, the hat told me that,' said Rincewind, as they turned down a narrow, crowded street between white adobe walls. 'But the way I see it, it's a lot harder to get up in the morning.''Look,' said Conina, 'there's not much risk. You're with me.''Yes, and you're looking forward to it, aren't you,' said Rincewind accusingly, as Conina piloted them along a shady alley, with their retinue of pubescent entrepreneurs at their heels. 'It's the old herrydeterry at work.''Just shut up and try to look like a victim, will you?''I can do that all right,' said Rincewind, beating off
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Titian Emperor Charles
Titian Emperor CharlesBartolome Esteban Murillo The Little Fruit SellerFilippino Lippi The Marriage of St Catherine
Luggage, of course, followed them with a noise like someone tapdancing over a bag of crisps.
And so, forcing the Luggage to go all the way around to the gates anyway, because otherwise it'd only batter a hole in the dropped lightly into the University grounds and ran soundlessly towards the Great Hall, where it was soon lost in the shadows.
No-one would have noticed it anyway. On the other side of the campus the Sourcerer was walking towards the gates of the University. Where his feet touched the cobbles blue sparks crackled and evaporated the early evening dew.
wall, Rincewind quit the University with all the other insects and small frightened rodents and decided that if a few quiet beers wouldn't allow him to see things in a different light, then a few more probably would. It was certainly worth a try.That was why he wasn't present in the Great Hall for dinner. It would turn out to be the most important missed meal of his life. Further along the University wall there was a faint clink as a grapnel caught the spikes that lined its top. A moment later a slim, black-clad figure
Luggage, of course, followed them with a noise like someone tapdancing over a bag of crisps.
And so, forcing the Luggage to go all the way around to the gates anyway, because otherwise it'd only batter a hole in the dropped lightly into the University grounds and ran soundlessly towards the Great Hall, where it was soon lost in the shadows.
No-one would have noticed it anyway. On the other side of the campus the Sourcerer was walking towards the gates of the University. Where his feet touched the cobbles blue sparks crackled and evaporated the early evening dew.
wall, Rincewind quit the University with all the other insects and small frightened rodents and decided that if a few quiet beers wouldn't allow him to see things in a different light, then a few more probably would. It was certainly worth a try.That was why he wasn't present in the Great Hall for dinner. It would turn out to be the most important missed meal of his life. Further along the University wall there was a faint clink as a grapnel caught the spikes that lined its top. A moment later a slim, black-clad figure
Monday, April 6, 2009
Cassius Marcellus Coolidge A Bold Bluff
Cassius Marcellus Coolidge A Bold BluffEdvard Munch NudeEdvard Munch Moonlight
standing so still among the potted plants and fountains that Windle passed them at first, assuming that they were some sort of statue or piece of esoteric furniture.
The mystery. The wizards certainly didn’t look very secure.
Windle snapped his fingers in front of the Dean’s pale eyes. There was no response.
‘He’s not dead,’ said Reg.
‘Just resting,’ said Windle. ‘Switched off.’
Reg gave the Dean a push. The wizard tottered forward, and then staggered Archchancellor had a false red nose and was holding some balloons. Beside him, the Bursar was juggling coloured balls, but like a machine, his eyes staring blankly at nothing.The Senior Wrangler was standing a little way off, wearing a pair of sandwich boards. The writing on them hadn’t fully ripened yet, but Windle would have bet his afterlife that it would eventually say something like SALE ! ! ! !The other wizards were clustered together like dolls whose clockwork hadn’t been wound up. Each one had a large oblong badge on his robe. The familiar organic-looking writing was growing into a word that looked like: I K Yalthough why it was doing so was a complete
standing so still among the potted plants and fountains that Windle passed them at first, assuming that they were some sort of statue or piece of esoteric furniture.
The mystery. The wizards certainly didn’t look very secure.
Windle snapped his fingers in front of the Dean’s pale eyes. There was no response.
‘He’s not dead,’ said Reg.
‘Just resting,’ said Windle. ‘Switched off.’
Reg gave the Dean a push. The wizard tottered forward, and then staggered Archchancellor had a false red nose and was holding some balloons. Beside him, the Bursar was juggling coloured balls, but like a machine, his eyes staring blankly at nothing.The Senior Wrangler was standing a little way off, wearing a pair of sandwich boards. The writing on them hadn’t fully ripened yet, but Windle would have bet his afterlife that it would eventually say something like SALE ! ! ! !The other wizards were clustered together like dolls whose clockwork hadn’t been wound up. Each one had a large oblong badge on his robe. The familiar organic-looking writing was growing into a word that looked like: I K Yalthough why it was doing so was a complete
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Henri Rousseau The Snake Charmer
Henri Rousseau The Snake CharmerHenri Rousseau The DreamPaul Cezanne Mount Sainte Victoire
Door paused at the top of the stairs.
SHE IS LIVING ON BORROWED TIME, he said.
There was an old forge behind the barn. It hadn’t been used for years. But now red and yellow light spilled out into the yard, pulsing like a heart. And like a heart, there was a regular thumping. With every crash the light flared blue.
Miss Flitworth He looked at it blankly.
IT’S JUST AS BLUNT AT NIGHT, MISS FLITWORTH.
Then he slammed it down on the anvil.
AND I CAN’T SHARPEN IT ENOUGH!
‘I think perhaps the heat has got to you,’ she said, and reached out and took his armsidled through the open doorway. If she was the kind of person who would swear, she would have sworn that she made no noise that could possibly be heard above the crackle of the fire and the hammering, but Bill Door spun around in a halfcrouch, holding a curved blade in front of him. ‘It’s me!’He relaxed, or at least moved into a different level of tension.‘What the hell’re you doing?’He looked at the blade in his hands as if he was seeing it for the first time.I THOUGHT I WOULD SHARPEN THIS SCYTHE, MISS FLITWORTH.‘At one o’clock in the morning?’
Door paused at the top of the stairs.
SHE IS LIVING ON BORROWED TIME, he said.
There was an old forge behind the barn. It hadn’t been used for years. But now red and yellow light spilled out into the yard, pulsing like a heart. And like a heart, there was a regular thumping. With every crash the light flared blue.
Miss Flitworth He looked at it blankly.
IT’S JUST AS BLUNT AT NIGHT, MISS FLITWORTH.
Then he slammed it down on the anvil.
AND I CAN’T SHARPEN IT ENOUGH!
‘I think perhaps the heat has got to you,’ she said, and reached out and took his armsidled through the open doorway. If she was the kind of person who would swear, she would have sworn that she made no noise that could possibly be heard above the crackle of the fire and the hammering, but Bill Door spun around in a halfcrouch, holding a curved blade in front of him. ‘It’s me!’He relaxed, or at least moved into a different level of tension.‘What the hell’re you doing?’He looked at the blade in his hands as if he was seeing it for the first time.I THOUGHT I WOULD SHARPEN THIS SCYTHE, MISS FLITWORTH.‘At one o’clock in the morning?’
Frida Kahlo My Dress Hangs There
Frida Kahlo My Dress Hangs ThereFrida Kahlo Diego and IDouglas Hofmann Model
No, ‘ said Arthur, ‘by a lawyer. I got this letter, see? With a posh blob of wax on it and everything. Blahblah-blah . . . great-great-uncle . . . blahblahblah . . . only surviving relative . . . blahblahblah . . . may we be the first to offer our , dropping a portcullis into that
avenue of conversation.’I should have known even before we went to look at
it. So I turned the carriage around, right? I thought, well, that’s four days
wasted, right in the middle of our busy season. I don’t think any more about heartiest . . . blahblahblah. One minute I’m Arthur Winkings, a coming man in the wholesale fruit and vegetable business, next minute I find I’m Arthur, Count Notfaroutoe, owner of fifty acres of cliff face a goat’d fall off of and a castle that even the cockroaches have abandoned and an invitation from the burgomaster to drop in down at the village one day and discuss three hundred years of back taxes.’‘I hate lawyers, ‘ said the voice from under the chair. It had a sad, hollow sound. Windle tried to move his legs a little closer to his own chair. ‘It voss quite a good castle, ‘ said Doreen.‘A bloody heap of mouldering stone is what it was,’ said Arthur.‘It had nice views.’‘Yeah, through every wall, ‘ said Arthur
No, ‘ said Arthur, ‘by a lawyer. I got this letter, see? With a posh blob of wax on it and everything. Blahblah-blah . . . great-great-uncle . . . blahblahblah . . . only surviving relative . . . blahblahblah . . . may we be the first to offer our , dropping a portcullis into that
avenue of conversation.’I should have known even before we went to look at
it. So I turned the carriage around, right? I thought, well, that’s four days
wasted, right in the middle of our busy season. I don’t think any more about heartiest . . . blahblahblah. One minute I’m Arthur Winkings, a coming man in the wholesale fruit and vegetable business, next minute I find I’m Arthur, Count Notfaroutoe, owner of fifty acres of cliff face a goat’d fall off of and a castle that even the cockroaches have abandoned and an invitation from the burgomaster to drop in down at the village one day and discuss three hundred years of back taxes.’‘I hate lawyers, ‘ said the voice from under the chair. It had a sad, hollow sound. Windle tried to move his legs a little closer to his own chair. ‘It voss quite a good castle, ‘ said Doreen.‘A bloody heap of mouldering stone is what it was,’ said Arthur.‘It had nice views.’‘Yeah, through every wall, ‘ said Arthur
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Franz Marc Affenfries
Franz Marc AffenfriesGarmash Sleeping BeautyMarc Chagall The Wedding CandlesMarc Chagall The Cattle DealerMarc Chagall Lovers in the Moonlight
clapped his spiritual hands and rubbed them together with forced enthusiasm.
‘Get a move on. Some of us have got new lives to go to,’ he said. The darkness remained inert. There was no shape, no sound. It was void, without form. The spirit of Windle Poons moved on the face of the darkness. It shook its head.’Blow this for a lark,’ it muttered.’This isn’t right at all.’ It hung around for a while and then, see the point of believing, of going around saying, ‘O great table, without whom we are as naught’.
Anyway, either the gods are there whether you believe or not, or exist only as
a function of the belief, so either way you might as well ignore thebecause there didn’t seem anything else for it, headed for the only home it had ever known. It was a home he’d occupied for one hundred and thirty years. It wasn’t expecting him back and put up a lot of resistance. You either had to be very determined or very powerful to overcome that sort of thing, but Windle Poons had been a wizard for more than a century. Besides, it was like breaking into your own house, the old familiar property that you’d lived in for years. You knew where the metaphorical window was that didn’t shut properly.In short, Windle Poons went back to Windle Poons.Wizards don’t believe in gods in the same way that most people don’t find it necessary to believe in, say, tables. They know they’re there, they know they’re there for a purpose, they’d probably agree that they have a place in a well-organised universe, but they wouldn’t
clapped his spiritual hands and rubbed them together with forced enthusiasm.
‘Get a move on. Some of us have got new lives to go to,’ he said. The darkness remained inert. There was no shape, no sound. It was void, without form. The spirit of Windle Poons moved on the face of the darkness. It shook its head.’Blow this for a lark,’ it muttered.’This isn’t right at all.’ It hung around for a while and then, see the point of believing, of going around saying, ‘O great table, without whom we are as naught’.
Anyway, either the gods are there whether you believe or not, or exist only as
a function of the belief, so either way you might as well ignore thebecause there didn’t seem anything else for it, headed for the only home it had ever known. It was a home he’d occupied for one hundred and thirty years. It wasn’t expecting him back and put up a lot of resistance. You either had to be very determined or very powerful to overcome that sort of thing, but Windle Poons had been a wizard for more than a century. Besides, it was like breaking into your own house, the old familiar property that you’d lived in for years. You knew where the metaphorical window was that didn’t shut properly.In short, Windle Poons went back to Windle Poons.Wizards don’t believe in gods in the same way that most people don’t find it necessary to believe in, say, tables. They know they’re there, they know they’re there for a purpose, they’d probably agree that they have a place in a well-organised universe, but they wouldn’t
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