Edward Hopper New York Restaurant

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fat woman holding it said, authoritatively, ‘It’s easy. He rushes up and stops it just at the last minute. Happens woman. ‘Every time I see a scene where she leaves him and he turns to her and gives her that look, I burst into tears‑‘
‘Excuse me, but that wasn’t Sons of the Dessert,’ said the man, speaking slowly and deliberately. ‘You’re thinking of the famous plaza scene in Burninge Passiones.’
The fat woman took Ginger’s unresisting hand and patted it.every time. Seen him do it before.’‘I’ve never done it before!’ said Victor.‘Saw you do it,’ said the woman smugly. ‘In Sons of the Dessert. When this lady here’, she gave a brief curtsey in the direction of Ginger, ‘was on that horse what threw her over the cliff, and you galloped up and grabbed her at the last minute. Very impressive, I thought.’‘That wasn’t Sons of the Dessert,’ said an elderly man pedantically, while he filled his pipe, ‘that was Valley of the Trolls.’‘It was Sons,’ said a thin woman behind him. ‘I should know, I watched it twenty‑seven times.’‘Yes, it was very good, wasn’t it,’ said the first

Garmash Sleeping Beauty

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shimmered like mercury. If you could fill an oblong pool of mercury the size of a house, and then tip it on its side without any of it spilling, then it would look something like this.
Only not so malevolent.
It was flat and blank but Victor suddenly felt he was being stared at, like something under a lens.
Laddie whined.
Then Victor realized what it was that was making him uneasy.
It wasn’t a wall. A wall was attached to something. That thing was attached to nothing. It just hung in the air, billowing and rippling like an image in a mirror, but without the mirror.
The light was coming from somewhere on the other side of it. Victor could see it now, a bright pinpoint moving around in the‘‑occupied.’
‘I know.’
All these people ‑ these things who had been people ‑ sitting in rows. It’s as though they were watching a click.
He’d almost reached it now. It shimmied above him shadow at the far end of the chamber.He set off down the sloping aisle between the rows of stone seats, the dogs plodding along beside him with their ears flat and their tails between their legs. They waded through something that might once have been carpet; it tore wetly and disintegrated under their feet.After they’d gone a few yards Gaspode said, ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but some of‑‘‘I know,’ said Victor, grimly.‘‑the seats, they’re still‑‘‘I know.’

Thomas Kinkade Christmas Evening

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be daft. Mr Dibbler says he’s worth more than we are!’
‘Perhaps it’s not what he’s used to. I mean, a posh dog like him an’ all. It’s a bit yukky, isn’t it?’
‘It dog food! That what dogs are supposed to eat!’
‘Yeah, but is itFive minutes later Detritus trailed back carrying about nine pounds of raw steak. It was dumped in the dog bowl. The trainers looked at Laddie.
Laddie cocked an eye towards Gaspode, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
The big dog put one foot on one end of the steak, took the other end in his mouth, and tore off a lump. Then he padded over the compound and dropped it respectfully in front of Gaspode, who gave it a long, calculating stare.
‘Well, I dunno,’ he said at last. ‘Does that look like ten per cent to you, Victor?’
‘You negotiated his dinner?’ wonder dog food? What’re wonder dogs fed on?’ ‘Mr Dibbler’ll feed you to him if there’s any trouble.’ ‘All right, all right. Detritus, go around to Borgle’s. See what he’s got. Not the stuff he gives to the usual customers, mind.’ ‘That IS the stuff he give to usual customers.’ ‘That’s what I mean.’

Rembrandt The Polish Rider

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Vies doing a click for Silverfish,’ said Ginger, turning around. ‘It looks like they’re going to make it a three-reeler.’
There was a general murmur of interest.
Victor carefully laid something yellow and wobbly on the side of his plate.
‘Tell me,’ , all at once. What d’you think of that?’
‘What song?’ said Ginger.
‘Search me. We just call it the "Hiho" song. That’s all it was. Hihohiho. Hihohiho.’
‘Sound like every other dwarf song I ever did hear,’ rumbled the troll. he said thoughtfully, ‘while you’ve been filming, have any of you had a . . . heard a sort of . . . felt that you were . . . ‘ He hesitated. They were all looking at him. ‘I mean, did you ever feel something was acting through you? I can’t think of any other way to put it.’ His fellow diners relaxed. ‘Days just Holy Wood,’ said the troll. ‘It gets to you. It’s all dis creativity sloshin’ about.’ ‘That was a pretty bad attack you had, though,’ said Ginger. ‘Happens all the time,’ said the dwarf reflectively. ‘It’s just Holy Wood. Last week, me and the lads were working on Tales of the Dwarfes and suddenly we all started singing. Just like that. Just like this song came into our heads

Franz Marc Turm der blauen Pferde

Franz Marc Turm der blauen PferdeFranz Marc Der TraumFranz Marc Blaues PferdchenMarc Chagall The Fall of IcarusMarc Chagall The Birthday
caught and swallowed it in one economical movement.
More people were drifting into the plaza now. Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler had wandered off and was doing a busy trade with those latenight revellers who were too drunk to prevent optimism triumphing over experience; eyes, because Detritus wasn’t good at complicated things. It was widely believed that, if Detritus could be taught to read and write sufficiently to sit down and do an intelligence test, he’d prove to be slightly less intelligent than the chair.
Silverfish picked up a megaphone.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you are privileged tonight to witness a turning point in the history of the Century of–’ he lowered the megaphone and Victor heard anyone who bought a meal at one a.m. after a7 night’s revelling was probably going to be riotously ill anyway, so they might as well have something to show for it. Victor was gradually surrounded by a large crowd. It didn’t consist solely of humans. He recognized, a few feet away, the big rangy shape of Detritus, an ancient troll well known to all the students as someone who found employment anywhere people needed to be thrown very hard out of places for money. The troll noticed him, and tried to wink. This involved closing both

Gustav Klimt The Virgin

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Koomi sought support from the crowd of priests, who were busily inspecting their nails or staring intently into the middle distance. The message was clear. He was on his own. Although, if by some chance he won the battle of wills, give any orders! They have no right!'
'Then what are you going to do?' said Koomi.
Dios's hands opened and closed fitfully. He felt like a royalist might feel - a good royalist, a he'd be surrounded by people assuring him that they had been behind him all along. 'Anyway, they do own the place,' he mumbled. 'What?' 'They, er, they do own the place, Dios,' Koomi repeated. His temper gave out. 'They're the sodding gods, Dios!' 'They're our gods,' Dios hissed. 'We're not their people. They're my gods and they will learn to do as they are instructed!' Koomi gave up the frontal assault. You couldn't outstare that sapphire stare, you couldn't stand the war-axe nose and, most of all, no man could be expected to dent the surface of Dios's terrifying righteousness. 'But-' he managed. Dios waved him into silence with a trembling hand. 'They've no right! ' he said. 'I did not

Jack Vettriano Dressing to Kill

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can't hear you, Cheesewright,' said Chidder.
'"Man enough to say his prayers in front of other chaps", you rotter.'
'Right. And about that, but there were some puzzles.
For example, he knew his father made the sun come up and the river flood and so on. That was basic, it was what the pharaohs had done ever since the time of Khuft, you couldn't go around questioning things like that. The point was, though, did he just make the sun come up in the Valley or everywhere in the world? Making the sun come up in the Valley seemed a more reasonable proposition, after all, his father wasn't getting any younger, but it was rather difficult to imagine the sun coming don't you forget it.' After lights out Teppic lay in bed and thought about religion. It was certainly a very complicated subject. The valley of the Djel had its own private gods, gods which had nothing to do with the world outside. It had always been very proud of the fact. The gods were wise and just and regulated the lives of men with skill and foresight, there was no question

Thomas Kinkade End of a Perfect Day III

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for forty years without having to think more than once or twice a day, and now he was doing it all me time.
'Ah,' he said. 'You're a ghost, too.'
'Well spotted.'
'It was the head under your arm that upset me.'
'But . . . a thousand years . . .' Verence repeated, weakly.
Champot took his arm. 'It's not that bad,' he confided, as he led the unresisting king across the courtyard. 'Better than being alive, in know. It's just your imagination.'
There was a clattering from the kitchens. The cooks were already up and, in the absence of any other instructions, were preparing the precious,' he said.
Yes, trees had got it all worked out. Duke Felmet glared at the forest roof. Selfish bastards.
'Certainly, my dear,' he said.
'What?' said the duchess

Mark Rothko Untitled 1962

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jokes; in Sto Lat the whole third act of Gretalina and Mellias was performed against the backdrop for the second act of The Mage Wars, but no-one seemed to notice that the greatest love scene in history was played on a set depicting a tidal wave sweeping across a continent. That was possibly because Tomjon was playing Gretalina. The Hwel didn't consider himself old. His father had still been digging three tons of ore a day at the age of two hundred.
Now he felt old. He watched Tomjon hobble off the stage, and for a fleeting instant knew what it was to be a fat old man, pickled in wine, fighting old wars that no-one cared effect was so disconcertingly riveting that Hwel made him swap roles for the next house, if you could apply the term to a barn hired for the day, and the effect still had more rivets than a suit of plate armour, including the helmet, and even though Gretalina in this case was now young Wimsloe, who was a bit simple and tended to stutter and whose spots might eventually clear up.The following day, in some nameless village in the middle of an endless sea of cabbages, he let Tomjon play Old Miskin in Please Yourself, a role that Vitoller always excelled in. You couldn't let anyone play it who was under the age of forty, not unless you wanted an Old Miskin with a cushion up his jerkin and greasepaint wrinkles.

Henri Rousseau Merry Jesters

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This time the duke looked baffled. 'How will I do that?' he said.
'Chop down the forests.'
'But you said—'
'Shut up, Felmet,' said the duchess. She subjected the Fool to another long, thoughtful stare.
'Exactly how,' she said, eventually, 'does one go about knocking over the houses of people one does not like?'
'Urban clearance,' said the Fool.
'I was thinking of burning them down.'
'Hygienic urban clearance,' the Fool added promptly.
'And sowing the ground with salt.'
'Marry, I suspect that is hygienic urban clearance and a programme of environmental improvements. It might be a ,' said the duchess. She smiled at the Fool. It was the first time he had ever seen her look at him as if he was other than a disgusting little cockroach. There was still a large element of cockroach in her glance, but it said: good little cockroach, you have learned a trick.
'Intriguing,' she said. 'But can your words change the past?'good idea to plant a few trees as well.''No more trees!' shouted Felmet.'Oh, it's all right. They won't survive. The important thing is to have planted them.''But I also want us to raise taxes,' said the duchess.'Why, nuncle—''And I am not your nuncle.''N'aunt?' said the Fool.'No.''Why . . . prithee . . . you need to finance your ambitious programme for the country.''Sorry?' said the duke, who was getting lost again.'He means that chopping down trees costs money

Pierre Auguste Renoir After The Bath 1888

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right,' he was saying, 'how about The King's Brides?'
'Last year,' said the voice of Hwel.
'All right, then. We'll give them Mallo, the Tyrant of Klatch,' said Vitoller, and his larynx smoothly changed gear as his voice became a great rolling thing that could rattle the windows across the width of the average town square. ' "In blood I came, And by blood rule, That none will dare assay these walls of blood—" '
'We 'Any death-bed scenes?' said Vitoller hopefully.
'No-o,' said Hwel. 'But I can do you a humorous monologue in Act III.'did it the year before,' said Hwel calmly. 'Anyway, people are fed up with kings. They want a bit of a chuckle.''They are not fed up with my kings,' said Vitoller. 'My dear boy, people do not come to the theatre to laugh, they come to Experience, to Learn, to Wonder—''To laugh,' said Hwel, flatly. 'Have a look at this one.'Tomjon heard the rustle of paper and the creak of wicker-work as Vitoller lowered his weight on to a props basket.'A Wizard of Sons,' Vitoller read. 'Or, Please Yourself:Hwel stretched his legs under the table and dislodged Tomjon. He hauled the boy out by one ear.'What's this?' said Vitoller. 'Wizards? Demons? Imps? Merchants?''I'm rather pleased with Act II, Scene IV,' said Hwel, propelling the toddler towards the props box. 'Comic Washing Up with Two Servants.'

Andrea Mantegna St George

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'They've pickled another king,' said Mort. He examined the glass again in the moonlight. It was quite plain, not the sort normally associated with royalty.
That can't come to take,' said Ysabell loudly. 'Who is it, then?'
Mort turned towards the dark entrance. It wouldn't be sealed until dawn, to give time for the dead king's soul to leave. It looked deep and foreboding, hinting at purposes considerably more dire than, say, keeping a razor blade nice and sharp.
'Let's find out,' he said.

'Look out! He's coming back!'be him,' said Ysabell. They don't pickle them when they're still alive, do they?''I hope not, because I read where, before they do the preserving, they, um, cut them open and remove —''I don't want to hear it —''— all the soft bits,' Mort concluded lamely. 'It's just as well the pickling doesn't work, really, just imagine having to walk around with no —''So it isn't the king you've

Francois Boucher The Rest on the Flight into Egypt

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couldn't get the hang of it,' said Ysabell, ignoring him. 'He can't create, you see.'
'You said he created this pool.'
'It's a copy of one he saw somewhere. Everything's a copy.'
Mort shifted uneasily. Some small insect had crawled up his leg.
'It's rather sad,' way.'
'He's not exactly your real father, is he?'
'My parents were killed crossing the Great Nef years ago. There was a storm, I think. He found me and brought me here. I don't know why he did it.'
'Perhaps he felt sorry for you?'he said, hoping that this was approximately the right tone to adopt.'Yes.'She scooped a handful of gravel from the path and began to flick it absent-mindedly into the pool.'Are my eyebrows that bad?' she said.'Um,' said Mort, 'afraid so.''Oh.' Flick, flick. The carp were watching her disdainfully.'And my legs?' he said.'Yes. Sorry.'Mort shuffled anxiously through his limited repertoire of small talk, and gave up.'Never mind,' he said gallantly. 'At least you can use tweezers.''He's very kind,' said Ysabell, ignoring him, 'in a sort of absent-minded

Edmund Blair Leighton The Accolade

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Einsteinian reversal it achieved a magnificent horribleness that it wore like an architectural award. It was noisy and sultry and smelled like a cowshed floor.
It didn't so much It is probably already apparent that The Shades was not the sort of place to have inhabitants. It had denizens. Periodically Mort would try to engage one in conversation, to find the way to a good horse dealer. The denizen would usually mutter something and hurry away, since anyone wishing to live in The Shades for longer than maybe three hours developed very specialised senses indeed and would no more hang around near Mort than a peasant would stand near a tall tree in thunderhave a neighbourhood as an ecology, like a great land-based coral reef. There were the humans, all right, humanoid equivalents of lobsters, squid, shrimps and so on. And sharks.Mort wandered hopelessly along the winding streets. Anyone hovering at rooftop height would have noticed a certain pattern in the crowds behind him, suggesting a number of men converging nonchalantly on a target, and would rightly have concluded that Mort and his gold had about the a three-legged hedgehog on a six-lane motorway.y

Leonardo da Vinci Portrait of Ginevra Benci

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cold," she conceded, "I just ain't shivering."
"We used to have winters like this when I was a lad," said Cutangle, blowing on his fingers. "It doesn't snow in Ankh, hardly."
"Really," said Granny, peering ahead through the freezing fog.
"There was snow on the tops of the mountains all year round, I recall. Oh, you don't get temperatures like you did when I was a boy."
"At least, until now," he added, stamping his feet on the ice. It creaked menacingly, reminding him that it was all that , of course."
"I don't remember you," said Cutangle. "Of course, it was a long time ago. There was always a lot of children around our house." He sighed. "I suppose it's possible I pulled your hair once. It was the slay between him and the bottom of the sea. He stamped again, as softly as possible. "What mountains were these?" asked Granny. "Oh, the Ramtops. Up towards the Hub, in fact. Place called Brass Neck." Granny's lips moved. "Cutangle, Cutangle," she said softly. "Any relation to old Acktur Cutangle? Used to live in a big old house under Leaping Mountain, had a lot of sons." "My father. How on disc d'you know that?" "I was raised up there," said Granny, resisting the temptation merely to smile knowingly. "Next valley. Bad Ass. I remember your mother. Nice woman, kept brown and white chickens, I used to go up there to buy eggs for me mam. That was before I was called to witchingort of thing I used to do."
"Maybe. I remember a fat little boy. Rather unpleasant."

Paul Klee Ancient Sound

Paul Klee Ancient SoundRene Magritte HomesicknessArthur Hughes Phyllis
didn't turn it into milk, I just knew it would be milk because I wanted milk," she said. "What did you think it was?"
"Er. Beer."
Esk thought about this. She vaguely remembered trying beer once, and it had tasted sort of second-hand. But she could recall something which everyone in Bad Ass reckoned was much better than beer. It was one of Granny's mostgood for you, because there was only fruit in it, plus lots of freezing and boiling and careful testing of little drops with a lighted flame.
Granny just like them, and then ....
Skiller turned very carefully and regarded the barrel behind him. The smell of the room had would put a very small spoonful in her milk if it was a really cold night. It had to be a wooden spoon, on account of what it did to metal. She concentrated. She could picture the taste in her mind, and with the little skills that she was beginning to accept but couldn't understand she found she could take the taste apart into little coloured shapes .... Skiller's thin wife came out of their back room to see why it had all gone so quiet, and he waved her into shocked silence as Esk stood swaying very slightly with her eyes closed and her lips moving . . . . little shapes that you didn't need went back into the great pool of shapes, and then you found the extra ones you needed and put them together, and then there was a sort of hook thing which meant that they would turn anything suitable into something

Andy Warhol Gun 1982

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For a moment his eyes looked up at Rincewind in fear, pain and entreaty. Then they weren't eyes at all, but multi-faceted things on a head that could be called a head only by stretching the definition to its limits. Tentacles both hands clasped together into one fist that caught the thing in the stomach, or possibly the thorax, with a blow that ended in the satisfying crunch of chitin.
He plunged forward, fighting now out of terror of what would happen if he stopped. The ghostly arena was full of and saw-edged legs and talons unfolded to rip Rincewind's rather sparse flesh from his body.Twoflower, the tower and the red sky all vanished. Time ran slowly, and stopped.Rincewind bit hard on a tentacle that was trying to pull his face off. As it uncoiled in agony he thrust out a hand and felt it break something hot and squishy.They were watching. He turned his head, and saw that now he was fighting on the floor of an enormous amphitheatre. On each side tier upon tier of creatures stared down at him, creatures with bodies and faces that appeared to have been made by crossbreeding nightmares. He caught a glimpse of even worse things behind him, huge shadows that stretched into the overcast sky, before the Trymon-monster lunged at him with a barbed sting the size of a spear.Rincewind dodged sideways, and then swung around with

Jack Vettriano Yesterday's Dreams

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They wouldn't be able to digest me, he told himself. I'd make them awfully ill.
It wasn't much of a comfort.
'So you're the wizard will come looking for onions. Do not bite him. It is very important that you help him stay alive." '
There was a pause.
'That's it?' said Rincewind.
'Yes,' said the troll. 'We've always been puzzled about it.Rincewind the wizard,' said the nearest one. It sounded like someone running over gravel. 'I dunno. I thought you'd be taller.''Perhaps he's eroded a bit,' said another one. 'The legend is awfully old.'Rincewind shifted awkwardly. He was pretty certain the rock he was sitting on was changing shape, and a tiny troll – hardly any more than a pebble – was sitting companionably on his foot and watching him with extreme interest.'Legend?' he said. 'What legend?''It's been handed down from mountain to gravel since the ,' said the first troll. ' "When the red star lights the sky Rincewind

George Inness Coast Scene

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minded searching of the ship and had either chased them overboard or had - eaten them? The captain was not quite certain. The Thing looked like an ordinary wooden sea chest. A bit larger than usual, maybe, but not suspiciouslyabout it. It didn't work. But he thought bitterly about one thing. This was going to be the last time he rescued ungrateful drowning men in mysterious circumstances. Slavery was better than sharks, wasn't it? And then they had escaped and when his sailors had investigated their big chest - how had they appeared in the middle of an untroubled ocean sitting on a big chest, anyway? - and it had bitt... He tried not to think so. But while it sometimes seemed to contain things like old socks and miscellaneous luggage, at other times - and he shuddered - it seemed to be, seemed to have... He tried not to think about it. It was just that the men who had been drowned overboard had probably been more fortunate than those it had caught. He tried not to think about it. There had been teeth, teeth like white wooden gravestones, and a tongue red as mahogany...He tried not to think