Edward Hopper paintings
Edgar Degas paintings
Emile Munier paintings
Enacted on this same d-divan or b-bed,
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the 1-1-lowest of the dead...’
And then, stepping lightly into the room, ‘How I have surprised them! All b-boatmen are Grace Darlings to me. ‘
We sat on sipping Cointreau while the mildest and most detached of the Etonians sang: ‘ they brought her warrior dead’ to his own accompaniment on the harmonium.
It was four o’clock before we broke up.
Anthony Blanche was the first to go. He took formal and complimentary leave of each of us in turn. To Sebastian he said: ‘My dear, I should like to stick you full of barbed arrows like a p-p-pin-cushion,’ and to me: ‘I think it’s
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Francisco de Zurbaran paintings
Francisco de Zurbaran paintings
Guan zeju paintings
Gustav Klimt paintings
Orders.
‘Information. The battalion is now in transit between location A and location B. This is a major L of C and is liable to bombing and gas attack from the enemy. ‘Intention. I intend to arrive at location B.
‘Method. Train will arrive at destination at approximately 2315 hours . . .’ and so on. The sting came at the end under the heading, ‘Administration’. ‘C’ Company, less one platoon, was to unload the train on arrival at the siding where three three-tonners would be available for moving all stores to a battalion dump in the new camp; work to continue until completed; the remaining platoon was to find a guard on the dump and perimeter sentries for the camp area.
‘Any questions?’
‘Can we have an issue of cocoa for the working party?’
‘No. Any more questions?’
When I told the sergeant-major of these orders he said: ‘Poor old “C” Company struck unlucky again’; and I knew this to be a reproach for my having antagonized the commanding officer.
I told the platoon commanders.
Guan zeju paintings
Gustav Klimt paintings
Orders.
‘Information. The battalion is now in transit between location A and location B. This is a major L of C and is liable to bombing and gas attack from the enemy. ‘Intention. I intend to arrive at location B.
‘Method. Train will arrive at destination at approximately 2315 hours . . .’ and so on. The sting came at the end under the heading, ‘Administration’. ‘C’ Company, less one platoon, was to unload the train on arrival at the siding where three three-tonners would be available for moving all stores to a battalion dump in the new camp; work to continue until completed; the remaining platoon was to find a guard on the dump and perimeter sentries for the camp area.
‘Any questions?’
‘Can we have an issue of cocoa for the working party?’
‘No. Any more questions?’
When I told the sergeant-major of these orders he said: ‘Poor old “C” Company struck unlucky again’; and I knew this to be a reproach for my having antagonized the commanding officer.
I told the platoon commanders.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Johannes Vermeer paintings
Johannes Vermeer paintings
Jacques-Louis David paintings
John Everett Millais paintings
Now what ever falts Fidon might have he was not a cad and upon hearing of Ralfes arrest he quicly resolved to turn kings evidence and so it was that at halfe past five that evening there was a knock at the door and a clean shaven made steped into the spaceous hall of Cantonville Chase. He was ushered into the drawing room where he found Tom dedjectedly trying to read. He came quickly to the point and told everything. Tom escitedly brought paper and pen and the confetion was written. Sudenly there came a report the smashing of glass and a cry from Fidon a small figure rushed in flung some thing on the ground and the whole room was full of smoke. Tom stagered to the window and let in a cool draft of night air. As smoke cleared away he saw Fidon lying with a bullet in his head and the precious confetion was gone. Then he heard the purr of a motor car outside he rushed only to see Braycaw in a motor disapearing outside he seize his bike and in a second was following. On and on they went in a mad chase the result of which would mean a mans Tom
Jacques-Louis David paintings
John Everett Millais paintings
Now what ever falts Fidon might have he was not a cad and upon hearing of Ralfes arrest he quicly resolved to turn kings evidence and so it was that at halfe past five that evening there was a knock at the door and a clean shaven made steped into the spaceous hall of Cantonville Chase. He was ushered into the drawing room where he found Tom dedjectedly trying to read. He came quickly to the point and told everything. Tom escitedly brought paper and pen and the confetion was written. Sudenly there came a report the smashing of glass and a cry from Fidon a small figure rushed in flung some thing on the ground and the whole room was full of smoke. Tom stagered to the window and let in a cool draft of night air. As smoke cleared away he saw Fidon lying with a bullet in his head and the precious confetion was gone. Then he heard the purr of a motor car outside he rushed only to see Braycaw in a motor disapearing outside he seize his bike and in a second was following. On and on they went in a mad chase the result of which would mean a mans Tom
Friday, September 26, 2008
Frida Kahlo Self Portrait with Monkey painting
Frida Kahlo Self Portrait with Monkey paintingFrida Kahlo Diego and Frida paintingPino pino color painting
Major Gordon signalled: “Respectfully submit most injudicious discriminate in favour of Jews stop Will endeavour secure proportionate share for them of general relief supplies,” and received in answer: “Three aircraft will drop Jewish supplies point C 1130 hrs 21st stop These supplies from private source not military stop Distribute according previous signal.”
On the afternoon of the 21st the Squadron Leader came to see Major Gordon.
“What’s the idea?” he said. “I’ve just been having the hell of a schemozzle with the Air Liaison comrade about tonight’s drop. He wants the stuff put in bond or something till he gets orders from higher up. He’s a reasonable sort of chap usually. I’ve never seen him on such a high horse. Wanted everything checked in the presence of the Minister of the Interior and put under joint guard. Never heard such a lot of rot. I suppose someone at Bari has been playing at as usual.”
That night the air was full of parachutes
Major Gordon signalled: “Respectfully submit most injudicious discriminate in favour of Jews stop Will endeavour secure proportionate share for them of general relief supplies,” and received in answer: “Three aircraft will drop Jewish supplies point C 1130 hrs 21st stop These supplies from private source not military stop Distribute according previous signal.”
On the afternoon of the 21st the Squadron Leader came to see Major Gordon.
“What’s the idea?” he said. “I’ve just been having the hell of a schemozzle with the Air Liaison comrade about tonight’s drop. He wants the stuff put in bond or something till he gets orders from higher up. He’s a reasonable sort of chap usually. I’ve never seen him on such a high horse. Wanted everything checked in the presence of the Minister of the Interior and put under joint guard. Never heard such a lot of rot. I suppose someone at Bari has been playing at as usual.”
That night the air was full of parachutes
Thursday, September 25, 2008
John William Godward The Old Old Story painting
John William Godward The Old Old Story paintingJohn William Waterhouse My Sweet Rose paintingJohn William Waterhouse Waterhouse Narcissus painting
There are no contemporary portraits of Bellorius still extant. In their absence some sharp B had been done in Professor and the Chinese went for a little drive together in the hills. Their companionship was grounded on economy rather than mutual liking. An importunate guide; insensibility to the contemplative pleasures of Western architecture; a seemingly advantageous price; the promise of cool breezes, a wide panorama, a little restaurant; these undid them. When at evening they had not returned, their fate was certain.
“They should have consulted Dr. Fe,” said Dr. Antonic. “He would have chosen a more suitable road and found them an escort.”
“What will become of them?” the Ministry of Rest and Culture. The figure now so frankly brought to view had lain long years in a mason’s yard. It had been commissioned in an age of free enterprise
There are no contemporary portraits of Bellorius still extant. In their absence some sharp B had been done in Professor and the Chinese went for a little drive together in the hills. Their companionship was grounded on economy rather than mutual liking. An importunate guide; insensibility to the contemplative pleasures of Western architecture; a seemingly advantageous price; the promise of cool breezes, a wide panorama, a little restaurant; these undid them. When at evening they had not returned, their fate was certain.
“They should have consulted Dr. Fe,” said Dr. Antonic. “He would have chosen a more suitable road and found them an escort.”
“What will become of them?” the Ministry of Rest and Culture. The figure now so frankly brought to view had lain long years in a mason’s yard. It had been commissioned in an age of free enterprise
Frederic Remington Against the Sunset painting
Frederic Remington Against the Sunset paintingThomas Kinkade venice paintingThomas Kinkade New York 5th Avenue painting
enchanted lands; a dozen times perhaps, for a few weeks—for one year in total of his forty-three years of life—but his treasure and his heart lay buried there. Hot oil and garlic and spilled wine; luminous pinnacles above a dusky wall; fireworks at night, fountains at noonday; the impudent, inoffensive hawkers of lottery tickets moving from table to table on to the crowded pavement; the shepherd’s pipe on the scented hillside—all that travel agent ever sought to put in a folder, fumed in Scott-King’s mind that drab morning. He had left his coin in the waters of Trevi; he had wedded the Adriatic; he was a Mediterranean man.
In the midmorning break, on the crested school paper, he wrote his acceptance of the Neutralian invitation. That evening, and on many subsequent evenings, the talk in the common room was about plans for the . All despaired of getting abroad; all save Griggs who was cock-a-hoop about an International Rally of Progressive Youth Leadership in Prague to which he had got himself appointed. Scott-King said nothing even when Neutralia was mentioned.
“I’d like to go somewhere I could get a decent meal,” said one of his colleagues
enchanted lands; a dozen times perhaps, for a few weeks—for one year in total of his forty-three years of life—but his treasure and his heart lay buried there. Hot oil and garlic and spilled wine; luminous pinnacles above a dusky wall; fireworks at night, fountains at noonday; the impudent, inoffensive hawkers of lottery tickets moving from table to table on to the crowded pavement; the shepherd’s pipe on the scented hillside—all that travel agent ever sought to put in a folder, fumed in Scott-King’s mind that drab morning. He had left his coin in the waters of Trevi; he had wedded the Adriatic; he was a Mediterranean man.
In the midmorning break, on the crested school paper, he wrote his acceptance of the Neutralian invitation. That evening, and on many subsequent evenings, the talk in the common room was about plans for the . All despaired of getting abroad; all save Griggs who was cock-a-hoop about an International Rally of Progressive Youth Leadership in Prague to which he had got himself appointed. Scott-King said nothing even when Neutralia was mentioned.
“I’d like to go somewhere I could get a decent meal,” said one of his colleagues
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Jean Francois Millet The sower painting
Jean Francois Millet The sower paintingJean Francois Millet Spring paintingJean Francois Millet Man with a hoe painting
things be done with propriety? How can they be done at all? I have treated of love in my published work; I have used it—with avarice, envy, revenge—as one of the compelling motives of conduct. I have written it up as something prolonged and passionate and tragic; I have written it down as a modest but sufficient annuity with which to reward the just; I have spoken of it continually as a of profit and loss. How does any of this avail for the simple task of describing, so that others may see her, the woman one loves? How can others see her except through one’s own eyes, and how, so seeing her, can they turn the pages and close the book and live on as they have lived before, without becoming themselves the author and themselves the lover? The catalogues of excellencies of the renaissance poets, those competitive advertisements, each man outdoing the next in metaphor, that great blurb—like a Jewish publisher’s list in the Sunday newspapers—the Song of Solomon, how do these accord with the voice of love—love that delights in weakness, seeks out and fills the empty places and completes itself in its work of completion? How can one transcribe those accents? Love, which has its own , its hours of
things be done with propriety? How can they be done at all? I have treated of love in my published work; I have used it—with avarice, envy, revenge—as one of the compelling motives of conduct. I have written it up as something prolonged and passionate and tragic; I have written it down as a modest but sufficient annuity with which to reward the just; I have spoken of it continually as a of profit and loss. How does any of this avail for the simple task of describing, so that others may see her, the woman one loves? How can others see her except through one’s own eyes, and how, so seeing her, can they turn the pages and close the book and live on as they have lived before, without becoming themselves the author and themselves the lover? The catalogues of excellencies of the renaissance poets, those competitive advertisements, each man outdoing the next in metaphor, that great blurb—like a Jewish publisher’s list in the Sunday newspapers—the Song of Solomon, how do these accord with the voice of love—love that delights in weakness, seeks out and fills the empty places and completes itself in its work of completion? How can one transcribe those accents? Love, which has its own , its hours of
Salvador Dali Bacchanale painting
Salvador Dali Bacchanale paintingSalvador Dali Ascension paintingJuarez Machado Copacabana Palace Hotel painting
rather to dislike one another; certainly when any two or three of us were alone, we blackguarded the rest, and if asked about them on neutral ground I denied their friendship. “Blades?” I would say. “Yes, I used to see a lot of him, but we never seem to meet now he’s in Parliament” or “Jimmie Rendall? Yes, I knew him well. Then he got taken up by Lord Monomark and that is the end of all friendship.” About Roger I used to say, “I don’t think he’s interested in anything except now.”
This was more or less true. In the late twenties he set up as a writer and published some genuinely funny novels on the strength of which he filled a succession of rather dazzling jobs with newspapers and film companies, but lately he had married an unknown heiress, joined the Communist Party and become generally respectable.
“I never wear a hat now I am married,” said Roger virtuously. “Lucy says they’re kulak. Besides I was beginning to lose my hair.”
“My dear Roger, you’ve been bald as a coot for ten years. But it isn’t only a question of hats. There are overcoats.”
rather to dislike one another; certainly when any two or three of us were alone, we blackguarded the rest, and if asked about them on neutral ground I denied their friendship. “Blades?” I would say. “Yes, I used to see a lot of him, but we never seem to meet now he’s in Parliament” or “Jimmie Rendall? Yes, I knew him well. Then he got taken up by Lord Monomark and that is the end of all friendship.” About Roger I used to say, “I don’t think he’s interested in anything except now.”
This was more or less true. In the late twenties he set up as a writer and published some genuinely funny novels on the strength of which he filled a succession of rather dazzling jobs with newspapers and film companies, but lately he had married an unknown heiress, joined the Communist Party and become generally respectable.
“I never wear a hat now I am married,” said Roger virtuously. “Lucy says they’re kulak. Besides I was beginning to lose my hair.”
“My dear Roger, you’ve been bald as a coot for ten years. But it isn’t only a question of hats. There are overcoats.”
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Andrea Mantegna Adoration of the Magi painting
Andrea Mantegna Adoration of the Magi paintingThomas Moran Ulysses and the Sirens paintingThomas Moran Mountain of the Holy Cross painting
Forgive my coming back, sir, but I was afraid that the young lady might be upset at his Lordship’s not knowing her. You mustn’t mind him, miss. Next time he’ll be very pleased to see you. It’s only today he’s put out on account of being behindhand with his work. You see, sir, all this week I’ve been helping in the library and I haven’t been able to get all his Lordship’s reports typed out. And he’s got muddled with his card index. That’s all it is. He doesn’t mean any harm.”
“What a nice man,” said Angela, when Loveday had gone back to his charge.
“Yes. I don’t know what we should do without old Loveday. Everybody loves him, staff and patients alike.”
“I remember him well. It’s a great comfort to know that you are able to get such good warders,” said Lady Moping; “people who don’t know, say such foolish things about asylums.”
“Oh, but Loveday isn’t a warder,” said the doctor.
“You don’t mean he’s cuckoo, too?” said Angela.
The doctor corrected her.
Forgive my coming back, sir, but I was afraid that the young lady might be upset at his Lordship’s not knowing her. You mustn’t mind him, miss. Next time he’ll be very pleased to see you. It’s only today he’s put out on account of being behindhand with his work. You see, sir, all this week I’ve been helping in the library and I haven’t been able to get all his Lordship’s reports typed out. And he’s got muddled with his card index. That’s all it is. He doesn’t mean any harm.”
“What a nice man,” said Angela, when Loveday had gone back to his charge.
“Yes. I don’t know what we should do without old Loveday. Everybody loves him, staff and patients alike.”
“I remember him well. It’s a great comfort to know that you are able to get such good warders,” said Lady Moping; “people who don’t know, say such foolish things about asylums.”
“Oh, but Loveday isn’t a warder,” said the doctor.
“You don’t mean he’s cuckoo, too?” said Angela.
The doctor corrected her.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Thomas Kinkade The Rose Garden painting
Thomas Kinkade The Rose Garden paintingCaravaggio Amor Vincit Omnia paintingRaphael Saint George and the Dragon painting
obliged to interrupt himself to open it. Once on the other side Hector would scratch and whine for re-admission. In moments of extreme anxiety Hector would affect to be sick—no difficult feat after the unwelcome diet of lump sugar; he would stretch out his neck, retching noisily, till Millicent snatched him up and carried him to the hall, where the floor, paved in marble, was less vulnerable—but by that time a tender atmosphere had been shattered and one wholly prejudicial to romance created to take its place.
This series of devices spaced out through the afternoon and tactfully obtruded whenever the guest showed signs of leading the conversation to a more intimate phase, distracted young man after young man and sent them finally away, baffled and despairing.
Every morning Hector lay on Millicent’s bed while she took her breakfast and read the daily paper. This hour from ten to eleven was sacred to the telephone and it was then that the young men with whom she had danced overnight attempted to renew their friendship and
obliged to interrupt himself to open it. Once on the other side Hector would scratch and whine for re-admission. In moments of extreme anxiety Hector would affect to be sick—no difficult feat after the unwelcome diet of lump sugar; he would stretch out his neck, retching noisily, till Millicent snatched him up and carried him to the hall, where the floor, paved in marble, was less vulnerable—but by that time a tender atmosphere had been shattered and one wholly prejudicial to romance created to take its place.
This series of devices spaced out through the afternoon and tactfully obtruded whenever the guest showed signs of leading the conversation to a more intimate phase, distracted young man after young man and sent them finally away, baffled and despairing.
Every morning Hector lay on Millicent’s bed while she took her breakfast and read the daily paper. This hour from ten to eleven was sacred to the telephone and it was then that the young men with whom she had danced overnight attempted to renew their friendship and
Mary Cassatt Tea painting
Mary Cassatt Tea paintingEdward Hopper Gas paintingEdward Hopper Ground Swell painting
to the rhythm.
“Riley, I am really quite hungry. I’ve had nothing all day. Give me another quail and some more champagne.”
Alone among the candles and the hired footmen, Riley served his mistress with an immense supper. She enjoyed every mouthful.
Presently she rose. “I am afraid there must be some mistake. No one seems to be coming to the ball. It is very disappointing after all our trouble. You may tell the band to go Home.”
But just as she was leaving the dining room there was a stir in the hall. Guests were arriving. With wild resolution Bella swung herself up the stairs. She must get to the top before the guests were announced. One hand on the banister, one on her stick, pounding heart, two steps at a time. At last she reached the landing and turned to face the company. There was a mist before her eyes and a singing in her ears. She breathed with effort, but dimly she saw four figures advancing and saw Riley meet them and heard him announce:
“Lord and Lady Mockstock, Sir Samuel and Lady Gordon.”
to the rhythm.
“Riley, I am really quite hungry. I’ve had nothing all day. Give me another quail and some more champagne.”
Alone among the candles and the hired footmen, Riley served his mistress with an immense supper. She enjoyed every mouthful.
Presently she rose. “I am afraid there must be some mistake. No one seems to be coming to the ball. It is very disappointing after all our trouble. You may tell the band to go Home.”
But just as she was leaving the dining room there was a stir in the hall. Guests were arriving. With wild resolution Bella swung herself up the stairs. She must get to the top before the guests were announced. One hand on the banister, one on her stick, pounding heart, two steps at a time. At last she reached the landing and turned to face the company. There was a mist before her eyes and a singing in her ears. She breathed with effort, but dimly she saw four figures advancing and saw Riley meet them and heard him announce:
“Lord and Lady Mockstock, Sir Samuel and Lady Gordon.”
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Gustav Klimt Expectation (gold foil) painting
Gustav Klimt Expectation (gold foil) paintingGustav Klimt Death and Life paintingGustav Klimt Danae (detail) painting
But when they reached the platform, the train was gone.
“I say, old man, that’s darned funny, you know. What are you going to do? There’s not another train tonight. Tell you what, you’d better come and spend the night with me and go on in the morning. We can wire and tell your wife where you are.”
“I suppose Angela will be all right?”
“Heavens, yes! Nothing can happen in England. Besides, there’s nothing you can do. Give me her address and I’ll send a wire now, telling her where you are. Jump into the car and wait.”
Next morning Tom woke up with a feeling of slight apprehension. He turned over in bed, examining with sleepy eyes the unaccustomed furniture of the room. Then he remembered. Of course he was married. And Angela had gone off in the train, and he had driven for miles in the dark to the house of an old friend whose name he could not remember. It had been dinnertime when they arrived. They had drunk Burgundy and port and brandy. Frankly, they had drunk rather a lot. They had recalled numerous house scandals, all kinds of jolly
But when they reached the platform, the train was gone.
“I say, old man, that’s darned funny, you know. What are you going to do? There’s not another train tonight. Tell you what, you’d better come and spend the night with me and go on in the morning. We can wire and tell your wife where you are.”
“I suppose Angela will be all right?”
“Heavens, yes! Nothing can happen in England. Besides, there’s nothing you can do. Give me her address and I’ll send a wire now, telling her where you are. Jump into the car and wait.”
Next morning Tom woke up with a feeling of slight apprehension. He turned over in bed, examining with sleepy eyes the unaccustomed furniture of the room. Then he remembered. Of course he was married. And Angela had gone off in the train, and he had driven for miles in the dark to the house of an old friend whose name he could not remember. It had been dinnertime when they arrived. They had drunk Burgundy and port and brandy. Frankly, they had drunk rather a lot. They had recalled numerous house scandals, all kinds of jolly
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
John Singleton Copley Watson and the Shark painting
John Singleton Copley Watson and the Shark paintingJohn Singleton Copley The Tribute Money paintingFord Madox Brown The Coat of Many Colors painting
After all the chaotic impressions which he had thus painfully and imperfectly set in order, the last minutes before he had turned out the light stood out perfectly clearly. He could see the white, inconsolable face that awakening in the darkness with the coldness of death about his heart; he had raised himself from the bed and stumbled to the window and leant there, he did not know how long, with the cold air in his face and the steady monotone of the rain fighting with the drumming of blood in his head. Gradually, as he stood there motionless, nausea had come upon him; he had fought it back, his whole will struggling in the effort; it had come again; his drunken senses relaxed their resistance, and with complete abandonment of purpose and restraint, he vomited into the yard below.
Slowly and imperceptibly the tea grew cold on the chamber cupboard. had stared out at him from the looking glass; he could feel at the back of his tongue the salt and bitter taste of the poison. And then as the image of the taste began to bulk larger in his field of consciousness, as though with the sudden breaking down of some intervening barrier another memory swept in on him blotting out all else with its intensity. He remembered as in a nightmare, remote, yet infinitely clear, his
After all the chaotic impressions which he had thus painfully and imperfectly set in order, the last minutes before he had turned out the light stood out perfectly clearly. He could see the white, inconsolable face that awakening in the darkness with the coldness of death about his heart; he had raised himself from the bed and stumbled to the window and leant there, he did not know how long, with the cold air in his face and the steady monotone of the rain fighting with the drumming of blood in his head. Gradually, as he stood there motionless, nausea had come upon him; he had fought it back, his whole will struggling in the effort; it had come again; his drunken senses relaxed their resistance, and with complete abandonment of purpose and restraint, he vomited into the yard below.
Slowly and imperceptibly the tea grew cold on the chamber cupboard. had stared out at him from the looking glass; he could feel at the back of his tongue the salt and bitter taste of the poison. And then as the image of the taste began to bulk larger in his field of consciousness, as though with the sudden breaking down of some intervening barrier another memory swept in on him blotting out all else with its intensity. He remembered as in a nightmare, remote, yet infinitely clear, his
Monday, September 15, 2008
Jean Francois Millet The Gleaners painting
Jean Francois Millet The Gleaners paintingJacques-Louis David Napoleon crossing the Alps paintingJoaquin Sorolla y Bastida Children on the Beach painting
from Tom's creosoted horns; I drove him back with horn and odor of my own. Thus caught between us, he spread his cloak for half a second; more loud his hum than Stokerish engine! Then from under his tunic-front a thing shot forth, shortswordlike, as Tommy struck. The buck shrieked, fell kicking, lay still. I snatched the black vestment, slick as oilskin; Bray flapped it off, face and all (underneath was a blacker), and fled -- nay, vanished -- in the crowding dark. A glance told me there was no helping T.'s T.'s T. -- his legs stuck out stiff, his eyes were filmed over, his belly swelled. I had at shadow, ground, and moat with my stick, lest Bray be camouflaged against them; waded through the icy pool (at great cost of goat-dip) and attacked the Shaft itself. The crowd had watched, dumbstruck; now as I thwacked the pillar they seemed to wake. A voice very like Peter Greene's cried, "What's that I hear a-flapping and a-flying, Leo?"
"Nothingcy!" a Nikolayan voice replied. "I don't hear!"
"Look once by the Shaft-tip!" squealed Dr. Eierkopf."Der Grosslehrer ist jetzt ein Fliegender!"
I looked up. In the pall above my flaming keeper something large and obscure appeared to rise, rolling and spreading like the smoke itself. The crowd's dismay turned
from Tom's creosoted horns; I drove him back with horn and odor of my own. Thus caught between us, he spread his cloak for half a second; more loud his hum than Stokerish engine! Then from under his tunic-front a thing shot forth, shortswordlike, as Tommy struck. The buck shrieked, fell kicking, lay still. I snatched the black vestment, slick as oilskin; Bray flapped it off, face and all (underneath was a blacker), and fled -- nay, vanished -- in the crowding dark. A glance told me there was no helping T.'s T.'s T. -- his legs stuck out stiff, his eyes were filmed over, his belly swelled. I had at shadow, ground, and moat with my stick, lest Bray be camouflaged against them; waded through the icy pool (at great cost of goat-dip) and attacked the Shaft itself. The crowd had watched, dumbstruck; now as I thwacked the pillar they seemed to wake. A voice very like Peter Greene's cried, "What's that I hear a-flapping and a-flying, Leo?"
"Nothingcy!" a Nikolayan voice replied. "I don't hear!"
"Look once by the Shaft-tip!" squealed Dr. Eierkopf."Der Grosslehrer ist jetzt ein Fliegender!"
I looked up. In the pall above my flaming keeper something large and obscure appeared to rise, rolling and spreading like the smoke itself. The crowd's dismay turned
William Bouguereau The Abduction of Psyche painting
William Bouguereau The Abduction of Psyche paintingPierre-Auguste Cot spring paintingWilliam Bouguereau the first kiss painting
discomfiture. I beamed at him.
"You!" he roared at me, and turning then to the demonstrating students he shouted that the Grand Tutor was Harold Bray, who even then was on Founder's Hill preparing to do wonders at the Shafting, while I was a gross and treacherous impostor whom no committee in would condemn them for lynching. The half-dozen grinned appreciatively, and some of their classmates looked at me now with a new respect, which infuriated Stoker the more. As he harangued them I touched his temples from behind and declared him a Candidate for Graduation. My six were startled; even Max and Anastasia looked surprised.
"Wah!"Stoker bellowed, too paroxysed now to speak intelligently. "Wah! Wo! Wah!" Anastasia being nearest his reach, he clouted her with his helmet, knocking her into my arms. The sight drove him wild; actual tears stood in his eyes; he seemed about to shoot the pair of us.
"Maurice," Anastasia warned. "Don't you dare shoot. I'm pregnant."
"Wah! Wo!"
discomfiture. I beamed at him.
"You!" he roared at me, and turning then to the demonstrating students he shouted that the Grand Tutor was Harold Bray, who even then was on Founder's Hill preparing to do wonders at the Shafting, while I was a gross and treacherous impostor whom no committee in would condemn them for lynching. The half-dozen grinned appreciatively, and some of their classmates looked at me now with a new respect, which infuriated Stoker the more. As he harangued them I touched his temples from behind and declared him a Candidate for Graduation. My six were startled; even Max and Anastasia looked surprised.
"Wah!"Stoker bellowed, too paroxysed now to speak intelligently. "Wah! Wo! Wah!" Anastasia being nearest his reach, he clouted her with his helmet, knocking her into my arms. The sight drove him wild; actual tears stood in his eyes; he seemed about to shoot the pair of us.
"Maurice," Anastasia warned. "Don't you dare shoot. I'm pregnant."
"Wah! Wo!"
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Jean Francois Millet Jean Francois Millet Spring painting
Jean Francois Millet Jean Francois Millet Spring paintingJean Francois Millet Man with a hoe paintingHerbert James Draper The Water Nymph painting
Lacey no," Leonid countered. "Mrs. Anastasia yes. Self-sacrificehood to needs of classmates." Like Greene's, his voice remained subdued, and both faced straight ahead as they spoke.
"Might be I was wrong about that Lacey Greene admitted. "But Lacey or Stacey, it weren't no sacrificeness. It was plumb floozihood."
"Possible," Leonid granted. "But I don't think, how do you say, all-said-and-donewise."
"I do," Greene said. "Might be mistaken, though."
"Also."
Stoker heard them out with his hands on his hips, but when they fell silent he exploded with disgust. "Two hours ago it was fight to the death; now they're buggering sweethearts!" He began to recount the fracas -- ostensibly for the troopers' amusement, but still with a sarcasm that I knew was for my benefit.He hadn't felt like a party in the first
Lacey no," Leonid countered. "Mrs. Anastasia yes. Self-sacrificehood to needs of classmates." Like Greene's, his voice remained subdued, and both faced straight ahead as they spoke.
"Might be I was wrong about that Lacey Greene admitted. "But Lacey or Stacey, it weren't no sacrificeness. It was plumb floozihood."
"Possible," Leonid granted. "But I don't think, how do you say, all-said-and-donewise."
"I do," Greene said. "Might be mistaken, though."
"Also."
Stoker heard them out with his hands on his hips, but when they fell silent he exploded with disgust. "Two hours ago it was fight to the death; now they're buggering sweethearts!" He began to recount the fracas -- ostensibly for the troopers' amusement, but still with a sarcasm that I knew was for my benefit.He hadn't felt like a party in the first
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Courtship the Proposal
Courtship the ProposalA Favorite CustomGarmash Sleeping Beauty
Oh, the Dunce, I forgot I sent 'em out there." Suddenly defensive, he glared at me and asked how the flunk a man could mix a batch of goat-dip by himself and keep his eye on a young buck like Triple-T at the same time. At mention of that name tears sprang to my eyes; I swallowed a great cud of Scroll; the rest fell to the floor and was scrabbled up by scholars. For a moment my despair gave place to a sweeter if no less painful emotion.
"Tommy's Tommy's Tom? Have you been with the herd, Grandpa?"
"Don't Grandpa me, Dunce flunk you! If that buck hadn't banged up my arm --"
He would crook me a harder one despite his infirmity; I lowered my head to take the blow and die like Redfearn's Tom, grandsire of the buck he spoke of. There were cries from receptionist and bystanders, quite a number of whom had been attracted by the disturbance.
"Stop."It was a voice I knew that pierced the clamor, and my heart: hard, clickèd, like a thumbnailed flea, a hoof-cracked tick. Asafoetida, the very smell of my impotent vision some moments before, was faint now in the literal air. Like Bray's voice, it came from
Oh, the Dunce, I forgot I sent 'em out there." Suddenly defensive, he glared at me and asked how the flunk a man could mix a batch of goat-dip by himself and keep his eye on a young buck like Triple-T at the same time. At mention of that name tears sprang to my eyes; I swallowed a great cud of Scroll; the rest fell to the floor and was scrabbled up by scholars. For a moment my despair gave place to a sweeter if no less painful emotion.
"Tommy's Tommy's Tom? Have you been with the herd, Grandpa?"
"Don't Grandpa me, Dunce flunk you! If that buck hadn't banged up my arm --"
He would crook me a harder one despite his infirmity; I lowered my head to take the blow and die like Redfearn's Tom, grandsire of the buck he spoke of. There were cries from receptionist and bystanders, quite a number of whom had been attracted by the disturbance.
"Stop."It was a voice I knew that pierced the clamor, and my heart: hard, clickèd, like a thumbnailed flea, a hoof-cracked tick. Asafoetida, the very smell of my impotent vision some moments before, was faint now in the literal air. Like Bray's voice, it came from
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Maxfield Parrish paintings
Maxfield Parrish paintings
Martin Johnson Heade paintings
Nancy O'Toole paintings
Other orderlies waited with patients in Dr. Sear's corridor. One of the latter growled and snapped at me as he and his keeper took our place in the lift; I lowered my head to butt, bleated a warning, and hoofed the terrazzo floor. The disturbance brought Anastasia hurrying from the Reception Room with dog-biscuits.
"George!" Her eyes widened at sight of the strait-jacket. Refusing to hear the orderlies' story, she scolded them sharply for treating the Grand Tutor as a madman; they were flunkèd as her husband, she said, who'd detained me as a common felon. They grumbled apologies and unhanded me, cowed by her temper if not persuaded by her re; still flushed with outrage, she nevertheless agreed not to report their misjudgment to Dr. Sear, and dismissed them.
"A regular nut-house," Bill said disgustedly to his colleague.
Anastasia led me into the Reception Room (where I was surprised to see my mother, placidly knitting) and at once hugged me and made tears -- not at all
Martin Johnson Heade paintings
Nancy O'Toole paintings
Other orderlies waited with patients in Dr. Sear's corridor. One of the latter growled and snapped at me as he and his keeper took our place in the lift; I lowered my head to butt, bleated a warning, and hoofed the terrazzo floor. The disturbance brought Anastasia hurrying from the Reception Room with dog-biscuits.
"George!" Her eyes widened at sight of the strait-jacket. Refusing to hear the orderlies' story, she scolded them sharply for treating the Grand Tutor as a madman; they were flunkèd as her husband, she said, who'd detained me as a common felon. They grumbled apologies and unhanded me, cowed by her temper if not persuaded by her re; still flushed with outrage, she nevertheless agreed not to report their misjudgment to Dr. Sear, and dismissed them.
"A regular nut-house," Bill said disgustedly to his colleague.
Anastasia led me into the Reception Room (where I was surprised to see my mother, placidly knitting) and at once hugged me and made tears -- not at all
Monday, September 8, 2008
John William Godward paintings
John William Godward paintings
John William Waterhouse paintings
John Singer Sargent paintings
answering, do you?"
Delightedly I pressed on:"End the Boundary Dispute: Now obviously I was wrong to think that meant make our Power Lines clearer, wasn't I? Did WESCAC mean some other kind of Boundary?"
I managed to catch just the words ". . .all arbitrary" behind me, but that was enough. I demanded of The Living Sakhyan ("Rhetorically, man," they said, "rhetorically!"): "Could it mean that the boundary between East and West Campuses is arbitrary and artificial, and ought to be denied? Should we abolish the Power Line?"
They applauded this suggestion as vigorously as limpness permitted. I was emboldened to ask whether they understood that had The Living Sakhyan answered either yes or no, He'd have affirmed the Boundary's reality, and thus answered falsely. Several nodded, and were at once rebuked by their cleverer classmates, who snapped, "Don't answer!" I had just presence enough of mind to smile and say no more.
In like manner I reviewed the whole of my Assignment with T. L. Sakhyan's aid.Overcome Your Infirmity, we decided, must meanaffirm my limp and goatliness -- a
John William Waterhouse paintings
John Singer Sargent paintings
answering, do you?"
Delightedly I pressed on:"End the Boundary Dispute: Now obviously I was wrong to think that meant make our Power Lines clearer, wasn't I? Did WESCAC mean some other kind of Boundary?"
I managed to catch just the words ". . .all arbitrary" behind me, but that was enough. I demanded of The Living Sakhyan ("Rhetorically, man," they said, "rhetorically!"): "Could it mean that the boundary between East and West Campuses is arbitrary and artificial, and ought to be denied? Should we abolish the Power Line?"
They applauded this suggestion as vigorously as limpness permitted. I was emboldened to ask whether they understood that had The Living Sakhyan answered either yes or no, He'd have affirmed the Boundary's reality, and thus answered falsely. Several nodded, and were at once rebuked by their cleverer classmates, who snapped, "Don't answer!" I had just presence enough of mind to smile and say no more.
In like manner I reviewed the whole of my Assignment with T. L. Sakhyan's aid.Overcome Your Infirmity, we decided, must meanaffirm my limp and goatliness -- a
Friday, September 5, 2008
Diego Rivera paintings
Diego Rivera paintings
Don Li-Leger paintings
David Hardy paintings
together to my dead friend, inasmuch as in goatdom we all had been brothers.
"You want to be a Tommy, boy?"
I shook my head: the burden were too painful -- and besides, noble Tom had been after all. . . a goat. For similar cause I rejectedMax III , after my keeper's father: however dignified, even dynastic, the air of such numerals in studentdom, to my mind they still suggested prize livestock.
George Herrold the booksweep here lost interest both in our discussion and in my swaying stance; he returned to his machine, humming some tune for his own entertainment. I followed him with my eyes. After a moment Max said from behind, "Ja,I raised you; but that George Herrold, what you might say, he brought you into this campus."
I turned to him with a smile. "Georgeis a good name, isn't it?"
"A fine name," Max agreed. "There's been famous Georges." Presently he added, "His wife left him since he was EATen. I don't think he ever had
Don Li-Leger paintings
David Hardy paintings
together to my dead friend, inasmuch as in goatdom we all had been brothers.
"You want to be a Tommy, boy?"
I shook my head: the burden were too painful -- and besides, noble Tom had been after all. . . a goat. For similar cause I rejectedMax III , after my keeper's father: however dignified, even dynastic, the air of such numerals in studentdom, to my mind they still suggested prize livestock.
George Herrold the booksweep here lost interest both in our discussion and in my swaying stance; he returned to his machine, humming some tune for his own entertainment. I followed him with my eyes. After a moment Max said from behind, "Ja,I raised you; but that George Herrold, what you might say, he brought you into this campus."
I turned to him with a smile. "Georgeis a good name, isn't it?"
"A fine name," Max agreed. "There's been famous Georges." Presently he added, "His wife left him since he was EATen. I don't think he ever had
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Vincent van Gogh Starry Night over the Rhone painting
Vincent van Gogh Starry Night over the Rhone paintingVincent van Gogh Irises paintingWassily Kandinsky Farbstudie Quadrate painting
There is no time in Main Detention -- under Stoker's wardenship, not even night and day. We slept or woke irregularly without regard to the lights, which went on and off at unpredictable intervals. Meals were served at any hour, apparently, sometimes in such close succession that one had no appetite, sometimes at so great a lapse of time that chants of protest rose from the detained. One had the impression that there was in theory a fixed routine, which however was whimsically administered: we would be routed out for exercise after "lunch," say, and find ourselves doing push-ups under the stars; or we might go for (what seemed like) days without leaving our cells, then be sent to the prison shops or reading-room for so long a stretch that we'd sleep and eat upon the work- or library-tables. In this disorder I saw Stoker's hand, as in our random assignment to cells. Main Detention itself, as I'd gathered from that chart in Stoker's office, was scrupulously
There is no time in Main Detention -- under Stoker's wardenship, not even night and day. We slept or woke irregularly without regard to the lights, which went on and off at unpredictable intervals. Meals were served at any hour, apparently, sometimes in such close succession that one had no appetite, sometimes at so great a lapse of time that chants of protest rose from the detained. One had the impression that there was in theory a fixed routine, which however was whimsically administered: we would be routed out for exercise after "lunch," say, and find ourselves doing push-ups under the stars; or we might go for (what seemed like) days without leaving our cells, then be sent to the prison shops or reading-room for so long a stretch that we'd sleep and eat upon the work- or library-tables. In this disorder I saw Stoker's hand, as in our random assignment to cells. Main Detention itself, as I'd gathered from that chart in Stoker's office, was scrupulously
Monday, September 1, 2008
Frank Dicksee La Belle Dame Sans Merci painting
Frank Dicksee La Belle Dame Sans Merci paintingEdward Hopper Nighthawks paintingFrederic Edwin Church Sunset painting
what the truthis; I just want to get it straight! One person comes along and says Dr. Eierkopf's my father --"
"Ha," Miss Hector said scornfully.
"-- then another person says it's Dr. Spielman --"
The import of her "Hmp" at mention of this name I could not assess, though I listened closely.
"And you've said different things at different times yourself," Anastasia went on. "Even that I'm not your daughter. . ." Her voice grew less steady.
"Oh, now," Virginia Hector said. Anastasia repeated that her affection for her mother could not be diminished by the facts, whatever they were -- at least she began to repeat some such sentiment, but was overtaken midway by tears.
"Now, now, now. . ." So like was that voice to the one that had gentled my two-score weepings in terms gone by, I could have wept again at sound of it. I yearned to burst in and beg my Lady Creamhair's pardon; must press my forehead to the frosted door-glass to calm me. Some minutes the ladies wept together. Then there was a snap of purses and blow of noses upon tissues, after which Virginia Hector said: "I have much to
what the truthis; I just want to get it straight! One person comes along and says Dr. Eierkopf's my father --"
"Ha," Miss Hector said scornfully.
"-- then another person says it's Dr. Spielman --"
The import of her "Hmp" at mention of this name I could not assess, though I listened closely.
"And you've said different things at different times yourself," Anastasia went on. "Even that I'm not your daughter. . ." Her voice grew less steady.
"Oh, now," Virginia Hector said. Anastasia repeated that her affection for her mother could not be diminished by the facts, whatever they were -- at least she began to repeat some such sentiment, but was overtaken midway by tears.
"Now, now, now. . ." So like was that voice to the one that had gentled my two-score weepings in terms gone by, I could have wept again at sound of it. I yearned to burst in and beg my Lady Creamhair's pardon; must press my forehead to the frosted door-glass to calm me. Some minutes the ladies wept together. Then there was a snap of purses and blow of noses upon tissues, after which Virginia Hector said: "I have much to
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