Thomas Moran Sunset on the MoorThomas Moran Moonlit SeascapeThomas Moran Grand Canyon of the YellowstoneThomas Moran Cresheim Glen, Wissahickon, AutumnThomas Moran Colburn's Butte, South Utah
to keep It from getting to the Library,’ said the Dean, peering through the rain that was beginning to thud on the cobbles. ‘To stay alive in reality, Things need magic to hold themselves together. They’ve got no natural morphogenic field, you see, and–‘
‘Do something! Blow it up with magic!’ shouted Ginger. ‘Oh, that poor monkey!’
‘We can’t useThey had been stepping out of the Great Hall when a giant woman had lurched past the gate with a gibbering ape in one hand. Now the Bursar was trying to control an antique broom out of the University museum while a madman behind him feverishly tried to load a crossbow.
Airborne, the Archchancellor had said. It was absolutely essential magic! That’s like pouring oil on a fire!’ snapped the Dean. ‘Besides . . . I don’t know how you go about blowing up a fifty‑foot woman. It’s not the sort of thing I’ve ever been called upon to do.’‘It’s not a woman! It’s . . . it’s a film creature, you idiot! Do you think I’m really that big?’ shouted Ginger. ‘It’s using Holy Wood! It’s a Holy Wood monster! From film land!’ ‘Steer, godsdamnit! Steer!’‘I don’t know how to!’‘You just have to throw your weight about!’The Bursar gripped the broomstick nervously. It’s all very well for you to say, he thought. You’re used ‘to it.
Tuesday 31 March 2009
Monday 30 March 2009
Henri Matisse The Blue Window
Henri Matisse The Blue WindowHenri Matisse Spanish Still LifeHenri Matisse Moroccan LandscapeHenri Matisse Moorish ScreenHenri Matisse Luxe I
Victor eased himself carefully out of the music pit, which was now several feet in the air, and ran over to Ginger. She was on her knees, and sobbing.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Where died watching a click,’ he said. ‘Yeah. A comedy,’ said Gaspode, trotting ahead of him.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘They’re all grinnin’.’
‘Gaspode!’
‘Well, you’ve got to look on the bright side, haven’t you?’ sneered the dog. ‘Can’t go around bein’ miserable jus’ because you’re in some lost underground tomb with a mad cat lover an’ a torch that’s goin’ to go out any minute‑‘am I? What’s happening?’‘I couldn’t even begin to explain.’The torch was spluttering on the floor. It wasn’t an actinic fire now, it was just a piece of charred and nearly extinguished driftwood. Victor grabbed it and waved it around until a dull yellow flame appeared.‘Gaspode?’ he snapped.‘Yeah?’‘You two dogs lead the way.’‘Oh, thank you very much.’Ginger clung to him as they lurched back up the aisle. Despite the incipient terror, Victor had to admit that it was a very pleasant sensation. He looked around at the occasional occupants of the seats and shuddered.‘It looks as though they
Victor eased himself carefully out of the music pit, which was now several feet in the air, and ran over to Ginger. She was on her knees, and sobbing.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Where died watching a click,’ he said. ‘Yeah. A comedy,’ said Gaspode, trotting ahead of him.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘They’re all grinnin’.’
‘Gaspode!’
‘Well, you’ve got to look on the bright side, haven’t you?’ sneered the dog. ‘Can’t go around bein’ miserable jus’ because you’re in some lost underground tomb with a mad cat lover an’ a torch that’s goin’ to go out any minute‑‘am I? What’s happening?’‘I couldn’t even begin to explain.’The torch was spluttering on the floor. It wasn’t an actinic fire now, it was just a piece of charred and nearly extinguished driftwood. Victor grabbed it and waved it around until a dull yellow flame appeared.‘Gaspode?’ he snapped.‘Yeah?’‘You two dogs lead the way.’‘Oh, thank you very much.’Ginger clung to him as they lurched back up the aisle. Despite the incipient terror, Victor had to admit that it was a very pleasant sensation. He looked around at the occasional occupants of the seats and shuddered.‘It looks as though they
Friday 27 March 2009
Mark Rothko Green Red on Orange
Mark Rothko Green Red on OrangeMark Rothko Blue Green and Brown 1951Mark Rothko Blue Green and BrownAlfred Gockel Stroking the KeysAlfred Gockel Moved By The Music V
firing messages up her spine, insidiously insisting that in those long fangs and bandy legs was everything a troll girl could wish for in a mate.
Trolls like Rock or Morry, of course, were far more modern and could do things like use a knife and fork, but there was Maybe this make-up the girls had been talking about could be worth a try.
She sighed, blew out the lamp, opened the door and stepped out into a maze of roots.
A gigantic tree stretched the whole length of the alley. He must have dragged it for miles. The few surviving branches poked through windows or waved forlornly in the air.
In the middle of it all was Detritus, perched proudly on the trunk, his face split in a watermelon grinsomething, well, reassuring about Detritus. Perhaps it was the way his knuckles touched the ground so dynamically. And apart from anything else, she was sure she was brighter than he was. There was a sort of gormless unstoppability about him that she found rather fascinating. That was the instincts at work again -intelligence has never been a particularly valuable survival trait in a troll. And she had to admit that, whatever she might attempt in the way of feather boas and fancy hats, she was pushing 140 and was 400 lbs above the fashionable weight. If only he’d buck his ideas up. Or at least, buck one idea up.
firing messages up her spine, insidiously insisting that in those long fangs and bandy legs was everything a troll girl could wish for in a mate.
Trolls like Rock or Morry, of course, were far more modern and could do things like use a knife and fork, but there was Maybe this make-up the girls had been talking about could be worth a try.
She sighed, blew out the lamp, opened the door and stepped out into a maze of roots.
A gigantic tree stretched the whole length of the alley. He must have dragged it for miles. The few surviving branches poked through windows or waved forlornly in the air.
In the middle of it all was Detritus, perched proudly on the trunk, his face split in a watermelon grinsomething, well, reassuring about Detritus. Perhaps it was the way his knuckles touched the ground so dynamically. And apart from anything else, she was sure she was brighter than he was. There was a sort of gormless unstoppability about him that she found rather fascinating. That was the instincts at work again -intelligence has never been a particularly valuable survival trait in a troll. And she had to admit that, whatever she might attempt in the way of feather boas and fancy hats, she was pushing 140 and was 400 lbs above the fashionable weight. If only he’d buck his ideas up. Or at least, buck one idea up.
Thursday 26 March 2009
Andy Warhol Pink Cow
Andy Warhol Pink CowAndy Warhol Ingrid with HatAndy Warhol Flowers 1964Tom Thomson Woodland WaterfallTom Thomson The Pool
storms that so carefully avoided Holy Wood didn’t worry about Ankh-Morpork, and it was pouring with rain. That didn’t stop up expertly over passers-by although, since it was now five a.m., the crowds had thinned out a bit.
Throat took a deep breath of the thick city air. Real air. You would have to go a long way to find air that was realer than Ankh-Morpork air. You could tell just by breathing it that other people had been doing the same thing for thousands of years.
For the first time in days he felt that he was thinking clearly.the city’s night life, though - it just made it damper. There was nothing you couldn’t buy in Ankh-Morpork, even in the middle of the night. Dibbler had a lot of things to buy. He needed posters painted. He needed all sorts of things. Many of them involved ideas he’d had to invent in his head on the long ride, and now had to explain very carefully to other people. And he had to explain it fast. The rain was a solid curtain when he finally staggered out into the grey light of dawn. The gutters overflowed. Along the rooftops, repulsive gargoyles threw
storms that so carefully avoided Holy Wood didn’t worry about Ankh-Morpork, and it was pouring with rain. That didn’t stop up expertly over passers-by although, since it was now five a.m., the crowds had thinned out a bit.
Throat took a deep breath of the thick city air. Real air. You would have to go a long way to find air that was realer than Ankh-Morpork air. You could tell just by breathing it that other people had been doing the same thing for thousands of years.
For the first time in days he felt that he was thinking clearly.the city’s night life, though - it just made it damper. There was nothing you couldn’t buy in Ankh-Morpork, even in the middle of the night. Dibbler had a lot of things to buy. He needed posters painted. He needed all sorts of things. Many of them involved ideas he’d had to invent in his head on the long ride, and now had to explain very carefully to other people. And he had to explain it fast. The rain was a solid curtain when he finally staggered out into the grey light of dawn. The gutters overflowed. Along the rooftops, repulsive gargoyles threw
Wednesday 25 March 2009
George Frederick Watts The Recording Angel
George Frederick Watts The Recording AngelGeorge Frederick Watts She shall be called womanGeorge Frederick Watts CreationUnknown Artist Venice Grand CanalUnknown Artist Grand Canal scene
where he ought to be was not where he was.
And finally, even further down the road, was an eight-horse wagon taking a load of lumber to Holy Wood. Its driver wasn’t thinking about anything very much, although he was slightly puzzled by an incident that occurred of the Century of the Fruitbat, that Discworld affairs were being watched keenly and impatiently by intelligences greater than Man’s, or at least much nastier; that their affairs were being scrutinized and studied as a man with a three-day appetite might study the All-You-Can-Gobble-For A Dollar menu outside Harga’s House of Ribs . . . just as he was leaving Ankh-Morpork in the darkness before dawn. A voice from the gloom by the road had shouted ‘Stop in the name of the city guard!’ and he had stopped, and when nothing further had transpired he had looked around, and there was no-one there. The wagon rumbled past, revealing to the eye of the imaginative beholder the small figure of Gaspode the Wonder Dog, trying to make himself comfortable amongst the balks of timber at the rear. He was going to Holy Wood too. And he also didn’t know why. But he was determined to find out. None would have believed, in the final years
where he ought to be was not where he was.
And finally, even further down the road, was an eight-horse wagon taking a load of lumber to Holy Wood. Its driver wasn’t thinking about anything very much, although he was slightly puzzled by an incident that occurred of the Century of the Fruitbat, that Discworld affairs were being watched keenly and impatiently by intelligences greater than Man’s, or at least much nastier; that their affairs were being scrutinized and studied as a man with a three-day appetite might study the All-You-Can-Gobble-For A Dollar menu outside Harga’s House of Ribs . . . just as he was leaving Ankh-Morpork in the darkness before dawn. A voice from the gloom by the road had shouted ‘Stop in the name of the city guard!’ and he had stopped, and when nothing further had transpired he had looked around, and there was no-one there. The wagon rumbled past, revealing to the eye of the imaginative beholder the small figure of Gaspode the Wonder Dog, trying to make himself comfortable amongst the balks of timber at the rear. He was going to Holy Wood too. And he also didn’t know why. But he was determined to find out. None would have believed, in the final years
Monday 23 March 2009
Thomas Kinkade Seaside Village
Thomas Kinkade Seaside VillageThomas Kinkade Bridge of HopeEdward Hopper SummertimeEdward Hopper Night WindowsEdward Hopper Lighthouse Hill
intellectual development was to have nothing much to do and nothing to do it with.
He and be more peaceful.'
Teppic winced. 'To be honest, I'm not sure,' he said. 'But I don't think so. They've got something they do it with, I think it's called a mocracy, and it means everyone in the whole country can say who the new Tyrant is. One man, one-' He paused. The political history lesson seemed a very long while ago, and had introduced concepts never heard of in Djelibeybi or in Ankh-Morpork, for that matter. He had a stab at it, anyway. 'One man, one reached the crest of the dune, gazed with approval over the rolling sands ahead of him, and began to think in logarithms. 'What's Ephebe like?' said Ptraci. 'I've never been there. Apparently it's ruled by a Tyrant.' 'I hope we don't meet him, then.' Teppic shook his head. 'It's not like that,' he said. 'They have a new Tyrant every five years and they'do something to him first.' He hesitated. 'I think they ee-lect him.' 'Is that something like they do to tomcats and bulls and things?' 'Er.' 'You know. To make them stop fighting
intellectual development was to have nothing much to do and nothing to do it with.
He and be more peaceful.'
Teppic winced. 'To be honest, I'm not sure,' he said. 'But I don't think so. They've got something they do it with, I think it's called a mocracy, and it means everyone in the whole country can say who the new Tyrant is. One man, one-' He paused. The political history lesson seemed a very long while ago, and had introduced concepts never heard of in Djelibeybi or in Ankh-Morpork, for that matter. He had a stab at it, anyway. 'One man, one reached the crest of the dune, gazed with approval over the rolling sands ahead of him, and began to think in logarithms. 'What's Ephebe like?' said Ptraci. 'I've never been there. Apparently it's ruled by a Tyrant.' 'I hope we don't meet him, then.' Teppic shook his head. 'It's not like that,' he said. 'They have a new Tyrant every five years and they'do something to him first.' He hesitated. 'I think they ee-lect him.' 'Is that something like they do to tomcats and bulls and things?' 'Er.' 'You know. To make them stop fighting
Friday 20 March 2009
Jack Vettriano Big Bert's Favourite Girl
Jack Vettriano Big Bert's Favourite GirlJack Vettriano Between Darkness and DawnJack Vettriano Betrayal No Turning Back 2001Jack Vettriano Betrayal First Kiss 2001Jack Vettriano Beautiful Losers II
, now,' he said, 'and here we have Cheesewright, G., skulking across the quaking rooftops. See the determined ears. See the firm set of those knees.'
The class tittered dutifully. Cheesewright gave them an idiotic grin and rolled his eyes.
'But what are these sinister figures that march in step with him, hey? /Since you find this so funny, Mr Teppic, perhaps you would be so good as to tell Mr Cheesewright?'/
Teppic froze in mid-laugh.
Mericet's gaze bored into him. He's just like Dios the high priest, Teppic thought. Even father's frightened of Dios.
He knew what he ought to do, and he was damned if he was going to do it. He ought to be scared.
'Ill-proceeded to take a number of small metal rods from his belt. They were threaded at the ends, and after a few seconds' brisk work he had a rod about three feet long on the end of which he affixed a small mirror.
That revealed nothing in the gloom beyond the opening. He pulled it back and tried again, this time attaching his preparedness,' he said. 'Carelessness. Lack of concentration. Poor maintenance of tools. Oh, and over-confidence, sir.' Mericet held his gaze for some time, but Teppic had practised on the palace cats. Finally the teacher gave a brief smile that had absolutely nothing to do with humour, tossed the chalk in the air, caught it again, and said: 'Mr Teppic is exactly right. Especially about the over-confidence.' There was a ledge leading to an invitingly open window. There was oil on the ledge, and Teppic invested several minutes in screwing small crampons into cracks in the stonework before advancing. He hung easily by the window and
, now,' he said, 'and here we have Cheesewright, G., skulking across the quaking rooftops. See the determined ears. See the firm set of those knees.'
The class tittered dutifully. Cheesewright gave them an idiotic grin and rolled his eyes.
'But what are these sinister figures that march in step with him, hey? /Since you find this so funny, Mr Teppic, perhaps you would be so good as to tell Mr Cheesewright?'/
Teppic froze in mid-laugh.
Mericet's gaze bored into him. He's just like Dios the high priest, Teppic thought. Even father's frightened of Dios.
He knew what he ought to do, and he was damned if he was going to do it. He ought to be scared.
'Ill-proceeded to take a number of small metal rods from his belt. They were threaded at the ends, and after a few seconds' brisk work he had a rod about three feet long on the end of which he affixed a small mirror.
That revealed nothing in the gloom beyond the opening. He pulled it back and tried again, this time attaching his preparedness,' he said. 'Carelessness. Lack of concentration. Poor maintenance of tools. Oh, and over-confidence, sir.' Mericet held his gaze for some time, but Teppic had practised on the palace cats. Finally the teacher gave a brief smile that had absolutely nothing to do with humour, tossed the chalk in the air, caught it again, and said: 'Mr Teppic is exactly right. Especially about the over-confidence.' There was a ledge leading to an invitingly open window. There was oil on the ledge, and Teppic invested several minutes in screwing small crampons into cracks in the stonework before advancing. He hung easily by the window and
Thursday 19 March 2009
Thomas Moran A View of Venice
Thomas Moran A View of VeniceHerbert James Draper Prospero Summoning Nymphs and DeitiesHerbert James Draper Pot PourriHerbert James Draper Portrait Of Miss Barbara De SelincourtHerbert James Draper Day and the Dawnstar
preferred to live in isolated cottages with the traditional curly chimneys and weed-grown thatch. Granny Weatherwax approved of this; it was no good being a witch unless you let people know.
Nanny Ogg didn't care much about what people knew and even less for what they thought, and lived in a new, knick-knack crammed cottage in the To ameliorate the effect she had tried to plait violets and cowslips in it. The result was not all she had hoped. It gave the impression that a window box had fallen on her head.
'Good evening,' said Granny.
'Well met by moonlight,' fifteen this year,' said Granny. 'Not counting the horse. What's this one?'
'It's a rock,' chuckled Nanny Ogg.
'Well, at least it should last,' said Granny.
The rock extended adoubtfully. She rummaged in her bag. 'Anyway, if we're going to start, we'd better light the candles.'
The senior witches exchanged a resigned glance.
'But we got this lovely new lamp our
preferred to live in isolated cottages with the traditional curly chimneys and weed-grown thatch. Granny Weatherwax approved of this; it was no good being a witch unless you let people know.
Nanny Ogg didn't care much about what people knew and even less for what they thought, and lived in a new, knick-knack crammed cottage in the To ameliorate the effect she had tried to plait violets and cowslips in it. The result was not all she had hoped. It gave the impression that a window box had fallen on her head.
'Good evening,' said Granny.
'Well met by moonlight,' fifteen this year,' said Granny. 'Not counting the horse. What's this one?'
'It's a rock,' chuckled Nanny Ogg.
'Well, at least it should last,' said Granny.
The rock extended adoubtfully. She rummaged in her bag. 'Anyway, if we're going to start, we'd better light the candles.'
The senior witches exchanged a resigned glance.
'But we got this lovely new lamp our
Wednesday 18 March 2009
Albert Bierstadt the oregon trail
Albert Bierstadt the oregon trailSir Lawrence Alma-Tadema Caracalla and GetaFranz Marc The MonkeyFranz Marc RinderFranz Marc Rehe im Schnee
won't tell you again! Either I hear the clink of coins, or you hear a gurgle!'
In fact what they all heard was a whistling noise, high in the air, and the crash as a milk jug, its sides frosted with the ice of altitude, dropped out of the sky on to the spike atop the chief's helmet.
The remaining bandits took one look at the results, and fled.
The actors stared down at the recumbent bandit. Hwel prodded a lump of frozen milk with his boot.
'Well, 'I don't know about that. I've heard of fish and frogs and rocks,' said Hwel. 'There's nothing against crockery.' He began to rally. 'It's just one of these uncommon phenomenons.
They happen all the time in this part of the world, there's nothing unusual about it.'
They got back on to the carts and rode on in unaccustomed silence. Young Wimsloe collected every bit of jug he could find and stored them carefully in the props box, and spent the rest of the day watching the sky, hoping for a sugar basin.well,' he said weakly.'He didn't take any notice!' whispered Tomjon.'A born critic,' said the dwarf. It was a blue and white jug. Funny how little details stood out at a time like this. It had been smashed several times in the past, he could see, because the pieces had been carefully glued together again. Someone had really loved that jug.'What we're dealing with here,' he said, rallying some shreds of logic, 'is a freak whirlwind. Obviously.''But milk jugs don't just drop out of the sky,' said Tomjon, demonstrating the astonishing human art of denying the obvious.
won't tell you again! Either I hear the clink of coins, or you hear a gurgle!'
In fact what they all heard was a whistling noise, high in the air, and the crash as a milk jug, its sides frosted with the ice of altitude, dropped out of the sky on to the spike atop the chief's helmet.
The remaining bandits took one look at the results, and fled.
The actors stared down at the recumbent bandit. Hwel prodded a lump of frozen milk with his boot.
'Well, 'I don't know about that. I've heard of fish and frogs and rocks,' said Hwel. 'There's nothing against crockery.' He began to rally. 'It's just one of these uncommon phenomenons.
They happen all the time in this part of the world, there's nothing unusual about it.'
They got back on to the carts and rode on in unaccustomed silence. Young Wimsloe collected every bit of jug he could find and stored them carefully in the props box, and spent the rest of the day watching the sky, hoping for a sugar basin.well,' he said weakly.'He didn't take any notice!' whispered Tomjon.'A born critic,' said the dwarf. It was a blue and white jug. Funny how little details stood out at a time like this. It had been smashed several times in the past, he could see, because the pieces had been carefully glued together again. Someone had really loved that jug.'What we're dealing with here,' he said, rallying some shreds of logic, 'is a freak whirlwind. Obviously.''But milk jugs don't just drop out of the sky,' said Tomjon, demonstrating the astonishing human art of denying the obvious.
Monday 16 March 2009
Claude Monet Spring 1880
Claude Monet Spring 1880Claude Monet Snow at ArgenteuilClaude Monet Houses of Parliament LondonClaude Monet Custom Officer's Cabin at VarengvilleClaude Monet Chrysanthemums
which was only a few streets away, almost in the shadow of the castle. But then he'd had the idea of delivering it to Magrat. It would impress her, he thought. Witches were very keen on cats. And then she'd be bound to ask him in, for a cup of tea or something . . .
He put his Greebo's grin gradually faded, until there was nothing left but the cat. This was nearly as spooky as the opposite way round.
He stretched and yawned to hide his embarrassment. Being called a good cat in the middle of one of his favourite foot in another water-filled hole. Something wriggled underneath it. The Fool groaned, and stepped back on to a tumescent mushroom.'Look, cat,' he said. 'You've got to come down, right? And then you can find your way home and I'll follow you. Cats are good at seeing in the dark and finding their own way home,' he added hopefully.He reached up. Greebo sank his claws into his arm as a friendly warning, and found to his surprise that this had no effect on chain mail.'There's a good cat,' said the Fool, and lowered him to the ground. 'Go on, find your way home. Any home will do.'
which was only a few streets away, almost in the shadow of the castle. But then he'd had the idea of delivering it to Magrat. It would impress her, he thought. Witches were very keen on cats. And then she'd be bound to ask him in, for a cup of tea or something . . .
He put his Greebo's grin gradually faded, until there was nothing left but the cat. This was nearly as spooky as the opposite way round.
He stretched and yawned to hide his embarrassment. Being called a good cat in the middle of one of his favourite foot in another water-filled hole. Something wriggled underneath it. The Fool groaned, and stepped back on to a tumescent mushroom.'Look, cat,' he said. 'You've got to come down, right? And then you can find your way home and I'll follow you. Cats are good at seeing in the dark and finding their own way home,' he added hopefully.He reached up. Greebo sank his claws into his arm as a friendly warning, and found to his surprise that this had no effect on chain mail.'There's a good cat,' said the Fool, and lowered him to the ground. 'Go on, find your way home. Any home will do.'
Sunday 15 March 2009
Thomas Kinkade Cobblestone Christmas
Thomas Kinkade Cobblestone ChristmasThomas Kinkade Cobblestone BrookeThomas Kinkade Christmas MoonlightThomas Kinkade Christmas EveningThomas Kinkade Abundant Harvest
was another potboiler. Every page was stained with sweat and the words themselves scrawled across the manuscript in a trellis of blots and crossings-out and tiny scribbled insertions. Hwel stared at it for a moment, alone in a world that consisted of him, the next blank page and the shouting, clamouring voices that haunted his dreams.
He began to write.
Free of Hwel's never-too-stringent attention. Tomjon pushed open the lid of the props hamper and, in the methodical way of the very young, began to unpack the crowns.
The Winter in the Ramtops could not honestly be described as a magical frosty wonderland, each twig laced with confections of brittle ice. Winter in the Ramtops didn't mess about; it was a gateway straight through to the primeval coldness that lived before the creation of the world. Winter in the Ramtops was several yards of snow, the forests a mere collection of shadowy green tunnels under the drifts. Winter meant the coming of the lazy wind, which couldn't be bothered to blow around people and blew right through them instead. The idedwarf stuck out his tongue as he piloted the errant quill across the ink-speckled page. He'd found room for the star-crossed lovers, the comic gravediggers and me hunchback king. It was the cats and the roller skates that were currently giving him trouble . . .A gurgle made him look up.'For goodness sake, lad,' he said. 'It hardly fits. Put it back.' The Disc rolled into winter.a
was another potboiler. Every page was stained with sweat and the words themselves scrawled across the manuscript in a trellis of blots and crossings-out and tiny scribbled insertions. Hwel stared at it for a moment, alone in a world that consisted of him, the next blank page and the shouting, clamouring voices that haunted his dreams.
He began to write.
Free of Hwel's never-too-stringent attention. Tomjon pushed open the lid of the props hamper and, in the methodical way of the very young, began to unpack the crowns.
The Winter in the Ramtops could not honestly be described as a magical frosty wonderland, each twig laced with confections of brittle ice. Winter in the Ramtops didn't mess about; it was a gateway straight through to the primeval coldness that lived before the creation of the world. Winter in the Ramtops was several yards of snow, the forests a mere collection of shadowy green tunnels under the drifts. Winter meant the coming of the lazy wind, which couldn't be bothered to blow around people and blew right through them instead. The idedwarf stuck out his tongue as he piloted the errant quill across the ink-speckled page. He'd found room for the star-crossed lovers, the comic gravediggers and me hunchback king. It was the cats and the roller skates that were currently giving him trouble . . .A gurgle made him look up.'For goodness sake, lad,' he said. 'It hardly fits. Put it back.' The Disc rolled into winter.a
Friday 13 March 2009
Lorenzo Lotto Angel Annunciating
Lorenzo Lotto Angel AnnunciatingCamille Pissarro The Harvest 1882Camille Pissarro The garden at Pontoise 1877
HAVE NO CHOICE. THERE ARE NO CHOICES.
She ran forwardfrom out of the sky that blew the sand into a crater. There was a low buzzing and the smell of hot tin.
Mort looked around himself in the gale of rushing sand, turning as if in a dream, alone in the calm centre of the gale. Lightning flashed in the whirling cloud. Deep inside his own mind he struggled to break free, but something had him in its grip and he could no more resist than a compass needle can ignore the compulsion to point towards the Hub. and grabbed his arm as he turned towards the waiting Binky. He removed her hand gently.I HAVE FINISHED MY APPRENTICESHIP.'It's all in your own mind!' yelled Ysabell. 'You're whatever you think you are!'She stopped and looked down. The sand around Mort's feet was beginning to whip up in little spurts and twirling dust devils.There was a crackle in the air, and a greasy feel. Mort looked uneasy.SOMEONE is PERFORMING THE RITE OF ASH —It hit like a hammer, a force
HAVE NO CHOICE. THERE ARE NO CHOICES.
She ran forwardfrom out of the sky that blew the sand into a crater. There was a low buzzing and the smell of hot tin.
Mort looked around himself in the gale of rushing sand, turning as if in a dream, alone in the calm centre of the gale. Lightning flashed in the whirling cloud. Deep inside his own mind he struggled to break free, but something had him in its grip and he could no more resist than a compass needle can ignore the compulsion to point towards the Hub. and grabbed his arm as he turned towards the waiting Binky. He removed her hand gently.I HAVE FINISHED MY APPRENTICESHIP.'It's all in your own mind!' yelled Ysabell. 'You're whatever you think you are!'She stopped and looked down. The sand around Mort's feet was beginning to whip up in little spurts and twirling dust devils.There was a crackle in the air, and a greasy feel. Mort looked uneasy.SOMEONE is PERFORMING THE RITE OF ASH —It hit like a hammer, a force
Thursday 12 March 2009
Carl Fredrik Aagard Amalfi dia Cappuccini
Carl Fredrik Aagard Amalfi dia CappucciniSalvador Dali The Enigma of DesireSalvador Dali Morphological Echo
madam?' he quavered, 'I don't see what I can possibly—'
He was jerked off his chair and out into the street, his robes billowing around him. Keli marched towards the palace 'You've just been appointed Royal Recogniser.'
'Oh. What does that entail, exactly?'
'You're going to remind everyone I'm alive. It's very simple. There's three square meals a day and your laundry done. Step lively, man.'with her shoulders set determinedly, dragging the wizard behind her like a reluctant puppy. It was with such a walk that mothers used to bear down on the local school when their little boy came Home with a black eye; it was unstoppable; it was like the March of Time.'What is it you intend?' Cutwell stuttered, horribly aware that there was going to be nothing he could do to resist, whatever it was.'It's your lucky day, wizard.''Oh. Good,' he said weakly.
madam?' he quavered, 'I don't see what I can possibly—'
He was jerked off his chair and out into the street, his robes billowing around him. Keli marched towards the palace 'You've just been appointed Royal Recogniser.'
'Oh. What does that entail, exactly?'
'You're going to remind everyone I'm alive. It's very simple. There's three square meals a day and your laundry done. Step lively, man.'with her shoulders set determinedly, dragging the wizard behind her like a reluctant puppy. It was with such a walk that mothers used to bear down on the local school when their little boy came Home with a black eye; it was unstoppable; it was like the March of Time.'What is it you intend?' Cutwell stuttered, horribly aware that there was going to be nothing he could do to resist, whatever it was.'It's your lucky day, wizard.''Oh. Good,' he said weakly.
Wednesday 11 March 2009
Vincent van Gogh Wheat Field with Crows
Vincent van Gogh Wheat Field with CrowsVincent van Gogh Mulberry TreeVincent van Gogh Bedroom ArlesVincent van Gogh Almond Branches in Bloom
Using USB peripherals can put a big drain on your system, because your motherboard has to power them, so unplugging everything saves juice. USB sticks, mice and webcams are common offenders, so copy all your information in the drive is a huge drain on resources, and many programs constantly do this. Simply eject your discs before you switch to battery power to gain vital extra minutes from your working day.
6. Invest in some hardware
Good practice can go some way to extending your battery life, but if you need to use your laptop throughout your working day, you're going to need some help. Most laptops come with a six-cell battery, but many manufacturers across and eject your devices as soon as possible, and put up with laptop track pads over your USB mouse. Many laptops have function buttons to turn off the built-in webcam, which drains the battery if given the chance.5. Eject your disc drivesHaving a disc spinning
Using USB peripherals can put a big drain on your system, because your motherboard has to power them, so unplugging everything saves juice. USB sticks, mice and webcams are common offenders, so copy all your information in the drive is a huge drain on resources, and many programs constantly do this. Simply eject your discs before you switch to battery power to gain vital extra minutes from your working day.
6. Invest in some hardware
Good practice can go some way to extending your battery life, but if you need to use your laptop throughout your working day, you're going to need some help. Most laptops come with a six-cell battery, but many manufacturers across and eject your devices as soon as possible, and put up with laptop track pads over your USB mouse. Many laptops have function buttons to turn off the built-in webcam, which drains the battery if given the chance.5. Eject your disc drivesHaving a disc spinning
Monday 9 March 2009
Caravaggio St Jerome
Caravaggio St JeromeCaravaggio NarcissusCaravaggio Madonna di Loreto
They're sort of-reflections of us," said Esk. "You can't beat your reflections, they'll always be as strong as you are. That's why they draw nearer to you when you start using magic. And they don't get tired. They feed off magic, so you can't distant stick-figures.
"I wonder if this is what they mean by sourcery?" said Simon.
I don't know. It might be."
"I'd really like to work this out," said Simon again, turning the staff over and over in his hands. "We could set up some experiments, you know, into deliberately not using magic. We could carefully beat them with magic. No, the thing is . . . well, not using magic because you can't, that's no use at all. But not using magic because you can, that really upsets them. They hate the idea. If people stopped using magic they'd die." The Things ahead of them fell over each other in their haste to back away. Simon looked at the staff, then at Esk, then at the Things, then back at the staff. "This needs a lot of thinking about," he said uncertainly. "I'd really like to work this out." "I expect you'll do it very well." "Because you're saying that the real power is when you go right through magic and out the other side." "It works, though, doesn't it?" They were alone on the cold plain now. The Things were
They're sort of-reflections of us," said Esk. "You can't beat your reflections, they'll always be as strong as you are. That's why they draw nearer to you when you start using magic. And they don't get tired. They feed off magic, so you can't distant stick-figures.
"I wonder if this is what they mean by sourcery?" said Simon.
I don't know. It might be."
"I'd really like to work this out," said Simon again, turning the staff over and over in his hands. "We could set up some experiments, you know, into deliberately not using magic. We could carefully beat them with magic. No, the thing is . . . well, not using magic because you can't, that's no use at all. But not using magic because you can, that really upsets them. They hate the idea. If people stopped using magic they'd die." The Things ahead of them fell over each other in their haste to back away. Simon looked at the staff, then at Esk, then at the Things, then back at the staff. "This needs a lot of thinking about," he said uncertainly. "I'd really like to work this out." "I expect you'll do it very well." "Because you're saying that the real power is when you go right through magic and out the other side." "It works, though, doesn't it?" They were alone on the cold plain now. The Things were
John Constable Hadleigh Castle
John Constable Hadleigh CastleJohn Constable Flatford MillJohn William Waterhouse The Magic Circle
looked at their stern faces and regretted it. The statues of very powerful dead mages were sometimes more than statues had any right to be. Maybe he should have kept his voice down.
"Yes?" he ventured, acutely aware of the stony stares.
"Up here, you fool!"
He lookedlike this?"
"A witch has got to have a hat, otherwise who's to know?" said Granny. She made a grab as something dark and sodden drifted by, cackled triumphantly, tipped out the water and rammed the hat on her head. It had lost its stiffening and flopped rather rakishly over one eye. up. The broomstick descended heavily through the rain in a series of swoops and jerks. About five feet above the water it lost its few remaining aerial pretensions, and flopped noisily into a whirlpool. "Don't stand there, idiot!" Treatle peered nervously into the gloom. "I've got to stand somewhere," he said. "I mean give us a hand!" snapped Cutangle, rising from the wavelets like a fat and angry Venus. "The lady first, of course." He turned to Granny, who was Fi around in the water. "I've lost my hat," she said. Cutangle sighed. "Does that really matter at a time
looked at their stern faces and regretted it. The statues of very powerful dead mages were sometimes more than statues had any right to be. Maybe he should have kept his voice down.
"Yes?" he ventured, acutely aware of the stony stares.
"Up here, you fool!"
He lookedlike this?"
"A witch has got to have a hat, otherwise who's to know?" said Granny. She made a grab as something dark and sodden drifted by, cackled triumphantly, tipped out the water and rammed the hat on her head. It had lost its stiffening and flopped rather rakishly over one eye. up. The broomstick descended heavily through the rain in a series of swoops and jerks. About five feet above the water it lost its few remaining aerial pretensions, and flopped noisily into a whirlpool. "Don't stand there, idiot!" Treatle peered nervously into the gloom. "I've got to stand somewhere," he said. "I mean give us a hand!" snapped Cutangle, rising from the wavelets like a fat and angry Venus. "The lady first, of course." He turned to Granny, who was Fi around in the water. "I've lost my hat," she said. Cutangle sighed. "Does that really matter at a time
William Blake Nebuchadnezzar
William Blake NebuchadnezzarWilliam Blake Jacob's LadderVincent van Gogh The Olive Trees
thought hadn't occurred to her at all. "No," she said truthfully. "Why? Will you?"
"No. Not really. There's no need to be frightened."
"I'm not."
"Oh." A brown arm appeared, attached to the head by the normal arrangements, and helped her out of her nest in the fleeces. Esk looked up and down the river. It was already much wider than it had been at Ohulan.
"I don't know. There's certainly a lot of it. Is this your ship?"
"Boat," he corrected. He was taller than her father, although not quite so old, and dressed like a gypsy. Most of his teeth had turned gold, but Esk decided it wasn't the
Esk stood on the deck of the barge and looked around. The sky was bluer than a biscuit barrel, fitting neatly over a broad valley through which the river ran as sluggishly as a planning inquiry.
Behind her the Ramtops still acted as a hitching rail for clouds, but they no longer dominated as they had done for as long as Esk had known them. Distance had eroded them.
"Where's this?" she said, sniffing the new smells of swamp and sedge.
thought hadn't occurred to her at all. "No," she said truthfully. "Why? Will you?"
"No. Not really. There's no need to be frightened."
"I'm not."
"Oh." A brown arm appeared, attached to the head by the normal arrangements, and helped her out of her nest in the fleeces. Esk looked up and down the river. It was already much wider than it had been at Ohulan.
"I don't know. There's certainly a lot of it. Is this your ship?"
"Boat," he corrected. He was taller than her father, although not quite so old, and dressed like a gypsy. Most of his teeth had turned gold, but Esk decided it wasn't the
Esk stood on the deck of the barge and looked around. The sky was bluer than a biscuit barrel, fitting neatly over a broad valley through which the river ran as sluggishly as a planning inquiry.
Behind her the Ramtops still acted as a hitching rail for clouds, but they no longer dominated as they had done for as long as Esk had known them. Distance had eroded them.
"Where's this?" she said, sniffing the new smells of swamp and sedge.
Thursday 5 March 2009
Leonardo da Vinci Annunciation
Leonardo da Vinci AnnunciationThomas Kinkade Seaside VillageThomas Kinkade Bridge of Hope
looked blankly at the book while Twoflower bustled around unheeded and Cohen tried in vain to lever the rings off the stone wizards.
He had to do something, he reminded himself. What was it, now?
He opened the the walls, gushed darkly through the city, and engulfed the lands beyond.
The bulk of the star loomed silently over the Disc. In the sky around it the new moons turned slowly and noiselessly.
The only sound was Rincewind's hoarse whispering as he turned page after page.book at the first page and began to read, his lips moving and his forefinger tracing the outline of each letter. As he mumbled each word it appeared soundlessly in the air beside him, in bright colours that streamed away in the night wind. He turned over the page.Other people were coming up the steps now – star people, citizens, even some of the Patrician's personal guard. A couple of star people made a half-hearted attempt to approach Rincewind, who was surrounded now by a rainbow swirl of letters and took absolutely no notice of them, but Cohen drew his sword and looked nonchalantly at them and they thought better of it.Silence spread out from Rincewind's bent form like ripples in a puddle. It cascaded down the tower and spread out through the milling crowds below, flowed over
looked blankly at the book while Twoflower bustled around unheeded and Cohen tried in vain to lever the rings off the stone wizards.
He had to do something, he reminded himself. What was it, now?
He opened the the walls, gushed darkly through the city, and engulfed the lands beyond.
The bulk of the star loomed silently over the Disc. In the sky around it the new moons turned slowly and noiselessly.
The only sound was Rincewind's hoarse whispering as he turned page after page.book at the first page and began to read, his lips moving and his forefinger tracing the outline of each letter. As he mumbled each word it appeared soundlessly in the air beside him, in bright colours that streamed away in the night wind. He turned over the page.Other people were coming up the steps now – star people, citizens, even some of the Patrician's personal guard. A couple of star people made a half-hearted attempt to approach Rincewind, who was surrounded now by a rainbow swirl of letters and took absolutely no notice of them, but Cohen drew his sword and looked nonchalantly at them and they thought better of it.Silence spread out from Rincewind's bent form like ripples in a puddle. It cascaded down the tower and spread out through the milling crowds below, flowed over
George Bellows Summer Fantasy
George Bellows Summer FantasyGeorge Bellows Romance of AutumnGeorge Bellows Red SunGeorge Bellows Polo Crowd
important thing is success.'
'It's getting there that matters,' said Wert bluntly. 'Not how you travel.'
They set off up the spiral.
Rincewind sat down, scowling at the darkness.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Twoflower, who was holding the Octavo.
'This is no way to treat a book,' he said. 'Look, he's bent the spine right back. People always do that, they've got no idea your fun, you've get back to where you belong!'
'But I—' protested Twoflower.
'The Spell, I mean the Spell,' said Rincewind. 'Go on, get back on the page!'
He glared at the ancient parchment until his eyes crossed.
'Then I'll say you!' he shouted, his voice echoing up the tower. 'You can join the rest of them and much good may it do you!'of how to treat them.''Yah,' said Rincewind vaguely.'Don't worry,' said Twoflower.'I'm not worried, I'm just angry,' snapped Rincewind. 'Give me the bloody thing!'He snatched the book and snapped it open viciously.He rummaged around in the back of his mind, where the Spell hung out.'All right,' he snarled. You've had
important thing is success.'
'It's getting there that matters,' said Wert bluntly. 'Not how you travel.'
They set off up the spiral.
Rincewind sat down, scowling at the darkness.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Twoflower, who was holding the Octavo.
'This is no way to treat a book,' he said. 'Look, he's bent the spine right back. People always do that, they've got no idea your fun, you've get back to where you belong!'
'But I—' protested Twoflower.
'The Spell, I mean the Spell,' said Rincewind. 'Go on, get back on the page!'
He glared at the ancient parchment until his eyes crossed.
'Then I'll say you!' he shouted, his voice echoing up the tower. 'You can join the rest of them and much good may it do you!'of how to treat them.''Yah,' said Rincewind vaguely.'Don't worry,' said Twoflower.'I'm not worried, I'm just angry,' snapped Rincewind. 'Give me the bloody thing!'He snatched the book and snapped it open viciously.He rummaged around in the back of his mind, where the Spell hung out.'All right,' he snarled. You've had
Tuesday 3 March 2009
Jack Vettriano Dancer for Money
Jack Vettriano Dancer for MoneyJack Vettriano Cafe DaysJack Vettriano Bluebird At BonnevilleJack Vettriano Birth Of A Dream
'No, he just didn't used to look where he was going. Hmm.' The trolls looked at the ground again.
'There's a trail,' he said. 'Quite a lot of horses.' He ooked up at the nearby hills, where sheer cliffs and dangerous crags loomed over the moonlit forests.
'Old Grandad lives up there,' he said quietly.
There was something about the way he said it that made Rincewind decide that he didn't ever want to meet Old Grandad.
'Dangerous, is he?' he ventured.
'He's very old, rapped on Kwartz's shoulder.
'Are we going to follow them, then?' he said. 'The legend says we should help this Rincewind squashy.'
Kwartz stood up, thought for a moment, then picked Rincewind up by the scruff of his neck and with a big gritty movement placed him on his shoulders.
'We go,' he said firmly. 'If we meet Old Grandad I'll try to explain . . .' and big and mean. We haven't seen him about for years,' said Kwartz.'Centuries,' corrected Beryl.'He'll squash them all flat!' added Jasper, jumping up and down on Rincewind's toes.'It just happens sometimes that a really old and big troll will go off by himself into the hills, and – um – the rock takes over, if you follow me.''No?'Kwartz sighed. 'People sometimes act like animals, don't they? And sometimes a troll will start thinking like a rock, and rocks don't like people much.'Breccia, a skinny troll with a sandstone finish
'No, he just didn't used to look where he was going. Hmm.' The trolls looked at the ground again.
'There's a trail,' he said. 'Quite a lot of horses.' He ooked up at the nearby hills, where sheer cliffs and dangerous crags loomed over the moonlit forests.
'Old Grandad lives up there,' he said quietly.
There was something about the way he said it that made Rincewind decide that he didn't ever want to meet Old Grandad.
'Dangerous, is he?' he ventured.
'He's very old, rapped on Kwartz's shoulder.
'Are we going to follow them, then?' he said. 'The legend says we should help this Rincewind squashy.'
Kwartz stood up, thought for a moment, then picked Rincewind up by the scruff of his neck and with a big gritty movement placed him on his shoulders.
'We go,' he said firmly. 'If we meet Old Grandad I'll try to explain . . .' and big and mean. We haven't seen him about for years,' said Kwartz.'Centuries,' corrected Beryl.'He'll squash them all flat!' added Jasper, jumping up and down on Rincewind's toes.'It just happens sometimes that a really old and big troll will go off by himself into the hills, and – um – the rock takes over, if you follow me.''No?'Kwartz sighed. 'People sometimes act like animals, don't they? And sometimes a troll will start thinking like a rock, and rocks don't like people much.'Breccia, a skinny troll with a sandstone finish
Monday 2 March 2009
Edward Hopper Jo in Wyoming
Edward Hopper Jo in WyomingEdward Hopper Hills South TruroEdward Hopper High RoadEdward Hopper First Row Orchestra
Galder winked at him and raised his arms again.
'To me, o spirits of—'
There was a thunderclap, an implosion of light and a moment of complete physical uncertainty during which even the walls seemed to turn in on themselves. Trymon heard a sharp intake of breath and then a dull, solid thump.
The room was suddenly silent.
After a few laundry, smelling slightly of lavender. Somehow it was quite the most terrifying thing the wizard had ever seen.
'Well, er,' he said. 'You, um, wouldn't have seen another wizard around here, by any chance?'
The Luggage contrived to look more menacing.
'Oh,' said Trymon. 'Well, fine. It doesn't matter.'
He pulled vaguely at the hem of his robe and took a brief interest in the minutes Trymon crawled out from behind a chair and dusted himself off. He whistled a few bars of nothing much and turned towards the door with exaggerated care, looking at the ceiling as if he had never seen it before. He moved in a way that suggested he was attempting the world speed record for the nonchalant walk.The Luggage squatted in the centre of the circle and opened its lid.Trymon stopped. He turned very, very carefully, dreading what he might see.The Luggage seemed to contain some clean
Galder winked at him and raised his arms again.
'To me, o spirits of—'
There was a thunderclap, an implosion of light and a moment of complete physical uncertainty during which even the walls seemed to turn in on themselves. Trymon heard a sharp intake of breath and then a dull, solid thump.
The room was suddenly silent.
After a few laundry, smelling slightly of lavender. Somehow it was quite the most terrifying thing the wizard had ever seen.
'Well, er,' he said. 'You, um, wouldn't have seen another wizard around here, by any chance?'
The Luggage contrived to look more menacing.
'Oh,' said Trymon. 'Well, fine. It doesn't matter.'
He pulled vaguely at the hem of his robe and took a brief interest in the minutes Trymon crawled out from behind a chair and dusted himself off. He whistled a few bars of nothing much and turned towards the door with exaggerated care, looking at the ceiling as if he had never seen it before. He moved in a way that suggested he was attempting the world speed record for the nonchalant walk.The Luggage squatted in the centre of the circle and opened its lid.Trymon stopped. He turned very, very carefully, dreading what he might see.The Luggage seemed to contain some clean
Sunday 1 March 2009
Juan Gris Guitar on a Table
Juan Gris Guitar on a TableJuan Gris Guitar and Music PapeJuan Gris Fantomas Pipe and NewspaperGeorge Bellows The Picnic
fulcrums. It suffices. After I created the first great Light Dam, which had a capacity of 50,000 daylight hours, the tribal The Arch-astronomer looked up again bronze fish, shining now like a gong in the noontime sun.
"Such beauty," he murmured. "And unique. Come, Dactylos. Recall to me what it was that I promised should be your reward?"
"You asked me to design a fish that would swim through the seas of space that lie between the worlds," intoned the master craftsman. "In return for which - in return-"
"Yes? My memory is not what it used to be," purred the Arch-astronomer, stroking the warm bronzeput to some inconvenience to use the silk and some bamboo to build a flying machine from which I could launch myself from the top-most turret of my prison."
"Bringing you, by various diversions, to Krull," said the Arch-astronomer. "And one cannot help feeling that some alternative occupation - lettuce farming, say - would offer somewhat less of a risk of being put to death by instalments. Why do you continue in it? Goldeneyes Dactylos shrugged.
"I'm good at it," he said.
fulcrums. It suffices. After I created the first great Light Dam, which had a capacity of 50,000 daylight hours, the tribal The Arch-astronomer looked up again bronze fish, shining now like a gong in the noontime sun.
"Such beauty," he murmured. "And unique. Come, Dactylos. Recall to me what it was that I promised should be your reward?"
"You asked me to design a fish that would swim through the seas of space that lie between the worlds," intoned the master craftsman. "In return for which - in return-"
"Yes? My memory is not what it used to be," purred the Arch-astronomer, stroking the warm bronzeput to some inconvenience to use the silk and some bamboo to build a flying machine from which I could launch myself from the top-most turret of my prison."
"Bringing you, by various diversions, to Krull," said the Arch-astronomer. "And one cannot help feeling that some alternative occupation - lettuce farming, say - would offer somewhat less of a risk of being put to death by instalments. Why do you continue in it? Goldeneyes Dactylos shrugged.
"I'm good at it," he said.
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