George Bellows Both Members of This Club

, with only a slight increase in finger pressure, could have turned his head into a bowling ball.
'Although I could be mistaken,' he added, when she took her hand away. 'Who knows? Who cares? What does it matter?'
They didn't be of some assistance?' Rincewind ventured.
Somewhere inside Conina and Nijel's private world the bluebirds went to roost, the little pink clouds drifted away and the orchestra packed up andtake any notice.'I'll just go and see if I can find the hat, shall I?' he said.'Good idea,' murmured Conina.'I expect I shall get murdered, but I don't mind,' said Rincewind.'Jolly good,' said Nijel.'I don't expect anyone will even notice I'm gone,' said Rincewind.'Fine, fine,' said Conina.'I shall be chopped into small pieces, I expect,' said Rincewind, walking toward the door at the speed of a dying snail.Conina blinked.'What hat?' she said, and then, 'Oh, that hat.''I suppose there's no possible chance that you two might

Edward Hopper Hills South Truro

'Well,' he ventured, looking around at the brocaded hangings, the ruby-studded pillars and the gold filigree cushions, 'you've done this place up nicely. It's-’ he sought for something suitably descriptive - 'well, pretty much of a miracle of rare device.'
'One aims for 'Excuse me,' said Conina, 'but who are you? And where is this?'
'My name is Creosote, Seriph of Al Khali,’ said the fat man, 'and this is my Wilderness. One does one's best.'
Rincewind coughed on his honey stick.
'Not Creosote as in "As rich as Creosote"?' he said.simplicity,' sighed the man, still scribbling busily. 'Why are you here? Not that it isn't always a pleasure to meet fellow students of the poetic muse.''We were brought here,' said Conina.'Men with swords,' added Rincewind.'Dear fellows, they do so like to keep in practice. Would you like one of these?'He snapped his fingers at one of the girls.'Not, er, right now,' Rincewind began, but she'd picked up a plate of golden-brown sticks and demurely passed it towards him. He tried one. It was delicious, a sort of sweet crunchy flavour with a hint of honey. He took two more.

Wassily Kandinsky Red Spot II

Spring had come to Ankh-Morpork. It wasn't immediately apparent, but there were signs that were obvious to the cognoscenti. For example, the scum on the river Ankh, that great wide slow waterway that served the double city as that lined the rooftops, much to the gargoyles' disappointment.
A kind of spring had even come to the ancient University itself. Tonight would be the Eve of Small Gods, and a new Archchancellor would be elected.
Well, not exactly elected, because wizards didn't have any truck with all this undignified voting business, and it was well known that Archchancellors were selected by the will of the gods, and this year it was a pretty good bet that the gods would see their way clear to reservoir, sewer and frequent morgue, had turned a particularly iridescent green. The city's drunken rooftops sprouted mattresses and bolsters as the winter bedding was put out to air in the weak sunshine, and in the depths of musty cellars the beams twisted and groaned when their dry sap responded to the ancient call of root and forest. Birds nested among the gutters and eaves of Unseen University, although it was noticeable that however great the pressure on the nesting sites they never, ever, made nests in the invitingly open mouths of the gargoyles

Pablo Picasso Les Demoiselles dAvignon

ever wonder about anything, you stupid girl?”
“What good does that do, m’m?”
I called her a stupid girl, thought Magrat. Royalty is rub-bing off on me.
“Oh, well,” she said, “where’ve we got to?”
“We’re going to need two thousand yards of the blue chintz material with the little white flowers,” said Millie.
95
Terry Pratchett
“And we haven’t even measured half the windows yet,” said Magrat, rolling up the tape measure.
She looked down the length of the Long Gallery. The thing about it, the thing that made it so noticeable, the first thing anyone noticed about it, was that it was very long. It shared certain distinctive traits with the Great Hall and the Deep Dungeons. Its name was a perfectly accurate Bored, bored, bored. I’m going for a walk in the gardens.”
“Shall I fetch Shawn with the trumpet?”
“Not if you want to live.”
Not all the gardens had been dug up for agricultural

Claude Monet Banks of the Seine

Combination Harvester accelerated towards them. The schip-schip of its blades became a whine.
‘Is it angry because you stole its tarpaulin?’
THAT’S NOT ALL I STOLE.
Death grinned at the watchers. He picked up his scythe, turned it over in his hands and then, when he was sure their gaze was fixed upon it, let it fall to the ground.
Then he folded his arms.
Miss Flitworth dragged at him.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
DRAMA.
The Harvester reached the gate into the yard and came through in a cloud of sawdust.
‘Are you sure we’ll be all right?’
Deathwent clonk.
Then the Harvester was still travelling, but in pieces. Sparks fountained up from its axles. A few spindles and arms managed to hold together, jerking madly as they spun away from the whirling, slowing confusion. The circle of blades tore free, smashed up through the machine, and skimmed away across the fields.
There was a jangle, a clatter, and then the last isolated boing, which is the audible equivalent of the famous pair of smoking boots. And then there was silence. nodded.‘Well. That’s all right then.’The Harvester’s wheels were a blur PROBABLY.And then . . .. . . something in the machinery

Claude Monet Vetheuil In Summer

name’s Simnel. What do you think, eh?’
IT’S A GOOD NAME.
‘No, I mean the machine. Pretty ingenious, eh?’
Bill Door ?regiy~,or two rather radical ideas in that direction.’ he added dreamily.
IT’S A DEVICE OF SOME SORT?
Simnel looked mildly affronted.
‘I prefer the term machine,’ he said.’It will revolutionise farming methods, and drag them kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat. My folk have had this forge for three hundred years, but Ned Simnel doesn’t intend to spend the rest of his life nailing bits of bent metal on to horses, I call tell you.’
Bill looked at him blankly. Then he bent down and
ded? it with polite incomprehension. It looked, at first sight, like a portable windmill that had been attacked by an enormous insect, and at second sight like a touring torture chamber for an Inquisition that wanted to get out and about a bit and enjoy the fresh air. Mysterious jointed arms stuck out at various angles. There were belts, and long springs. The whole thing was mounted on spiked metal wheels.‘Of course, you’re not seeing it at its best when it’s standing still,’ said Simnel.’It needs a horse to pull it. At the moment, anyway. I’ve got one

Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida Child's Siesta

before we were talking about the sun?’
‘Zigzagging aimlessly over the water,’ said one of the young flies; This was a fair bet in any case.
‘No, before that.’
‘Er . . . you were telling us about the Great Trout.’
‘Ah. Yes. Right. The Trout. Well, you see, if you’ve been a good mayfly,
zigzagging up and down properly -‘ ‘- taking heed of your elders and betters -
‘
‘- yes, and taking heed of your elders and betters,
then beginning to realise that, as the most senior fly present, it now had the privilege of hovering closest to the surface.
‘They say, ‘ said the mayfly at the top of the zigzagging crowd, ‘that when
the Great Trout comes for you, you go to a land flowing eventually the Great Trout -‘ClopClop‘Yes?’ said one of the younger mayflies.There was no reply.‘The Great Trout what?’ said another mayfly, nervously.They looked down at a series of expanding concentric rings on the water. ‘The holy sign!’ said a mayfly.’I remember being told about that! A Great Circle in the water! Thus shall be the sign of the Great Trout!’thoughtfully. It was