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