Friday, May 22, 2009

John Constable Wivenhoe Park

John Constable Wivenhoe ParkJohn Constable The White HorseJohn Constable The Hay Wain
really opens, dis is der pump, you get water out of it wit der handle here, dis is me waiting for some money' routine.
'Well, that just about does it. That just about puts the iron helmet on it, that does,' he said. 'We play Music With Rocks In all evening, and we've got a room that looks like this?'
'It's homely,''Yep.'
'He hardly says a word now when he's not on stage.'
'Yep.' 'Ever met a zombie?'
'I know a golem. Mr Dorfl down in Long Hogmeat.'
'Him? He's a genuine zombie?' said Cliff. 'Look, trolls don't have much to do with de frills of life–’Glod looked towards his feet.'It's on the floor and it's soft,' he said. 'Silly me for thinking it was a carpet. Someone fetch me a broom. No, someone fetch me a shovel. Then someone fetch me a broom.''It'll do,' said Buddy.He put down his guitar and stretched out on the wooden slab that was apparently one of the beds. 'Cliff,' said Glod, 'can I have a word?' He jerked a stubby thumb at the door. They conferred on the landing. 'It's getting bad,' said Glod.

There were small oblong

right, all right, two dollars each. That's ten dollars the lot, right?'
'And that's cutting my own throat.'
Chalky tossed the box aside. It bounced on the floor and the lid came off.
Some time later a small, greyish‑brown mongrel dog, on the prowl for anything edible, limped into the workshop and sat peering into the box for a while.
Then it felt a bit of an idiot and wandered off.
Ridcully hammered on the door of the High Energy Magic Building as the city clocks were striking two. He was supporting Ponder Stibbons, who was asleep on his feet.
Ridcully was not a quick thinker. But he always got there eventually.
The door opened and Skazz's hair appeared.
'Are you facin' me?' said Ridcully.
'Yes, Archchancellor.'
'Let us in, then, the dew's soaking through me boots.'
Ridcully looked around as he helped Ponder in.
'Wish I knew what it was that keeps you lads working all hours,' he said. 'I never found magic that interesting when I was a lad. Go and fetch some coffee for Mr Stibbons here, will you? And then get your friends.'
Skazz bustled off and Ridcully was left alone, except for the slumbering Ponder.
'What is it they do?' he said. He never really tried to find out.
Skazz had been working at a long bench by one wall.
At least he recognized the little woodenstones ranged on it in a couple of concentric circles, and a candle lantern positioned on a swivelling arm so that it could be moved anywhere around the circumference.
It was a travelling computer for druids, a sort

Friday, May 15, 2009

Jack Vettriano A Very Dangerous Beach

Jack Vettriano A Very Dangerous BeachJack Vettriano a uninvited guestJack Vettriano A Test of True Love
after that he'd just been, well, a wizard.
He had the feeling, once again, that he'd missed out on something somewhere. He'd never really realized it until the last couple of he'd say . . . he'd say something pretty damn memorable, that's what he'd do! He was
But the Archchancellor had stalked off.
'mumblemumblemumble,' said the Dean defiantly, a rebel without a pause.
There was a knock at the door, barely audible above the din. Cliff opened it a cautious fraction.
'It's me, Hibiscus. Here's your beers. Drink 'em up and get out!'days. He didn't know what it was. He just wanted to do things. He didn't know what they were. But he wanted to do them soon. He wanted . . . he felt like a lifelong tundra dweller when he wakes up one morning with a deep urge to go water‑skiing. He certainly wasn't going to stay indoors when there was music in the air . . .'mumblemumblemumblenotgonnastayindoorsmumble.'Unaccustomed feelings surged through him. He wanted to disobey! Disobey everything! Including the law of gravity. He was definitely not going to fold his clothes before going to bed! Ridcully was going to say, oh, you're a rebel, are you, what are you rebelling against, and

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Jack Vettriano Dressing to Kill

Jack Vettriano Dressing to KillJack Vettriano Dream LoverJack Vettriano Devotion
instrument, on which he himself was no mean performer.
In his experience, guitarists came in three categories. There were the ones he thought of as real musicians, who worked at the Operain the battle of the sexes. They didn't play at all, apart from one or two chords, but they were regular customers. When leaping out of a bedroom window just ahead of an angry husband the one thing a paramour is least concerned about leaving behind is his instrument.
Blert thought he'd seen them all.
Mind you, first thing this morning he'd sold some to some wizards. That was unusual. Some of them had even bought Blert's guitar primer.
The bell rang.
'Yes–’Blert looked at the customer, and made a huge mental effort '‑sir House or for one of the small private orchestras. There were the folk singers, who couldn't play but that was all right because most of them couldn't sing either. Then there were the hemhem ‑ troubadours and other swarthy types who thought a guitar was, like a red rose in the teeth, a box of chocolates and a strategically placed pair of socks, another weapon

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Caravaggio Judith Beheading Holofernes

Caravaggio Judith Beheading HolofernesCaravaggio Amor Vincit OmniaPierre-Auguste Cot Le PrintempsGeorge Frederick Watts Charity
The whole edifice was humming softly under the enormous pent­up pressure.
The Librarian locked his hands together and cracked his knuckles, which is impressive when you have as many knuckles as an orang-utan.
He raised his hands.
He hesitated.
He lowered and flow down his arms and fill his fingers.
His hands dropped.
'What did we do? What did we do?' said Imp. Excitement ran its barefoot his hands again and pulled out the Vox Humana, the Vox Dei and the Vox Diabolica.The moan of the organ took on a more urgent tone.He raised his hands.He hesitated.He lowered his hands and pulled out all the rest of the stops, including the twelve knobs with '?' on them and the two with faded labels warning in several languages that they were on no account to be touched, .ever, in any circumstances.He raised his hands.He raised his feet also, positioning them over some of the more perilous pedals.He shut his eyes.He sat for a moment in contemplative silence, a test pilot ready to slit the edge of the envelope in the starship Melody.He let the plangent memory of the music fill his head

Friday, May 8, 2009

Georges Seurat Le Chahut

Georges Seurat Le ChahutWilliam Blake NebuchadnezzarWilliam Blake Jacob's LadderVincent van Gogh The Olive Trees
a strange of his fellow men. He devoted his life to it. For there are many things in the world that need doing that people don't want to do and were grateful to Mr Clete for doing for them. Keeping minutes, for example. Making sure the membership roll was quite up to date. Filing. Organizing.
He'd worked hard on behalf of the Thieves' Guild, although he hadn't been a thief, at least in the sense normally meant. Then there'd been a rather more senior vacancy in the Fools' Guild, and Mr Clete was no fool. And finally there had been the secretaryship of the Musicians.
Technically, he should have been a musician. So he bought a comb and paper. Since laugh, totally mirthless and vaguely birdlike. It was very much like its owner, who was what you would get if you extracted fossilized genetic material from something in amber and then gave it a suit.Lord Vetinari had encouraged the growth of the Guilds. They were the big wheels on which the clockwork of a well‑regulated city ran. A drop of oil here . . . a spoke inserted there, of course . . . and by and large it all worked.And gave rise, in the same way that compost gives rise to worms, to Mr Clete. He was not, by the standard definitions, a bad man; in the same way a plague‑bearing rat is not, from a dispassionate point of view, a bad animal.Mr Clete worked hard for the benefit

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Edgar Degas A Carriage at the Races

Edgar Degas A Carriage at the RacesFrida Kahlo What the Water Gave MeFrida Kahlo Two Nudes in the ForestFrida Kahlo Self Portrait with Thorn Necklace
doors shattered. A six-foot iron arrow passed Carrot and Vimes and removed a large section of wall on the far side of the courtyard.
A couple of blows removed the rest of the gates, and Detritus stepped through. He looked around at the assembled Assassins, a red glow in his ran for it. Some were not as bright. A couple of arrows bounced off Detritus. Their owners saw his face as he turned towards them, and dropped their bows.
Detritus hefted his club.
'Acting-Constable Detritus!'
The words rang out across the courtyard.
'Acting-Constable Detritus! Atten-shun!'
Detritus very slowly raised his hand.
'You listen to me, Acting-Constable Detritus,' said Carrot. 'If there's a heaven for Watchmen, and gods I hope there is, then Acting-Constable Cuddy is there right now, drunk as a bloody monkey, with a rat in one hand and a pint of Bearhugger's in the other, and he's looking upright now and he's saying: my friend Acting-Constable Detritus won't forget he's a guard. Not Detritus.'