Mark Spain Pure Elegance

Frost covered the floor and the rows of hanging carcasses on their backwards journey through time. It also covered a Detritus-shapedwith numbers. Equations as complex as a neural network had been scraped in the frost. At some point in the calculation the mathematician had changed from using numbers to using letters, and then letters themselves hadn't been sufficient; brackets like cages enclosed expressions which were to normal mathematics what a city is to a map.
They got simpler as the goal neared – simpler, yet containing in the flowing lines of their simplicity a spartan and wonderful complexity. lump squatting in the middle of the floor.They carried it out into the sunlight.'Should his eyes be flashing on and off like that?' said Dibbler.'Can you hear me?' shouted Cuddy. 'Detritus?'Detritus blinked. Ice slid off him in the day's heat.He could feel the cracking up of the marvellous universe of numbers. The rising temperature hit his thoughts like a flamethrower caressing a snowflake.'Say something!' said Cuddy.Towers of intellect collapsed as the fire roared through Detritus' brain.'Hey, look at this,' said one of the apprentices.The inner walls of the warehouse were covered

Vincent van Gogh Fishing Boats on the Beach

opinion.'
'It wouldn't be so bad if he set some kind of social example,' said Lady Omnius,
'Or even governed,' said Lady Selachii. 'People seem to be able to get away with anything.'
'I admit that the .
He longed for the smell of damp streets and the feel of the cobbles under his cardboard soles. A tray of postprandial drinks was orbiting the table, but Vimes hadn't touched it, because it upset Sybil. And she tried not to show it, and that upset him even more.
The Bearhugger's had worn off. He hated being sober. It meant he started to think. One of the thoughts jostling for space was that there was no such thing as a humble opinion.
He hadn't had much experience with the rich and powerful. Coppers didn't, as a rule. It wasn't that they were less prone to old kings were not necessarily our kind of people, towards the end,' said the Duke of Eorle, 'but at least they stood for something, in my humble opinion. We had a decent city in those days. People were more respectful and knew their place. People put in a decent day's work, they didn't laze around all the time. And we certainly didn't open the gates to whatever riffraff was capable of walking through. And of course we also had law. Isn't that so, captain?'Captain Samuel Vimes stared glassily at a point somewhere to the left and just above the speaker's left ear.Cigar smoke hung almost motionless in the air. Vimes was dimly aware that he'd spent several hours eating too much food in the company of people he didn't like

Joseph Mallord William Turner Portsmouth

right . . . that's it, then, thank you,' said Sergeant Colon, after a while.
'—pro-tect the in-no-cent com-ma—'
'In your own time, Lance-Constable Detritus.'
The sergeant and Constable Cuddy, was a very small, raggedy man, whose beard and hair were so overgrown and matted together that he looked like a ferret peering out of a bush.
'—me brack-et af-ore-said de-it-y brack-et full stop.'
'Oh, no,' he said. 'What're you doing here, Here'n'now? Thank you, Detritus – don't salute - you can sit down now.'
'Mr Carrot brings me in,' said Here'n'now.
'Protective custody, sarge,' said Carrot.
'Again?' Colon unhooked the cell keys from their nail over the desk and tossed cleared his throat and consulted the clipboard again.'Now, Grabber Hoskins has been let out of jail again, so be on the look out, you know what he's like when he's had his celebratory drink, and bloody Coalface the troll beat up four men last night—''—in the caufe of said du-ty com-ma—''Where's Captain Vimes?' demanded Nobby. 'He should be doing this.''Captain Vimes is . . . sorting things out,' said Sergeant Colon. ' 'S'not easy, learning civilianing. Right.' He glanced at his clipboard again, and back to the guardsmen. Men . . . hah.His lips moved as he counted. There, sitting between Nobby

Pop art elvis

Pratchett
Weaver’s mouth opened and shut a few times. Then he managed: “You see, my Eva said her granny always put a bowl of milk out for them, to keep them hap—“ “I see,” said Magrat, icily. “And the king?” “The king, miss?” said Weaver, buying time. “The king,” said Magrat. “Short man, runny eyes, ears that stick out a bit, unlike other ears in this vicinity very shortly.”
Weaver’s fingers wove around one another like tormented snakes.
“Well... Ogg hitting
four elves with the first thing he could get hold of—“
“Another elf?”
“Right, and then I found Eva and the kids, and then lots of people were running like hell for home, and there were these—
Gentry on horseback, and I could hear ‘em laughing, and we

John Singer Sargent A Morning Walk lady

That’s just old superstition! Anyway, everyone
knows elves were good, whatever Granny Weatherwax
says.”
Behind her, Shawn flinched. Magrat pulled the wrapped iron lumps out of the bed and tossed them into the comer.
“No old wives’ tales here, thank you very much. Is there anything else people haven’t been telling me, by any chance?”
Shawn shook his head, guiltily aware of the thing in the dungeon.
“Huh! Well, go “Has the king gone down to the Great Hall yet?”
“I think he’s still dressing, Miss Queen. He hasn’t rung for me to do the trumpet, I know that.”
In fact, Verence, who didn’t like going everywhere pre-ceded by Shawn’s idea of a fanfare, had already gone down-stairs incognito. But Magrat slipped along to his room, and knocked on the door.away. Verence wants the kingdom to be modem and efficient, and that means no horseshoes and stuff around the place. Go on, go away.”“Yes, Miss Queen.”At least I can do something positive around here, Magrat told herself.Yes. Be sensible. Go and see him. Talk. Magrat clung to the idea that practically anything could be sorted out if only people talked to one another.“Shawn?”He paused at the door.“Yes, ma’am?”

Mark Spain Contemplation

Elves! The bastards . . . and yet ... and yet ... some-how, yes, they did things to memory.
Nanny Ogg turned over in bed. Greebo growled in protest.
Take dwarfs beauty and the way they move, and forget what they were. We’re like mice saying, “Say what you like, cats have got real style.”
People never quaked in their beds for fear of dwarfs. They never hid under the stairs from trolls. They might have chased ‘em out of the henhouse, but trolls and dwarfs were never any more than a bloody nuisance. They were never a terror in the night.
We only remembers that the elves sang. We forgets what it was they were singing about.and trolls, for e.g. People said: Oh, youcan’t trust ‘em, trolls are OK if you’ve got ‘em in front ofyou, and some of ‘em are decent enough in their way, but109Terry Pratchettthey’re cowardly and stupid, and as for dwarfs, well, they’re greedy and devious devils, all right, fair enough, sometimes you meet one of the clever little sods that’s not too bad, but overall they’re no better’n trolls, in fact—l they’re just like us. But they ain’t any prettier to look at and they’ve got no style. And we’re stupid, and the memory plays tricks, and we remember the elves for their

Edgar Degas Dancer

Bursar dropped his spoon into his oatmeal.
“See what I mean?” said Ridcully. “Bundle o’ nerves the
whole time. I WAS SAYING YOU COULD DO WITH
37
Terry Pratchett
SOME FRESH AIR, BURSAR.” He nudged the Dean heavily. “Hope he’s not going off his rocker, poor fella,” he said, in what “Got to be someone else, too,” said Ridcully. “Volunteers, anyone?”
The wizards, townies to a man, bent industriously over their food. They always bent industriously over their food in any case, but this time they were doing it to avoid catching Ridcully’s eye.
“What about the Librarian?” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, throwing a random victim to the he chose to believe was a whisper. “Spends too much time indoors, if you get my drift.”The Dean, who went outdoors about once a month, shrugged his shoulders.“I EXPECT YOU’D LIKE A LITTLE TIME AWAYFROM THE UNIVERSITY, EH?” said the Archchancellor, nodding and grimacing madly. “Peace and quiet? Healthy country livin’?”“I, I, I, I should like that very much, Archchancellor,” said the Bursar, hope rising in his face like an autumn mushroom.“Good man. Good man. You shall come with me,” said Ridcully, beaming.The Bursar’s expression froze.

Pop art miles 1960, on blue

would have thrown Nanny Ogg out of their ranks for being too nasty.
She turned as more members of the family filed into the ‘ room, and her face contorted into the misty grin with which she always greeted grandchildren.
Jason Ogg king, Verence II. Well . . . not exactly engaged, as such. There was, she was almost sure, a general unspoken understanding that engagement was a definite option. Admittedly she’d kept on telling him that she was a free spirit and definitely didn’t want to be tied down in any way, and of course this was the case, more or less, but.. . but...
But. . . well . . . eight months. Anything could have hap-pened in eight months. She should have pushed his youngest son forward. This was15Terry PratehettPewsey Ogg, aged four, who was holding something in his hands.“What you got there, then?” said Nanny. “You can show your Nan.”Pewsey held it up.“My word, you have been a—“It happened right there, right then, right in front of her.And then there was Magrat.She’d been away eight months.Now panic was setting in. Technically she was engaged to the

Salvador Dali Cruxifixion (Hypercubic Body)

godawful idiot! Don't go that way!"
The sun was well up now. In fact it was probably setting, if Didactylos's theories about the speed of light were correct, but in matters of relativity the point of view of the observer is very important, and from Om's point of view the sun was a Urn and Fergmen walked nonchalantly through the tunnels of the Citadel, using the kind of nonchalant walk which, had there been anyone to take an interest in it, would have drawn detailed and arrow-sharp attention to them within seconds. But the only people around were those with vital jobs to do. Besides, it was not a good idea to stare too hard at the guards, in case they stared back.golden ball in a flaming orange sky.He pulled himself up another slope, and stared blearily at the distant Citadel. In his mind's eye, he could hear the mocking voices of all small gods.They didn't like a god who had failed. They didn't like that at all. It let them all down. It reminded them of mortality. He'd be thrust out into the deep desert, where no one would ever come. Ever. Until the end of the world.He shivered in his shell.

Claude Monet Zaandam

, but which are not the real truth. The real truth must sometimes be protected by a labyrinth of lies."
He turned to Brutha. "Do you understand me?"
"No, Lord Vorbis."
"I mean, that which appears to our senses is not the fundamental truth. Things that are seen and heard and done by the , picking every word with the care an inquisitor might give to his patient in the depths of the Citadel, "in the trivial sense, Brother Murduck died, did he not, in Omnia, because he had not died in Ephebe, had been merely mocked, but it was feared that others in the Church might not understand the, the deeper truth, and thus it was put about that the Ephebians had killed him in, in the trivial sense, thus giving you, and those who saw the truth offlesh are mere shadows of a deeper reality. This is what you must understand as you progress in the Church.""But at the moment, lord, I know only the trivial truth, the truth available on the outside," said Brutha. He felt as though he was at the edge of a pit."That is how we all begin," said Vorbis kindly."So did the Ephebians kill Brother Murduck?" Brutha persisted. Now he was inching out over the darkness."I am telling you that in the deepest sense of the truth they did. By their failure to embrace his words, by their intransigence, they surely killed him.""But in the trivial sense of the truth," said Brutha the evil of Ephebe, due cause to launch a-a just retaliation."

Thomas Kinkade Clearing Storms

see if they die. "Oh."If Brutha dies . . .The tortoise shuddered in its shell. If Brutha died, then it could already hear in its mind's ear the soughing of the wind in the deep

paying your temple dues because everyone else does. Just in the fact that the Great God Om really exists.
And now he's got himself involved with the most unpleasant mind I've ever seen, someone who kills people to , hot places of the desert.
Where the small gods went.
An eagle kind of person if ever there was one . . .Om was aware of a mumbling.Brutha was lying face down on the deck."What are you doing?" said Om.Brutha turned his head."Praying.""That's good. What for?""You don't know?"

Salvador Dali Argus

Flying fish," he said. "But they don't really fly," he added quickly. "They just build up speed in the water and glide a little way."
"One of the God's marvels," said Vorbis. "Infinite variety, eh?"
"Yes, indeed," said the captain. Relief was crossing his face now, like a friendly army.
"And the things captain, very stupidly, sought to fill.
"They'll follow a ship for days," he said.
"Remarkable." Another pause, a tar pit of silence ready to snare the mastodons of unthinking comment. Earlier exquisitors had shouted and ranted confessions out of people. Vorbis never did that. He just dug deep silences in front of them.
"They seem to like them," said the captain. He glanced nervously at Brutha, who was trying to shut the tortoise's voice out of his head. There was no help there.down there?" said the exquisitor."Them? Porpoises," said the captain. "Sort of a fish.""Do they always swim around ships like this?""Often. Certainly. Especially in the waters off Ephebe."Vorbis leaned over the rail, and said nothing. Simony was staring at the horizon, his face absolutely immobile. This left a gap in the conversation which the

Vincent van Gogh The Yellow House

self­-preservation overloaded his nervous system to the point where, just as it was on the point of fusing, his conscience finally got its way.
He leapt into the fire and reached the staff.
The wizards Pretty soon it became just a small mound.
A little while later a squat figure swung itself across the courtyard on its knuckles, scrabbled in the snow, and hauled the thing out.
It was, or rather it had been, a hat. Life had not been kind to it. A large part of the wide brim had been burned off, the point was entirely gone, and the tarnished silver letters were almost unreadable. Some of them had been torn off in any case. Those that were left spelled outfled. Several of them levitated down from the tower.They were a lot more perspicacious than those that used the stairs because, about thirty seconds later, the tower vanished.The snow continued to fall around a column of blackness, which buzzed.And the surviving wizards who dared to look back saw, tumbling slowly down the sky, a small object trailing flames behind it. It crashed into the cobbles, where it smouldered for a bit before the thickening snow put it out.

Caravaggio St. John the Baptist

somewhere. A bit of reality reasserted itself.
Conina dragged her admiring gaze away from Nijel's rapt face and turned it on to Rincewind, where it grew slightly cooler.
She sidled across the floor and grabbed the wizard by the arm.
'Look,' she said, 'you won't tell him who I really am, will you? Only boys get funny ideas and - well, anyway, if you do I will by people. Maybe he had passed them by. He shrugged.
'Why did you let them take you off to the harem without a fight?' he said.
'I've always wanted to know what went on in one.'
There was a pause. 'Well?' said Rincewind.personally break all your-’'I'll be far too busy,' said Rincewind, 'what with you helping me get the hat and everything. Not that I can imagine what you see in him,' he added, haughtily.'He's nice. I don't seem to meet many nice people.''Yes, well-’'He's looking at us!''So what? You're not frightened of him, are you?''Suppose he talks to me!'Rincewind looked blank. Not for the first time in his life, he felt that there were whole areas of human experience that had passed him by, if areas could pass
'Well, we all sat round, and then after a bit the Seriph

Edward Hopper El Palacio

'That was my dear father. I am, in fact, rather richer. When one has a great deal of money, I am afraid, it is hard to achieve simplicity. One does one's best.' He sighed.
'You could try giving it away,' said Conina.
He sighed again. 'That isn't easy, you know. No, one just has to try to do a little with a lot.'
'No, no, but look', 'Ah. Named after a religious sect,' said Conina know­ingly.
Creosote gave her a long look. 'No,' he said slowly, 'I don't think so. I think we named them after the way they push people's faces through the back of their heads. Dreadful, really.'
He picked up the parchment he had been writing on, and continued, 'I seek said Rincewind, spluttering bits of stick, 'they say, I mean, everything you touch turns into gold, for goodness sake.''That could make going to the lavatory a bit tricky,' said Conina brightly. 'Sorry.''One hears such stories about oneself,' said Creosote, affecting not to have heard. 'So tiresome. As if wealth mattered. True riches lie in the treasure houses of liter­ature.''The Creosote I heard of,' said Conina slowly, 'was head of this band of, well, mad killers. The original Assassins, feared throughout hubward Klatch. No offence meant.''Ah yes, dear father,' said Creosote junior. 'The hashishim. Such a novel idea.[15] But not really very effi­cient. So we hired Thugs instead.'

Mark Rothko Blue Green and Brown 1951

Death prodded the staff. It crackled, and sparks crawled obscenely along its length.
Strangely EXPECT TO GAIN?
I shall be by my son's side. l shall teach him, even though he won't know it. I shall guide his understanding. And, when he is ready, l shall guide his steps.
TELL ME, said Death, HOW DID YOU GUIDE THE STEPS OF YOUR OTHER SONS?
I drove them out. They dared to argue with me, they would not listen to what I could teach them. But this one will.
IS THIS WISE?enough, he wasn't particularly angry. Anger is an emotion, and for emotion you need glands, and Death didn't have much truck with glands and needed a good run at it to get angry. But he was mildly annoyed. He sighed again. People were always trying this sort of thing. On the other hand, it was quite interesting to watch, and at least this was a bit more original than the usual symbolic chess game, which Death always dreaded because he could never remember how the knight was supposed to move.YOU'RE ONLY PUTTING OFF THE INEVITABLE, he said.That's what being alive is all about.BUT WHAT PRECISELY DO YOU

Tamara de Lempicka Two Friends

malicious old women! And stupid people, too! She’d won. According to the rules, she’d won! But everyone had laughed at her.
That stung. The recollection of those stupid faces, all grinning. And everyone supporting those horrible old women, who had no idea about the meaning of witchcraft and what it could become.
She’d show them.Terry Pratchett
they’re cowardly and stupid, and as for dwarfs, well, they’re greedy and devious devils, all right, fair enough, sometimes you meet one of the clever little sods that’s not too bad, but overall they’re no better’n trolls, in fact—
l they’re just like us.

But they ain’t any prettier to look at and they’ve got no style. And we’re stupid, and the memory plays tricks, and we remember the elves for their beauty
Ahead of her, the Dancers were dark against the moonlit clouds.
Nanny Ogg looked under her bed in case there was a man there. Well, you never knew your luck.
She was going to have an early night. It had been a busy
day
There was a jar of boiled sweets by her

Rene Magritte The Ignorant Fairy

Ridcully Confused memories wobbled across his brain. He could remember a wall of clanking metal, and then pinkness, and then . . . music. Endless music, designed to turn the living brain to cream opened one eye. People were milling around. There were lights and excitement. Lots of people were talking at once. He seemed to be sitting in a very uncomfortable pram, with some strange insects buzzing around him.He could hear the Dean complaining, and there were groans that could only be coming from the Bursar, and the voice of a young woman. People were being ministered to, but no-one was paying him any attention. Well, if there was ministering going on, he was damn well going to get ministered to as well.He coughed loudly.‘You could try,’ he said, to the cruel world in general, ‘forcing some brandy between m’lips.’An apparition appeared above him holding a lamp over its head. It was a size five face in a size thirteen skin; it said ‘Oook?’ in a concerned way. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Ridcully. He tried to sit up quickly. just in case the Librarian tried the kiss of life.

Tamara de Lempicka Dormeuse

WHAT IS THE NAME OF THE BLACKSMITH IN THE VILLAGE?
Spigot nodded. ‘That’s Ned Simnel, down by the green. O’course, he’s real busy about now, what with the harvest and all.’
I HAVE SOME WORK FOR HIM.
Bill Door grunt. ‘I said a Gripley. This isn’t a’ - there was the scringeing noise of a piece of metal giving way - ‘my thumb, my thumb, you made me’ - there was a clang - ‘aargh. That was my head. Now look what you’ve made me do. And the ratchet spring’s snapped off the got up and strode away towards the gate.He stopped. YES?‘You can leave the brandy behind, then.’ The village forge was dark and stifling in the heat. But Bill Door had very good eyesight.Something moved among a complicated heap of metal. It turned out to be the lower half of a man. His upper body was somewhere in the machinery, from which came the occasional grunt.A hand shot out as Bill Door approached.‘Right. Give me three-eighths Gripley.’Bill looked around. A variety of tools were strewn around the forge.’Come on, come on,’ said a voice from somewhere in the machine. Bill Door selected a piece of shaped metal at random, and placed it in the hand. It was drawn inside. There was metallic noise, and a

Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida Port of Valencia

And hesitates.
Because here’s a small gold timer, not much bigger than a watch. It wasn’t there yesterday, or wouldn’t have been if yesterdays existed here. Bony fingers close around it and hold it up to the light. It’s got a name on it, in small capital letters.
The name is DEATH.
Death right.
Not a muscle moved on Death’s face, because he hadn’t got any.
I SHALL APPEAL.
It told him, he should know that there was no appeal. Never any appeal.
Never any appeal.
Death thought about this, and then he said:
I HAVE ALWAYS DONE MY DUTY AS I SAW FIT.
The figure floated closer. It looked vaguely like a grey-robed and hooded monk.
It told him, We know. That is why we’re letting you keep put down the timer, and then picked it up again. The sands of time were already pouring through. He turned it over experimentally, just in case. The sand went on pouring, only now it was going upwards. He hadn’t really expected anything else.It meant that, even if tomorrows could exist here, there weren’t going to be any. Not any more.There was a movement in the air behind him. Death turned slowly, and addressed the figure that wavered indistinctly in the gloom. WHY?It told him.BUT THAT IS . . . NOT RIGHT.It told him that No, it was