Leon-Augustin L'hermitte paintings
Lady Laura Teresa Alma-Tadema paintings
Louise Abbema paintings
Then put it back at once and don’t touch things in his room whatever the gentleman next door says.”
I had no right to say this to Guy’s scout, but I was definitely frightened. A sudden realization had come to me that Guy might have some reason for his fear. That evening I went up to see him and we decided to work in his room. He did not mind if I were with him.
“But shut the oak, Dick,” he said.
We worked until eleven o’clock and then we both sat up listening; someone was fumbling against the oak; then he knocked quietly.
Guy had started up white and panting.
“You see, I haven’t been lying. He’s coming at me. Keep him off, Dick, for God’s sake.”
The knocking was repeated.
“Guy,” I said, “I’m going to open that oak. Brace up, man, we two can look after ourselves against anyone. Don’t you see? We’ve got to open that oak.”
Monday, September 29, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Edward Hopper paintings
Edward Hopper paintings
Edgar Degas paintings
Emile Munier paintings
They had seen less of each other as they grew up, Chris had gone to Winchester, Ralf and Peter to Selchurch, but the Vicarage was next door to the Hall and they had seen a good deal of each other in the . Their fathers were close friends.
“Good work, I was afraid she would be away doing that V.A.D. work. I only saw her once all last holidays. Ah there she is.”
They had come out into the small station yard. On the other side of it stood the dog-cart and in it stood Moira Gage, one hand holding the reins, the other shading her eyes. She was tall, slim and pale, not really pretty but graceful and ; from a distance she looked like a Shepperson drawing but when you got nearer you saw depths in her grey, scrutable eyes, which his charming mannerisms could never convey; she was dressed in a tweed coat and a skirt with a grey silk scarf over her shoulders. Peter ran forward and
Edgar Degas paintings
Emile Munier paintings
They had seen less of each other as they grew up, Chris had gone to Winchester, Ralf and Peter to Selchurch, but the Vicarage was next door to the Hall and they had seen a good deal of each other in the . Their fathers were close friends.
“Good work, I was afraid she would be away doing that V.A.D. work. I only saw her once all last holidays. Ah there she is.”
They had come out into the small station yard. On the other side of it stood the dog-cart and in it stood Moira Gage, one hand holding the reins, the other shading her eyes. She was tall, slim and pale, not really pretty but graceful and ; from a distance she looked like a Shepperson drawing but when you got nearer you saw depths in her grey, scrutable eyes, which his charming mannerisms could never convey; she was dressed in a tweed coat and a skirt with a grey silk scarf over her shoulders. Peter ran forward and
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Frederic Edwin Church Landscape with Waterfall painting
Frederic Edwin Church Landscape with Waterfall paintingWilliam Merritt Chase View from Central Park paintingJulius LeBlanc Stewart At Home painting
especially in a foreign country. It may seem absurdly scrupulous to you but it is one of the things a Granchesterian simply cannot do.”
The Major was not a man to argue from first principles. He took men as they came and in his humane calling he dealt with many types.
“Well, I shan’t pay it,” he said. “Do you know anyone else in Bellacita?”
“No one.”
“Think.”
“There was a man called Smudge at our Embassy.”
“Smudge shall have your bill. These cheques want signing.”
Despite his high training Scott-King signed and the cheques were put away in the bureau drawer.
“My luggage?”
“We do not handle luggage. You will start this evening. I have a small party leaving for the coast. We have our main clearinghouse at Santa Maria. From there you will travel by steamer, perhaps not in the grand luxury, but what will you? No doubt as an
especially in a foreign country. It may seem absurdly scrupulous to you but it is one of the things a Granchesterian simply cannot do.”
The Major was not a man to argue from first principles. He took men as they came and in his humane calling he dealt with many types.
“Well, I shan’t pay it,” he said. “Do you know anyone else in Bellacita?”
“No one.”
“Think.”
“There was a man called Smudge at our Embassy.”
“Smudge shall have your bill. These cheques want signing.”
Despite his high training Scott-King signed and the cheques were put away in the bureau drawer.
“My luggage?”
“We do not handle luggage. You will start this evening. I have a small party leaving for the coast. We have our main clearinghouse at Santa Maria. From there you will travel by steamer, perhaps not in the grand luxury, but what will you? No doubt as an
Marc Chagall The Fiddler painting
Marc Chagall The Fiddler paintingMarc Chagall The Concert paintingMarc Chagall La Mariee painting
Drawing School, steps led down to the Upper Quad past the doors of Brent’s House—Frank’s. Here he met Mercer.
“Hullo, been painting?”
“Yes, if you can call it that.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“It’s absolutely beastly. I hate it, I tell you. I’d have torn it up if I wasn’t going to keep it as a humiliation to look at in case I ever begin to feel I know anything about art.”
“You’re always dissatisfied, Ryder. It’s the mark of a true artist, I suppose.”
“If I was an artist I shouldn’t do things I’d be dissatisfied with. Here, look at it, if you must.”
Mercer gazed at the open page. “What don’t you like about it?”
“The whole thing’s nauseating.”
“I suppose it is a bit ornate.”
“There, my dear Mercer, with your usual unerring discernment you have hit upon the one quality that is at all tolerable.”
“Oh, sorry. Anyway, I think the whole thing absolutely first-class.”
“Do you, Mercer. I’m greatly encouraged.”
Drawing School, steps led down to the Upper Quad past the doors of Brent’s House—Frank’s. Here he met Mercer.
“Hullo, been painting?”
“Yes, if you can call it that.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“It’s absolutely beastly. I hate it, I tell you. I’d have torn it up if I wasn’t going to keep it as a humiliation to look at in case I ever begin to feel I know anything about art.”
“You’re always dissatisfied, Ryder. It’s the mark of a true artist, I suppose.”
“If I was an artist I shouldn’t do things I’d be dissatisfied with. Here, look at it, if you must.”
Mercer gazed at the open page. “What don’t you like about it?”
“The whole thing’s nauseating.”
“I suppose it is a bit ornate.”
“There, my dear Mercer, with your usual unerring discernment you have hit upon the one quality that is at all tolerable.”
“Oh, sorry. Anyway, I think the whole thing absolutely first-class.”
“Do you, Mercer. I’m greatly encouraged.”
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Paul Gauguin Still Life with Oranges painting
Paul Gauguin Still Life with Oranges paintingPaul Gauguin Joyousness paintingPaul Gauguin Hail Mary painting
You know you oughtn’t to do this sort of thing.”
“I’ve been here before. When I knew you were out. I pretended I was your sister and had come to fetch something for you.”
“Mrs. Legge never said anything to me about it.”
“No. I asked her not to. In fact I gave her ten shillings. You see she caught me at it.”
“At what?”
“Well, it sounds rather silly. I was in your bedroom, kissing things—you know, pillows, pajamas, hair brushes. I’d just got to the washstand and was kissing your razor when I looked up and found Mrs. Whatever-she’s-called standing in the door.”
“Good God, I shall never be able to look her in the face again.”
“Oh, she was quite sympathetic. I suppose I must have looked funny, like a goose grazing.” She gave a little, rather hysterical giggle, and added, “Oh, John, I do love you so.”
“Nonsense. I shall turn you out if you talk like that.”
You know you oughtn’t to do this sort of thing.”
“I’ve been here before. When I knew you were out. I pretended I was your sister and had come to fetch something for you.”
“Mrs. Legge never said anything to me about it.”
“No. I asked her not to. In fact I gave her ten shillings. You see she caught me at it.”
“At what?”
“Well, it sounds rather silly. I was in your bedroom, kissing things—you know, pillows, pajamas, hair brushes. I’d just got to the washstand and was kissing your razor when I looked up and found Mrs. Whatever-she’s-called standing in the door.”
“Good God, I shall never be able to look her in the face again.”
“Oh, she was quite sympathetic. I suppose I must have looked funny, like a goose grazing.” She gave a little, rather hysterical giggle, and added, “Oh, John, I do love you so.”
“Nonsense. I shall turn you out if you talk like that.”
Monday, September 22, 2008
Leonardo da Vinci picture of last supper painting
Leonardo da Vinci picture of last supper paintingGustav Klimt lady with fan paintingGustav Klimt two girls with an oleander painting
Honest Sir Lionel,” said my father, as he saw the great canvas packed off to Kensington Palaces. “I should dearly have liked to shake his hairy paw. I can see him well—a fine, meaty fellow with a great gold watch-chain across his belly, who’s been decently employed boiling soap or smelting copper all his with no time to read Clive Bell. In every age it has been men like him who kept painting alive.”
I tried to explain that Lionel Sterne was the youthful and elegant millionaire who for ten years had been a leader of aesthetic “Nonsense!” said my father. “Fellows like that collect disjointed Negresses by Gauguin. Only Philistines like my work and, by God, I only like Philistines.”
There was also another, rather less reputable side to my father’s business. He received a regular yearly retaining fee from Goodchild and Godley, the Duke Street dealers, for what was called “restoration.” This sum was a very important part of his income; without it the comfortable little dinners, the trips abroad, the cabs to and fro between St. John’s Wood and the Athenaeum, the faithful, predatory Jellabys, the orchid in his buttonhole—all the substantial comforts and refinements which endeared the world and provided him with his
Honest Sir Lionel,” said my father, as he saw the great canvas packed off to Kensington Palaces. “I should dearly have liked to shake his hairy paw. I can see him well—a fine, meaty fellow with a great gold watch-chain across his belly, who’s been decently employed boiling soap or smelting copper all his with no time to read Clive Bell. In every age it has been men like him who kept painting alive.”
I tried to explain that Lionel Sterne was the youthful and elegant millionaire who for ten years had been a leader of aesthetic “Nonsense!” said my father. “Fellows like that collect disjointed Negresses by Gauguin. Only Philistines like my work and, by God, I only like Philistines.”
There was also another, rather less reputable side to my father’s business. He received a regular yearly retaining fee from Goodchild and Godley, the Duke Street dealers, for what was called “restoration.” This sum was a very important part of his income; without it the comfortable little dinners, the trips abroad, the cabs to and fro between St. John’s Wood and the Athenaeum, the faithful, predatory Jellabys, the orchid in his buttonhole—all the substantial comforts and refinements which endeared the world and provided him with his
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Paul Gauguin Hail Mary painting
Paul Gauguin Hail Mary paintingGeorges Seurat The Circus paintingGeorges Seurat Le Chahut painting
the end it was decided that Gervase should meet the immigrants in London, vet them and report to his mother whether or no they were suitable fellow guests for the Anchorages. A week later, on his return to Tomb, his mother greeted him anxiously.
“Well? You never wrote?”
“Wrote, why should I? I never do. I say, I haven’t forgotten a birthday or anything, have I?”
“Don’t be absurd, Gervase. I mean, about your brother Tom’s unfortunate entanglement. Did you see the girl?”
“Oh, that. Yes, I went and had dinner with them. Tom’s done himself quite well. Fair, rather fat, saucer-eyed, good-tempered I should say by her looks.”
“Does she—does she speak with an Australian accent?” “Didn’t notice it.”
“And the father?”
“Pompous old boy.”
“Would he be all right with the Anchorages?”
“I should think he’d go down like a dinner. But they can’t come. They are staying with the Chasms.”
“Indeed! What an extraordinary thing. But, of course, Archie Chasm was Governor-
the end it was decided that Gervase should meet the immigrants in London, vet them and report to his mother whether or no they were suitable fellow guests for the Anchorages. A week later, on his return to Tomb, his mother greeted him anxiously.
“Well? You never wrote?”
“Wrote, why should I? I never do. I say, I haven’t forgotten a birthday or anything, have I?”
“Don’t be absurd, Gervase. I mean, about your brother Tom’s unfortunate entanglement. Did you see the girl?”
“Oh, that. Yes, I went and had dinner with them. Tom’s done himself quite well. Fair, rather fat, saucer-eyed, good-tempered I should say by her looks.”
“Does she—does she speak with an Australian accent?” “Didn’t notice it.”
“And the father?”
“Pompous old boy.”
“Would he be all right with the Anchorages?”
“I should think he’d go down like a dinner. But they can’t come. They are staying with the Chasms.”
“Indeed! What an extraordinary thing. But, of course, Archie Chasm was Governor-
Friday, September 19, 2008
Guido Reni The Archangel Michael painting
Guido Reni The Archangel Michael paintingFrancois Boucher The Rape of Europa paintingMichelangelo Buonarroti The Creation of Adam painting
which the ages of reason have wasted. I chose you because you are the two most ignorant men I ever met. I have too much knowledge to risk my safety. If you never come back nothing will be lost.”
“Oh, I say,” said Alastair.
“And what’s more, you’re tipsy,” said Dr. Kakophilos relapsing suddenly into everyday speech. Then he became poetic again and Rip yawned and Alastair yawned.
At last Rip said: “Jolly decent of you to tell us all this, old boy; I’ll come in another time to hear the rest. Must be going now, you know.”
“Yes,” said Alastair. “A most interesting evening.”
Dr. Kakophilos removed his crimson hat and mopped his moist, hairless head. He surveyed his parting guests with undisguised disdain.
“Sots,” he said. “You are partakers in a mystery beyond your comprehension. In
which the ages of reason have wasted. I chose you because you are the two most ignorant men I ever met. I have too much knowledge to risk my safety. If you never come back nothing will be lost.”
“Oh, I say,” said Alastair.
“And what’s more, you’re tipsy,” said Dr. Kakophilos relapsing suddenly into everyday speech. Then he became poetic again and Rip yawned and Alastair yawned.
At last Rip said: “Jolly decent of you to tell us all this, old boy; I’ll come in another time to hear the rest. Must be going now, you know.”
“Yes,” said Alastair. “A most interesting evening.”
Dr. Kakophilos removed his crimson hat and mopped his moist, hairless head. He surveyed his parting guests with undisguised disdain.
“Sots,” he said. “You are partakers in a mystery beyond your comprehension. In
William Blake Songs of Innocence painting
William Blake Songs of Innocence paintingVincent van Gogh Red vineyards paintingVincent van Gogh Mulberry Tree painting
The circumstances were obscure and a little shady. Prunella, who had never been known to infringe one jot or tittle of the local code, had been out riding alone in the hills. That was apparent from the first, and later, under cross-examination, her syce revealed that this had for some time been her practice, two or three times a week. The shock of her infidelity to rule was almost as great as the shock of her disappearance.
But worse was to follow. One evening at the Club, since Mr. Brooks was absent (his popularity had waned in the last few days and his presence made a painful restraint) the question of Prunella’s secret rides was being freely debated, when a slightly fuddled voice broke into the conversation.
“It’s bound to come out,” said the remittance man from Kenya, “so I may as well tell you right away. Prunella used to ride with me. She didn’t want us to get talked about, so we met on the Debra Dowa road by the Moslem Tombs. I shall miss those afternoons very much indeed,” said the remittance man, a slight, alcoholic quaver in his voice, “and I blame myself to a great extent for all that has happened. You see, I must have had a little more
The circumstances were obscure and a little shady. Prunella, who had never been known to infringe one jot or tittle of the local code, had been out riding alone in the hills. That was apparent from the first, and later, under cross-examination, her syce revealed that this had for some time been her practice, two or three times a week. The shock of her infidelity to rule was almost as great as the shock of her disappearance.
But worse was to follow. One evening at the Club, since Mr. Brooks was absent (his popularity had waned in the last few days and his presence made a painful restraint) the question of Prunella’s secret rides was being freely debated, when a slightly fuddled voice broke into the conversation.
“It’s bound to come out,” said the remittance man from Kenya, “so I may as well tell you right away. Prunella used to ride with me. She didn’t want us to get talked about, so we met on the Debra Dowa road by the Moslem Tombs. I shall miss those afternoons very much indeed,” said the remittance man, a slight, alcoholic quaver in his voice, “and I blame myself to a great extent for all that has happened. You see, I must have had a little more
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Guido Reni reni Aurora painting
Guido Reni reni Aurora paintingFrancois Boucher Madame de Pompadour paintingFrancois Boucher Adoration of the Shepherds painting
O God,” said Simon, “only a virgin could be as vulgar as that.”
They were about to start one of their old, interminable quarrels when the telephone boy brought a message that Miss Grits wished to resume work instantly.
“So that’s her name,” said Sylvia.
“If you only knew how funny that was,” said Simon, scribbling his initials on the bill and leaving the table while Sylvia was still groping with gloves and bag.
As things turned out, however, he became Miss Grits’s lover before the week was out. The idea was hers. She suggested it to him one evening at his flat as they corrected the typescript of the final version of their first treatment.
“No, really,” Simon said aghast. “No, really. It would be quite impossible. I’m sorry, but ...”
“Why? Don’t you like women?”
“Yes, but ...”
“Oh, come along,” Miss Grits said briskly. “We don’t get much time for amusement ...” And later, as she packed their manuscripts into her attaché case she said, “We must do it again if we have time. Besides I find it’s so much easier to work with a man if you’re having an affaire with him.”
O God,” said Simon, “only a virgin could be as vulgar as that.”
They were about to start one of their old, interminable quarrels when the telephone boy brought a message that Miss Grits wished to resume work instantly.
“So that’s her name,” said Sylvia.
“If you only knew how funny that was,” said Simon, scribbling his initials on the bill and leaving the table while Sylvia was still groping with gloves and bag.
As things turned out, however, he became Miss Grits’s lover before the week was out. The idea was hers. She suggested it to him one evening at his flat as they corrected the typescript of the final version of their first treatment.
“No, really,” Simon said aghast. “No, really. It would be quite impossible. I’m sorry, but ...”
“Why? Don’t you like women?”
“Yes, but ...”
“Oh, come along,” Miss Grits said briskly. “We don’t get much time for amusement ...” And later, as she packed their manuscripts into her attaché case she said, “We must do it again if we have time. Besides I find it’s so much easier to work with a man if you’re having an affaire with him.”
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Paul Cezanne Trees in Park painting
Paul Cezanne Trees in Park paintingPaul Cezanne Table Corner paintingWilliam Bouguereau Innocence painting
Well, then, if you promise you won’t hate me”—and he smoothed out the piece of paper.
“Flower—Cactus.
“Drink—Rum.
“Stuff—Baize.
“Furniture—Rocking-Horse.
“Food—Venison.
“Address—Dublin.
“And Animal—Boa constrictor.”
“Oh, Basil, how marvellous.”
“Poor Adam, I never thought of him as Dublin, of course it’s perfect.”
“Why Cactus?”
“So phallic, my dear, and prickly.”
“And such vulgar flowers.”
“Boa constrictor is brilliant.”
“Yes, his digestion you know.”
“And can’t sting, only crush.”
“And fascinates rabbits.”
“I must draw a picture of Adam fascinating a rabbit,” and then, “Imogen, you’re not going?”
“I must. I’m terribly sleepy. Don’t get drunk and wake me up, will you?”
“Imogen, you are in a rage with me.”
“My dear, I’m far too tired to be in a rage with anybody. Good night.”
The door shut.
“My dear, she’s furious.”
“I knew she would be, you shouldn’t have made me read it.”
“She’s been very odd all the evening, I consider.”
“She told me she lunched with Adam before she came down
Well, then, if you promise you won’t hate me”—and he smoothed out the piece of paper.
“Flower—Cactus.
“Drink—Rum.
“Stuff—Baize.
“Furniture—Rocking-Horse.
“Food—Venison.
“Address—Dublin.
“And Animal—Boa constrictor.”
“Oh, Basil, how marvellous.”
“Poor Adam, I never thought of him as Dublin, of course it’s perfect.”
“Why Cactus?”
“So phallic, my dear, and prickly.”
“And such vulgar flowers.”
“Boa constrictor is brilliant.”
“Yes, his digestion you know.”
“And can’t sting, only crush.”
“And fascinates rabbits.”
“I must draw a picture of Adam fascinating a rabbit,” and then, “Imogen, you’re not going?”
“I must. I’m terribly sleepy. Don’t get drunk and wake me up, will you?”
“Imogen, you are in a rage with me.”
“My dear, I’m far too tired to be in a rage with anybody. Good night.”
The door shut.
“My dear, she’s furious.”
“I knew she would be, you shouldn’t have made me read it.”
“She’s been very odd all the evening, I consider.”
“She told me she lunched with Adam before she came down
Fabian Perez Flamenco Dancer II painting
Fabian Perez Flamenco Dancer II paintingFabian Perez christine paintingGustav Klimt The Tree of Life painting
their skull. It's important to us that our man is appreciated by our friends and loved ones. He should have the wit and charm to hold folks in awe for hours on end. We want to hear them say “What a great guy! I like him. When is he coming around again?”
The Knight in Shining Armor—Let's face it, women don't like wimps. We want a man to protect us from danger, defend our honor, and carry our heavy groceries (not necessarily in that order). We want a strong man in our corner. Not that we'll test him, but we basically want him to be able to kick someone's butt if it comes down to that.
The Perfect Man—Does he exist? Some seem to have found him. This is the guy who fits a good chunk of the checklist items of what we want in a man. Handsome? Check. Got a job? Check. Watches chick flicks without complaining? Check. He may have some little quirks that we think are cute, but overall he's all that, and then some. Sometimes he's right in front of us and we don't even realize it.
their skull. It's important to us that our man is appreciated by our friends and loved ones. He should have the wit and charm to hold folks in awe for hours on end. We want to hear them say “What a great guy! I like him. When is he coming around again?”
The Knight in Shining Armor—Let's face it, women don't like wimps. We want a man to protect us from danger, defend our honor, and carry our heavy groceries (not necessarily in that order). We want a strong man in our corner. Not that we'll test him, but we basically want him to be able to kick someone's butt if it comes down to that.
The Perfect Man—Does he exist? Some seem to have found him. This is the guy who fits a good chunk of the checklist items of what we want in a man. Handsome? Check. Got a job? Check. Watches chick flicks without complaining? Check. He may have some little quirks that we think are cute, but overall he's all that, and then some. Sometimes he's right in front of us and we don't even realize it.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Johannes Vermeer View Of Delft painting
Johannes Vermeer View Of Delft paintingJohannes Vermeer The Kitchen Maid paintingPierre Auguste Renoir Girls at The Piano painting
Biographical knowledge, psychological knowledge, medical knowledge. . ." She sat cross-legged upon the examination-table and told the list on her fingers. "Fluoroscopic knowledge, physiometrical knowledge, visual, tactile, olfactory, gustatory. . . We forgot auditory! Use Kennard's stethoscope." She fetched it from a countertop and prettily gave me to listen in upon her heartbeat, respiration, and intestinal chucklings, all more subdued than my own. She strained but could not fart; on the other hand, she had a surprising knack for bringing up belches at will, a trick she'd learned at ten and never forgotten. All the while she chattered matter-of-factly about the question of carnal knowledge, the last item on her improvised list. Many of our investigations, she acknowledged, were distinguishable from amatory foreplay only by their motive, and though she intended to postpone actual copulation with me until she'd asserted herself with Stoker and Bray, she knew that Dr. Sear's bookshelves contained a library of erotica wherein was catalogued such a staggering variety of sexual practices, stunts, and exquisitries as to make ordinary genital intromission seem as tame as shaking hands; would it be out of order, she wondered, for me to acquaint myself with her by means of fellatio, cunnilingus, heterosexual sodomy, flagellation, reciprocal transvestism, and whatever like refinements and experiments we could discover or invent, other than simple coitus?
Biographical knowledge, psychological knowledge, medical knowledge. . ." She sat cross-legged upon the examination-table and told the list on her fingers. "Fluoroscopic knowledge, physiometrical knowledge, visual, tactile, olfactory, gustatory. . . We forgot auditory! Use Kennard's stethoscope." She fetched it from a countertop and prettily gave me to listen in upon her heartbeat, respiration, and intestinal chucklings, all more subdued than my own. She strained but could not fart; on the other hand, she had a surprising knack for bringing up belches at will, a trick she'd learned at ten and never forgotten. All the while she chattered matter-of-factly about the question of carnal knowledge, the last item on her improvised list. Many of our investigations, she acknowledged, were distinguishable from amatory foreplay only by their motive, and though she intended to postpone actual copulation with me until she'd asserted herself with Stoker and Bray, she knew that Dr. Sear's bookshelves contained a library of erotica wherein was catalogued such a staggering variety of sexual practices, stunts, and exquisitries as to make ordinary genital intromission seem as tame as shaking hands; would it be out of order, she wondered, for me to acquaint myself with her by means of fellatio, cunnilingus, heterosexual sodomy, flagellation, reciprocal transvestism, and whatever like refinements and experiments we could discover or invent, other than simple coitus?
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Pino Early Morning
Pino Early MorningPino DesireThe Passion of Music
having to hope that I was what he declared I was not, and that I would overcome the temptations and obstacles he'd surely put in my way. His face grew livid with contradictions. As I gimped firmly into his sidecar, which Greene and Leonid had vacated, Tower Clock struck the noticed when she left the bar, "flung herself" (in Stoker's words) again at the Chancellor, and finding him tabled with Madge, declared she was "running off" to meet another lover in the Tower Hall Belfry.
"Don't think I don't know who," Stoker growled simultaneously three headlights jiggled into view, one from before us and two from the left: motorcycles racing full-throttle. Nowise alarmed, the guards fell to wagering: their odds favored "the boss" (some called him"der Hauptmann"), who approached from the front, to reach the crossroads first, although the pair coming up on our left seemed rather nearer. And
having to hope that I was what he declared I was not, and that I would overcome the temptations and obstacles he'd surely put in my way. His face grew livid with contradictions. As I gimped firmly into his sidecar, which Greene and Leonid had vacated, Tower Clock struck the noticed when she left the bar, "flung herself" (in Stoker's words) again at the Chancellor, and finding him tabled with Madge, declared she was "running off" to meet another lover in the Tower Hall Belfry.
"Don't think I don't know who," Stoker growled simultaneously three headlights jiggled into view, one from before us and two from the left: motorcycles racing full-throttle. Nowise alarmed, the guards fell to wagering: their odds favored "the boss" (some called him"der Hauptmann"), who approached from the front, to reach the crossroads first, although the pair coming up on our left seemed rather nearer. And
Monday, September 8, 2008
Leon-Augustin L'hermitte paintings
Leon-Augustin L'hermitte paintings
Lady Laura Teresa Alma-Tadema paintings
Louise Abbema paintings
see." And I did see, dimly, his general reasoning, I believed: Sear needed to come to me at the behest of someone else, preferably someone who didn't understand the situation. It had seemed to bother him, though, Anastasia continued, when she reminded him that she was only a nurse. But before she could suggest that he consult a professional colleague, their conversation had been interrupted by Greene's visit.
"You won'tbelieve what he came to tell me!" The memory so renewed her astonishment, she forgot her pique at my having pretended she was pregnant.
I smiled. "He apologized for confusing you with your flunkèd twin sister."
"How did You know? He'scrazy, George! And I hate to say it, but I'm afraid Kennard's mind has been affected, too. By the cancer. . ."
I followed her account as well as I could, for it was more arresting and
Lady Laura Teresa Alma-Tadema paintings
Louise Abbema paintings
see." And I did see, dimly, his general reasoning, I believed: Sear needed to come to me at the behest of someone else, preferably someone who didn't understand the situation. It had seemed to bother him, though, Anastasia continued, when she reminded him that she was only a nurse. But before she could suggest that he consult a professional colleague, their conversation had been interrupted by Greene's visit.
"You won'tbelieve what he came to tell me!" The memory so renewed her astonishment, she forgot her pique at my having pretended she was pregnant.
I smiled. "He apologized for confusing you with your flunkèd twin sister."
"How did You know? He'scrazy, George! And I hate to say it, but I'm afraid Kennard's mind has been affected, too. By the cancer. . ."
I followed her account as well as I could, for it was more arresting and
Friday, September 5, 2008
David Hardy paintings
David Hardy paintings
Dirck Bouts paintings
Dante Gabriel Rossetti paintings
Tammany College, and though he was by temperament opposed to riot, he'd put his mathematical genius at the service of his new alma mater. He it was who first proposed, in a now-famous memorandum to Chancellor Hector, that WESCAC -- which had already assumed control of important non-military operations in the West-Campus college-- had a destructive potential unlike anything thitherto imagined.
"Oy, Bill, this WESCAC!" he said now with much emotion. "What a creature it is! I didn't make it; nobody did -- it's as old as the mind, and you just as well could say it made itself. Its power is the same that keeps the campus going -- I don't explain it now, but that's what it is. And the force it gives out with -- yi, Bill, it's the first energy of the University: the Mind-force, that we couldn't live a minute without! The thing that tells you there's ayou, that's different fromme, and separates the goats from the sheeps. . . Like theheat, that it means we aren't dead, but our own house is the fuel of it, and we burn ourselves up to keep warm. . . Ay, ay, Bill!"
Dirck Bouts paintings
Dante Gabriel Rossetti paintings
Tammany College, and though he was by temperament opposed to riot, he'd put his mathematical genius at the service of his new alma mater. He it was who first proposed, in a now-famous memorandum to Chancellor Hector, that WESCAC -- which had already assumed control of important non-military operations in the West-Campus college-- had a destructive potential unlike anything thitherto imagined.
"Oy, Bill, this WESCAC!" he said now with much emotion. "What a creature it is! I didn't make it; nobody did -- it's as old as the mind, and you just as well could say it made itself. Its power is the same that keeps the campus going -- I don't explain it now, but that's what it is. And the force it gives out with -- yi, Bill, it's the first energy of the University: the Mind-force, that we couldn't live a minute without! The thing that tells you there's ayou, that's different fromme, and separates the goats from the sheeps. . . Like theheat, that it means we aren't dead, but our own house is the fuel of it, and we burn ourselves up to keep warm. . . Ay, ay, Bill!"
pino color
pino colorAngelicaLe Moulin de la Galette
kinds. Or it might be they bothwere EATen -- but only crazy, not to death. Or it might be the Grand Tutor wasn't EATen and the other was, so one's crazy and the other not. . ."
"Or they're both fakes and WESCAC's on the fritz," Stoker taunted. "Or it changed its own mind about the Spielman Proviso and doesn't EAT anybody these days. Maybe it's in love with EASCAC and lost its appetite."
But Max would cheerfully agree instead of arguing, and point out moreover that either Harold Bray or the defector Chementinski might in some wise have altered WESCAC's AIM, recently or many terms ago, if the hadn't "noctically" reprogrammed itself. Nor could one query WESCAC on the matter, as it might have grown quite capable of lying to or misleading an interrogator.
"Which all proves," he would conclude, "you take or leave on faith a Grand Tutor, don't ask it should be on His ID-card who He is. Even if He says
kinds. Or it might be they bothwere EATen -- but only crazy, not to death. Or it might be the Grand Tutor wasn't EATen and the other was, so one's crazy and the other not. . ."
"Or they're both fakes and WESCAC's on the fritz," Stoker taunted. "Or it changed its own mind about the Spielman Proviso and doesn't EAT anybody these days. Maybe it's in love with EASCAC and lost its appetite."
But Max would cheerfully agree instead of arguing, and point out moreover that either Harold Bray or the defector Chementinski might in some wise have altered WESCAC's AIM, recently or many terms ago, if the hadn't "noctically" reprogrammed itself. Nor could one query WESCAC on the matter, as it might have grown quite capable of lying to or misleading an interrogator.
"Which all proves," he would conclude, "you take or leave on faith a Grand Tutor, don't ask it should be on His ID-card who He is. Even if He says
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Self Portrait
Self PortraitSelf Portrait with MonkeyDiego and Frida
another level, tearfully urging the foul-mouthed imates to have at her, and while they'd been too awed and suspicious to go to it, there could be no doubt but her attitude had changed. Whereas Max, who explained me better than I could myself, had trouble practicing the new preachment he so well glossed, Stoker I was pleased to see become once more a kind of Dunce's advocate; he came down frequently now to bait us and found in Max a willing fish, who however was by no means easy to land.
"They'reboth fakes," Stoker would declare of Bray and me.
"Falseness!" Leonid would reply. "WESCAC didn't EAT, yes?"
"They fooled it with masks."
"Masks can't fool it," Max would then point out, and review the possible explanations of my passage through the Belly with Bray: "It might be Georgie was spared because Bray was with him, or vice-versa. It might be they're both Grand Tutors, different
another level, tearfully urging the foul-mouthed imates to have at her, and while they'd been too awed and suspicious to go to it, there could be no doubt but her attitude had changed. Whereas Max, who explained me better than I could myself, had trouble practicing the new preachment he so well glossed, Stoker I was pleased to see become once more a kind of Dunce's advocate; he came down frequently now to bait us and found in Max a willing fish, who however was by no means easy to land.
"They'reboth fakes," Stoker would declare of Bray and me.
"Falseness!" Leonid would reply. "WESCAC didn't EAT, yes?"
"They fooled it with masks."
"Masks can't fool it," Max would then point out, and review the possible explanations of my passage through the Belly with Bray: "It might be Georgie was spared because Bray was with him, or vice-versa. It might be they're both Grand Tutors, different
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Leonardo da Vinci Mona Lisa Smile painting
Leonardo da Vinci Mona Lisa Smile painting
Rembrandt The Return of the Prodigal Son painting
Edvard Munch The Scream painting
For all my new assurance that I was not only the Grand Tutor but the GILES Himself, I was apprehensive; the descent seemed long, and for all I knew Bray might attack me in the dark and try to stop the lift somehow before it reached bottom. His odor, though faint, was particularly disagreeable in the closed compartment; what was more, he put a hard-boned arm about my shoulders and said in a friendly way, "You're what they callin love with Anastasia, I presume." When I didn't answer -- I was wondering, in fact, how a man about to die could concern himself with such a subject -- he added: "One would think, to look at her, she'd be a first-rate breeder. Why do you suppose she's borne no children?"
The lift stopped at his last word. I grasped my stick, ready to strike should he assault me in his death-throes. But when the doors opened -- on a red-glimmering chamber, lined with racks of flat round cans stacked edgewise from floor to ceiling -- nothing happened.
"This is what they call the Mouth," Bray said, stepping out. He gave a little sigh, as if loath to end the other conversation. "We'll use it for presenting our credentials. The Belly itself is through a little door over there, which WESCAC has to open."
Rembrandt The Return of the Prodigal Son painting
Edvard Munch The Scream painting
For all my new assurance that I was not only the Grand Tutor but the GILES Himself, I was apprehensive; the descent seemed long, and for all I knew Bray might attack me in the dark and try to stop the lift somehow before it reached bottom. His odor, though faint, was particularly disagreeable in the closed compartment; what was more, he put a hard-boned arm about my shoulders and said in a friendly way, "You're what they callin love with Anastasia, I presume." When I didn't answer -- I was wondering, in fact, how a man about to die could concern himself with such a subject -- he added: "One would think, to look at her, she'd be a first-rate breeder. Why do you suppose she's borne no children?"
The lift stopped at his last word. I grasped my stick, ready to strike should he assault me in his death-throes. But when the doors opened -- on a red-glimmering chamber, lined with racks of flat round cans stacked edgewise from floor to ceiling -- nothing happened.
"This is what they call the Mouth," Bray said, stepping out. He gave a little sigh, as if loath to end the other conversation. "We'll use it for presenting our credentials. The Belly itself is through a little door over there, which WESCAC has to open."
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