Juarez Machado paintings
Joan Miro paintings
Jean-Honore Fragonard paintings
For some moment of time the bar where we stood was frozen in space; the handles, the slopped wood, the pallid man beyond them lost perspective; “If you like our beer tell your friends; if you don’t tell us” stood as cut in stone, the ordainment of priest kings, immeasurably long ago; the three years or a little more that stood between now and that grim evening in April fell, unhonoured, into the remote past and there was no sound from the street.
Then, instantly almost, the machine fell to its work again and I said as though nothing had intervened between his voice and mine:
“Was she with him?”
For even now, after three years or more, I could not easily say his name; I spoke of him, as slatternly servants will speak of their master, impersonally. And indeed it was thus I
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Joan Miro paintings
Joan Miro paintings
Jean-Honore Fragonard paintings
Jehan Georges Vibert paintings
through the platoon drill with their customary negligence.
Next Tuesday’s uniform parade saw the House with tarnished buttons, mud caked boots, and fouled rifles as usual. Next day saw the whole platoon doing “defaulters.”
And so it went on, and gradually the House began to give way to his personality and even attained a certain sullen efficiency when suddenly a few days after the House Trials, an occurrence happened which altered the whole complexion of affairs.
One afternoon Ross was sitting in the house captain’s room reading, when Stewart burst in, in running change, rather dirty, obviously just returned from a run.
Stewart was captain of Running and certain, people said, to be, at any rate, in the first three in the Five Mile—very possibly a winner.
He sat down on the window seat and began idly fingering the congealing mud
Jean-Honore Fragonard paintings
Jehan Georges Vibert paintings
through the platoon drill with their customary negligence.
Next Tuesday’s uniform parade saw the House with tarnished buttons, mud caked boots, and fouled rifles as usual. Next day saw the whole platoon doing “defaulters.”
And so it went on, and gradually the House began to give way to his personality and even attained a certain sullen efficiency when suddenly a few days after the House Trials, an occurrence happened which altered the whole complexion of affairs.
One afternoon Ross was sitting in the house captain’s room reading, when Stewart burst in, in running change, rather dirty, obviously just returned from a run.
Stewart was captain of Running and certain, people said, to be, at any rate, in the first three in the Five Mile—very possibly a winner.
He sat down on the window seat and began idly fingering the congealing mud
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Salvador Dali Living Still Life painting
Salvador Dali Living Still Life paintingMontague Dawson The Americas Cup Race paintingFord Madox Brown Work painting
No. How long would they take to get?”
“Perhaps three weeks, perhaps longer. It’s the Inter-Allied Zone Authority which holds things up.”
“But I can’t afford to go on living here indefinitely. I was only allowed to bring seventy-five pounds and the prices are terrible.”
“Yes, we had a case like that the other day. A man called Whitemaid. He’d run out of money and wanted to cash a cheque, but of course that is specifically contrary to the currency regulations. The consul took charge of him.”
“Did he get ?”
“I doubt it. They used to ship them by sea, you know, as Distressed British Subjects and hand them over to the police on arrival, but all that has been discontinued since the war. He was connected with your Bellorius celebration I think. It has caused a good deal of work to us one way and another. But it’s worse for the Swiss. They’ve had a professor murdered and that always involves a special report on counsellor-level. I’m sorry I can’t do more for you. I only deal with air priorities. You are the of the consulate really. You had better let them know in a week or two how things turn out.”
No. How long would they take to get?”
“Perhaps three weeks, perhaps longer. It’s the Inter-Allied Zone Authority which holds things up.”
“But I can’t afford to go on living here indefinitely. I was only allowed to bring seventy-five pounds and the prices are terrible.”
“Yes, we had a case like that the other day. A man called Whitemaid. He’d run out of money and wanted to cash a cheque, but of course that is specifically contrary to the currency regulations. The consul took charge of him.”
“Did he get ?”
“I doubt it. They used to ship them by sea, you know, as Distressed British Subjects and hand them over to the police on arrival, but all that has been discontinued since the war. He was connected with your Bellorius celebration I think. It has caused a good deal of work to us one way and another. But it’s worse for the Swiss. They’ve had a professor murdered and that always involves a special report on counsellor-level. I’m sorry I can’t do more for you. I only deal with air priorities. You are the of the consulate really. You had better let them know in a week or two how things turn out.”
Rembrandt Christ On The Cross painting
Rembrandt Christ On The Cross paintingRembrandt Bathsheba at Her Bath paintingLord Frederick Leighton Wedded painting
time the only effect of the publication was to annoy the Court and cause his pension to be cancelled. After his death it was entirely forgotten until the middle of the last century when it was reprinted in Germany in a collection of late Renaissance texts. It was in this edition that Scott-King found it during a on the Rhine, and at once his heart stirred with the recognition of kinship. The subject was irredeemably tedious—a visit to an imaginary island of the New World where in primitive simplicity, untainted by tyranny or dogma, there subsisted a virtuous, chaste and reasonable community. The lines were correct and melodious, enriched by many happy figures of speech; Scott-King read them on the deck of the river steamer as vine and turret, cliff and terrace and park, swept smoothly past. How they offended—by what intended or unintended jab of satire, blunted today; by what dangerous speculation—is not now apparent. That they should have been forgotten is readily intelligible to anyone acquainted with the history of Neutralia.
Something must be known of this history if we are to follow Scott-King with understanding. Let us eschew detail and observe that for three hundred years since Bellorius’s
time the only effect of the publication was to annoy the Court and cause his pension to be cancelled. After his death it was entirely forgotten until the middle of the last century when it was reprinted in Germany in a collection of late Renaissance texts. It was in this edition that Scott-King found it during a on the Rhine, and at once his heart stirred with the recognition of kinship. The subject was irredeemably tedious—a visit to an imaginary island of the New World where in primitive simplicity, untainted by tyranny or dogma, there subsisted a virtuous, chaste and reasonable community. The lines were correct and melodious, enriched by many happy figures of speech; Scott-King read them on the deck of the river steamer as vine and turret, cliff and terrace and park, swept smoothly past. How they offended—by what intended or unintended jab of satire, blunted today; by what dangerous speculation—is not now apparent. That they should have been forgotten is readily intelligible to anyone acquainted with the history of Neutralia.
Something must be known of this history if we are to follow Scott-King with understanding. Let us eschew detail and observe that for three hundred years since Bellorius’s
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Claude Theberge White Tulips painting
Claude Theberge White Tulips paintingClaude Theberge Jazz in Montreal paintingUnknown Artist Muhammad Ali pop art painting
place. “restaurants are the same all over the world,” he said. “There are always exactly twenty per cent more tables than the waiters can manage. It’s a very good thing for the workers’ cause that no one except the rich know the deficiencies of the luxury world. Think of the idea Hollywood gives of a place like this,” he said, warming to his subject. “A maître d’hôtel like an ambassador, bowing famous beauties across acres of unencumbered carpet—and look at poor Lorenzo there, sweating under his collar, jostling a way through for dowdy Middle West Americans ...” But it was not a success. Lucy, I could see, thought it odd of him to complain when he was a guest. I pointed out that the couple whom Roger condemned as Middle West Americans were in fact called Lord and Lady Settringham, and Andrew led the conversation, where Roger could not follow it, to the topic of which ambassadors looked like maîtres d’hôtel. The woman-novelist began a eulogy of the Middle West which she knew and Roger did not. So he was left with his theme undeveloped. All this was worth five pounds to me, and more.
I thought it typical of the way Lucy had been brought up that she returned
place. “restaurants are the same all over the world,” he said. “There are always exactly twenty per cent more tables than the waiters can manage. It’s a very good thing for the workers’ cause that no one except the rich know the deficiencies of the luxury world. Think of the idea Hollywood gives of a place like this,” he said, warming to his subject. “A maître d’hôtel like an ambassador, bowing famous beauties across acres of unencumbered carpet—and look at poor Lorenzo there, sweating under his collar, jostling a way through for dowdy Middle West Americans ...” But it was not a success. Lucy, I could see, thought it odd of him to complain when he was a guest. I pointed out that the couple whom Roger condemned as Middle West Americans were in fact called Lord and Lady Settringham, and Andrew led the conversation, where Roger could not follow it, to the topic of which ambassadors looked like maîtres d’hôtel. The woman-novelist began a eulogy of the Middle West which she knew and Roger did not. So he was left with his theme undeveloped. All this was worth five pounds to me, and more.
I thought it typical of the way Lucy had been brought up that she returned
Monday, September 22, 2008
Tamara de Lempicka Adam and Eve painting
Tamara de Lempicka Adam and Eve paintingWassily Kandinsky Squares with Concentric paintingGustav Klimt Portrait of Sonja Knips painting
did not return to Fatima. Instead I set off for the bus stop, but the annoyances of the night were not yet over. I was halted again at the gates and the interrogation was repeated. I explained that I had already satisfied their colleagues and been discharged. We re-enacted the scene, with the fading hope of a tip as the recurring motive. Finally they, too, telephoned to the Consulate and I was free to take my bus.
They were still serving dinner at the hotel; the same of billiards was in progress in the bar; it was less than an hour since I went out. But that hour had been decisive; I was finished with Fez; its privacy had been violated. My weekly visit to the Consulate could never be repeated on the same terms. Twice in twenty minutes the Consul had been called to the telephone to learn that I was in the hands of the police in the Moulay Abdullah; he would not, I thought, be censorious or resentful; the vexation had been mild and the situation slightly absurd—nothing more; but when we next met our relations would be changed. Till then they had been serenely remote; we had talked of the news from England and the Moorish antiquities. We had exposed the bare minimum of ourselves; now a sudden, mutually
did not return to Fatima. Instead I set off for the bus stop, but the annoyances of the night were not yet over. I was halted again at the gates and the interrogation was repeated. I explained that I had already satisfied their colleagues and been discharged. We re-enacted the scene, with the fading hope of a tip as the recurring motive. Finally they, too, telephoned to the Consulate and I was free to take my bus.
They were still serving dinner at the hotel; the same of billiards was in progress in the bar; it was less than an hour since I went out. But that hour had been decisive; I was finished with Fez; its privacy had been violated. My weekly visit to the Consulate could never be repeated on the same terms. Twice in twenty minutes the Consul had been called to the telephone to learn that I was in the hands of the police in the Moulay Abdullah; he would not, I thought, be censorious or resentful; the vexation had been mild and the situation slightly absurd—nothing more; but when we next met our relations would be changed. Till then they had been serenely remote; we had talked of the news from England and the Moorish antiquities. We had exposed the bare minimum of ourselves; now a sudden, mutually
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema Caracalla and Geta painting
Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema Caracalla and Geta paintingSir Lawrence Alma-Tadema Welcome Footsteps paintingSir Lawrence Alma-Tadema promise of spring painting
candlelight in a breathless little bedroom over the bar, and arrived late and slightly dishevelled at dinner, where he sat between two lovely girls who neither knew who he was nor troubled to inquire. The dancing, afterwards, was in a marquee built on the terrace, which a London catering firm had converted into a fair replica of a Pont Street drawing room. Tom danced once or twice with the daughters of neighbouring families whom he had known since childhood. They asked him about Wolverhampton and the works. He had to get up early next morning; at midnight he slipped away to his bed at the inn. The evening had bored him; because he was in love.
It had occurred to him to ask his mother whether he might bring his fiancée to the ball, but on reflection, enchanted as he was, he had realized that it would not do. The girl was named Gladys Cruttwell. She was two years older than himself; she had fluffy, yellow hair which she washed at once a week and dried before the gas-fire; on the day
candlelight in a breathless little bedroom over the bar, and arrived late and slightly dishevelled at dinner, where he sat between two lovely girls who neither knew who he was nor troubled to inquire. The dancing, afterwards, was in a marquee built on the terrace, which a London catering firm had converted into a fair replica of a Pont Street drawing room. Tom danced once or twice with the daughters of neighbouring families whom he had known since childhood. They asked him about Wolverhampton and the works. He had to get up early next morning; at midnight he slipped away to his bed at the inn. The evening had bored him; because he was in love.
It had occurred to him to ask his mother whether he might bring his fiancée to the ball, but on reflection, enchanted as he was, he had realized that it would not do. The girl was named Gladys Cruttwell. She was two years older than himself; she had fluffy, yellow hair which she washed at once a week and dried before the gas-fire; on the day
Friday, September 19, 2008
Frederic Edwin Church Sunset painting
Frederic Edwin Church Sunset paintingTitian The Fall of Man paintingJohn William Godward Nu Sur La Plage painting
After a painful delay the leader nodded and said, “Lunnon.” Then they cautiously encircled him until, growing bolder, they came right up to him and began to finger his outlandish garments, tapping his crumpled shirt with their horny nails and plucking at his studs and buttons. The women meanwhile were shrieking with excitement in the house-tops. When Rip looked up to them and smiled, they dodged into the doorways, peeping out at him from the smoky interiors. He felt remarkably foolish and very dizzy. The men were discussing him; they squatted on their hams and began to debate, without animation or conviction. Occasional phrases came to him, “white,” “black boss,” “trade,” but for the most part the jargon was without meaning. Rip sat down too. The voices rose and fell liturgically. Rip closed his eyes and made a desperate effort to wake himself from this preposterous nightmare. “I am in London, in nineteen-thirty-three, staying at the Ritz Hotel. I drank too
After a painful delay the leader nodded and said, “Lunnon.” Then they cautiously encircled him until, growing bolder, they came right up to him and began to finger his outlandish garments, tapping his crumpled shirt with their horny nails and plucking at his studs and buttons. The women meanwhile were shrieking with excitement in the house-tops. When Rip looked up to them and smiled, they dodged into the doorways, peeping out at him from the smoky interiors. He felt remarkably foolish and very dizzy. The men were discussing him; they squatted on their hams and began to debate, without animation or conviction. Occasional phrases came to him, “white,” “black boss,” “trade,” but for the most part the jargon was without meaning. Rip sat down too. The voices rose and fell liturgically. Rip closed his eyes and made a desperate effort to wake himself from this preposterous nightmare. “I am in London, in nineteen-thirty-three, staying at the Ritz Hotel. I drank too
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Bill Brauer The Gold Dress painting
Bill Brauer The Gold Dress paintingUnknown Artist Pink Floyd Back Catalogue paintingClaude Monet Water Lilies painting
one by one, in their own time, when they needed her; deferential and charming to the married women; tender, friendly, and mildly flirtatious with the men; keen on but not so good as to shake masculine superiority; a devoted daughter denying herself any pleasure that might impair the smooth working of Mr. Brooks’s home—“No, I must go now. I couldn’t let father come from the Club and not find me there to greet him”—in fact, just such a girl as would be a light and blessing in any outpost of the Empire. It was very few days before all at Matodi were eloquent of their good fortune.
Of course, she had first of all to be examined and instructed by the matrons of the colony, but she submitted to her initiation with so pretty a grace that she might not have been aware of the dangers of the ordeal. Mrs. Lepperidge and Mrs. Reppington put her through it. Far away in the interior, in the sunless secret places, where a twisted stem across the jungle track, a rag fluttering to the bough of a tree, a fowl headless and full spread by
one by one, in their own time, when they needed her; deferential and charming to the married women; tender, friendly, and mildly flirtatious with the men; keen on but not so good as to shake masculine superiority; a devoted daughter denying herself any pleasure that might impair the smooth working of Mr. Brooks’s home—“No, I must go now. I couldn’t let father come from the Club and not find me there to greet him”—in fact, just such a girl as would be a light and blessing in any outpost of the Empire. It was very few days before all at Matodi were eloquent of their good fortune.
Of course, she had first of all to be examined and instructed by the matrons of the colony, but she submitted to her initiation with so pretty a grace that she might not have been aware of the dangers of the ordeal. Mrs. Lepperidge and Mrs. Reppington put her through it. Far away in the interior, in the sunless secret places, where a twisted stem across the jungle track, a rag fluttering to the bough of a tree, a fowl headless and full spread by
Amedeo Modigliani Reclining Nude painting
Amedeo Modigliani Reclining Nude paintingClaude Monet Venice Twilight paintingAlphonse Maria Mucha The Judgement of Paris painting
conference was being held at an hotel in the New Forest where Sir James happened to be staying; the experts had assembled by train, car and motor-bicycle at a moment’s notice and were tired and unresponsive. Miss Grits read the latest scenario; it took some time, for it had now reached the stage when it could be taken as “white script” ready for shooting. Sir James sat sunk in reflection longer than usual. When he raised his head, it was to utter the single word:
“No.”
“No?”
“No, it won’t do. We must scrap the whole thing. We’ve got much too far from the original story. I can’t think why you need introduce Julius Caesar and King Arthur at all.”
“But, sir, they were your own suggestions at the last conference.”
“Were they? Well, I can’t help it. I must have been tired and not paying full attention ...
conference was being held at an hotel in the New Forest where Sir James happened to be staying; the experts had assembled by train, car and motor-bicycle at a moment’s notice and were tired and unresponsive. Miss Grits read the latest scenario; it took some time, for it had now reached the stage when it could be taken as “white script” ready for shooting. Sir James sat sunk in reflection longer than usual. When he raised his head, it was to utter the single word:
“No.”
“No?”
“No, it won’t do. We must scrap the whole thing. We’ve got much too far from the original story. I can’t think why you need introduce Julius Caesar and King Arthur at all.”
“But, sir, they were your own suggestions at the last conference.”
“Were they? Well, I can’t help it. I must have been tired and not paying full attention ...
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Caravaggio Adoration of the Shepherds painting
Caravaggio Adoration of the Shepherds paintingThomas Moran Forest Scene paintingThomas Moran Autumn Landscape painting
EVELYN WAUGH wrote short fiction throughout his life. His literary career—which gained critical momentum in 1928, when his first book, a biography of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and his first novel, Through the decades that followed, as Waugh produced sixteen novels and nearly a dozen nonfiction works, he continued to write short fiction. Most of his stories appeared originally in periodicals ranging from Harper's Bazaar to The Atlantic and Good Housekeeping. The stories were subsequently published in book form in Waugh's lifetime in such collections as Mr. Loveday's Little Outing and Other Sad Stories, Tactical Exercise, and Basil Seal Rides Again; an additional volume, Charles Ryder's Schooldays, was published posthumously.
The Complete Stories of Evelyn Waugh, which makes all of Waugh's short fiction available to American readers for the first time, is adapted from a scholarly edition compiled by Ann Pasternak Slater and published in Great Britain by the Everyman's Library. Following is bibliographical information regarding the initial publication of each of Evelyn Waugh s storiesDecline and Fall, were both published—actually commenced in 1926, with the publication of Waugh's first post-Oxford story.
EVELYN WAUGH wrote short fiction throughout his life. His literary career—which gained critical momentum in 1928, when his first book, a biography of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and his first novel, Through the decades that followed, as Waugh produced sixteen novels and nearly a dozen nonfiction works, he continued to write short fiction. Most of his stories appeared originally in periodicals ranging from Harper's Bazaar to The Atlantic and Good Housekeeping. The stories were subsequently published in book form in Waugh's lifetime in such collections as Mr. Loveday's Little Outing and Other Sad Stories, Tactical Exercise, and Basil Seal Rides Again; an additional volume, Charles Ryder's Schooldays, was published posthumously.
The Complete Stories of Evelyn Waugh, which makes all of Waugh's short fiction available to American readers for the first time, is adapted from a scholarly edition compiled by Ann Pasternak Slater and published in Great Britain by the Everyman's Library. Following is bibliographical information regarding the initial publication of each of Evelyn Waugh s storiesDecline and Fall, were both published—actually commenced in 1926, with the publication of Waugh's first post-Oxford story.
Edmund Blair Leighton The End of The Song painting
Edmund Blair Leighton The End of The Song paintingFrank Dicksee Romeo and Juliet paintingJohn Singleton Copley Watson and the Shark painting
at Buns and Guns, it's not just the item names that get your adrenaline pumping. They've gone all out to provide a dining experience as akin as possible to fighting for youron a bomb-scarred battlefield in the DMZ. Special touches include chefs sporting battle helmets, sandbags out front, and menu items like the "Claymore" pizza, topped with peppers, onions, mushrooms, olives, corn and tomato. Pull one of the gooey slices away and watch as vegetarian entrails slop off onto your camo tablecloth! KaBLOOEY! Just don't step on it!
And to make your dining experience all the more visceral, all Buns and Guns establishments play a continuous loop of rifle fire, mortar fire, and explosion sounds to eat by. And if any of the wait staff happen to have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, who knows what kind of exciting outbursts that could elicit? It's the only restaurant in Lebanon guaranteed to seamlessly integrate into your daily routine of being bombarded with mortar shells
at Buns and Guns, it's not just the item names that get your adrenaline pumping. They've gone all out to provide a dining experience as akin as possible to fighting for youron a bomb-scarred battlefield in the DMZ. Special touches include chefs sporting battle helmets, sandbags out front, and menu items like the "Claymore" pizza, topped with peppers, onions, mushrooms, olives, corn and tomato. Pull one of the gooey slices away and watch as vegetarian entrails slop off onto your camo tablecloth! KaBLOOEY! Just don't step on it!
And to make your dining experience all the more visceral, all Buns and Guns establishments play a continuous loop of rifle fire, mortar fire, and explosion sounds to eat by. And if any of the wait staff happen to have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, who knows what kind of exciting outbursts that could elicit? It's the only restaurant in Lebanon guaranteed to seamlessly integrate into your daily routine of being bombarded with mortar shells
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Claude Monet Claude Monet Poplars painting
Claude Monet Claude Monet Poplars paintingClaude Monet Claude Monet La Grenouillere paintingClaude Monet Cliffs Near Dieppe painting
Examine you how, Anastasia? If you mean play Doctor, I don't see --"
"Letme do the seeing." She closed her eyes for some moments, as if gathering strength to proceed with her remarkable, nonplussing self-assertion. Lifting herself onto an examination-table near the fluoroscope, she said grimly, "Come here, George."
I went. She leaned back on her arms.
"Look me over," she ordered. "Don't mind if I blush or act embarrassed. Examine me, every square millimeter. Don't touch me yet; just look."
I am not made of stone: breathing heavily, and assisted by my flashlight and the various lenses of my stick, I inspected every pore, hair, fold, crease, protuberance, process, and orifice of her. I learned that the hairs of Anastasia's limbs, head, armpits, and pubes grew darker and thicker in that order; that her brown irises were flecked with black and green; that her scalp was more white, herlabia minora more tan, than I'd have supposed. Her nostrils were not quite a pair; there were silver fillings in three of her molars and one bicuspid. Her nipples, examined closely, were mottled, and more cylindrical than hemispheric.
Examine you how, Anastasia? If you mean play Doctor, I don't see --"
"Letme do the seeing." She closed her eyes for some moments, as if gathering strength to proceed with her remarkable, nonplussing self-assertion. Lifting herself onto an examination-table near the fluoroscope, she said grimly, "Come here, George."
I went. She leaned back on her arms.
"Look me over," she ordered. "Don't mind if I blush or act embarrassed. Examine me, every square millimeter. Don't touch me yet; just look."
I am not made of stone: breathing heavily, and assisted by my flashlight and the various lenses of my stick, I inspected every pore, hair, fold, crease, protuberance, process, and orifice of her. I learned that the hairs of Anastasia's limbs, head, armpits, and pubes grew darker and thicker in that order; that her brown irises were flecked with black and green; that her scalp was more white, herlabia minora more tan, than I'd have supposed. Her nostrils were not quite a pair; there were silver fillings in three of her molars and one bicuspid. Her nipples, examined closely, were mottled, and more cylindrical than hemispheric.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Frida Kahlo The Frame
Frida Kahlo The FrameSelf Portrait with Thorn NecklaceSelf Portrait with Necklace
front, to reach the crossroads first, although the pair coming up on our left seemed rather nearer. And they knew their man, for with a recklessness that bespoke Maurice Stoker, "the boss" suddenly began shooting not into the air but at his competition -- at the road ahead of them, in any case, where dust-puffs rose in their headlamp-beams and bullets rang from stones. The lead cyclist of the pair swerved for his expired -- decades ago, it seemed. The moon shone cold on the beach and stream (which ran still now) and reflected upon a new span built on the old one's piers. Its design was different, its termini the same -- and so for all I knew or cared might be its fate, come next spring's torrents. At the intersection where a right turn led down over it and thence to the barns, a left to the Powerhouse, pistol-shots rang out ahead. Our troop made a ragged halt and answered in and spun into a shallow ditch, as Herman Hermann must once have done; the other slowed his pace appreciably, with the result that Maurice
front, to reach the crossroads first, although the pair coming up on our left seemed rather nearer. And they knew their man, for with a recklessness that bespoke Maurice Stoker, "the boss" suddenly began shooting not into the air but at his competition -- at the road ahead of them, in any case, where dust-puffs rose in their headlamp-beams and bullets rang from stones. The lead cyclist of the pair swerved for his expired -- decades ago, it seemed. The moon shone cold on the beach and stream (which ran still now) and reflected upon a new span built on the old one's piers. Its design was different, its termini the same -- and so for all I knew or cared might be its fate, come next spring's torrents. At the intersection where a right turn led down over it and thence to the barns, a left to the Powerhouse, pistol-shots rang out ahead. Our troop made a ragged halt and answered in and spun into a shallow ditch, as Herman Hermann must once have done; the other slowed his pace appreciably, with the result that Maurice
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Fabian Perez paintings
Fabian Perez paintings
Francois Boucher paintings
Frank Dicksee paintings
don't know why you wish you were dead," I observed. "Stoker isn't cruel to you any more. And he could inseminate you artificially if you can't conceive in the normal way. Out in the barns, we --"
She shook her head. "I don'twant to have a baby! Not by him. George. . ." Her expression was awed. "There's something wrong with my ."
Recalling that Stoker had expressed a similar apprehension, I asked her what might be their trouble.
"I don't really love my husband!" she said, as if frightened by her own candor. And then all reticence left her; in a tearful rush she confessed herself more flunkèd than I supposed. Her lack of love for her husband, she declared, was not new, and had nothing to do with his pleasure in seeing her serviced by other men, not to mention women, dogs, inanimate objects, and Dr. Eierkopf's eggs, Grade-A Large; the truth was, she had never loved him; indeed, she feared she'd never lovedanyone - - male, female, or whatever
Francois Boucher paintings
Frank Dicksee paintings
don't know why you wish you were dead," I observed. "Stoker isn't cruel to you any more. And he could inseminate you artificially if you can't conceive in the normal way. Out in the barns, we --"
She shook her head. "I don'twant to have a baby! Not by him. George. . ." Her expression was awed. "There's something wrong with my ."
Recalling that Stoker had expressed a similar apprehension, I asked her what might be their trouble.
"I don't really love my husband!" she said, as if frightened by her own candor. And then all reticence left her; in a tearful rush she confessed herself more flunkèd than I supposed. Her lack of love for her husband, she declared, was not new, and had nothing to do with his pleasure in seeing her serviced by other men, not to mention women, dogs, inanimate objects, and Dr. Eierkopf's eggs, Grade-A Large; the truth was, she had never loved him; indeed, she feared she'd never lovedanyone - - male, female, or whatever
Monday, September 8, 2008
Martin Johnson Heade paintings
Martin Johnson Heade paintings
Nancy O'Toole paintings
Pino paintings
an apt symbolic affirmation of the element of childish perversity which had always underlain his sophisticated medical researches; on the other hand, he could see that assuming the "patient's" role not only in the office, as he was doing presently, but also in the sandbox -- baringhis bum toHedwig's popsicle-stick -- might be said to combine inversion, perversion, reversion, and reversal.
"What doyou suggest, Doctor?" he inquired.
"Now that's enough!" Greene said angrily. "That's just plain dirty talk, is all it is!"
"Iknow," Sear admitted. "But the fact is, you see, I was avery naughty five-year-old. I peeked up the little girls' dresses and tasted my b.m.'s and showed me my pee-tom to the teacher. So what I hope you'll tell me is whether 'becoming as a kindergartener' means returning innocently to childish perversions or pervertedly feigning a childish innocence. . ."
"Did Greene actually service you, then?" I asked Anastasia.
"Hewould have, I'm sure," she said, "and thought he was defending myvirginity
Nancy O'Toole paintings
Pino paintings
an apt symbolic affirmation of the element of childish perversity which had always underlain his sophisticated medical researches; on the other hand, he could see that assuming the "patient's" role not only in the office, as he was doing presently, but also in the sandbox -- baringhis bum toHedwig's popsicle-stick -- might be said to combine inversion, perversion, reversion, and reversal.
"What doyou suggest, Doctor?" he inquired.
"Now that's enough!" Greene said angrily. "That's just plain dirty talk, is all it is!"
"Iknow," Sear admitted. "But the fact is, you see, I was avery naughty five-year-old. I peeked up the little girls' dresses and tasted my b.m.'s and showed me my pee-tom to the teacher. So what I hope you'll tell me is whether 'becoming as a kindergartener' means returning innocently to childish perversions or pervertedly feigning a childish innocence. . ."
"Did Greene actually service you, then?" I asked Anastasia.
"Hewould have, I'm sure," she said, "and thought he was defending myvirginity
Friday, September 5, 2008
Albert Bierstadt paintings
Albert Bierstadt paintings
Andreas Achenbach paintings
Alphonse Maria Mucha paintings
He legs bunged up in that ol' booklift!" George said indignantly. "A poor naked chile!"
"Oh, Max!" Borne still by the great black George I clung to my dear keeper's neck. "I killed Redfearn's Tommy!"
"Nah, you what!" Max pulled distressfully at his beard. "Put him there, George. What's this with the legs hurt?"
"Sure I got no business touchin' no tapes," George declared. "Ain't nobody's B stuffin' no chile in the booklift, neither!" They laid me on a nearby wooden table; my eyes burned that no one understood my deed.
"I hit Tommy with a crook!" I cried. "He's dead!"
Max clasped me to him then while I choked out my grievous tale. "Ach,Bill!" he groaned at each new disclosure: my resolve to be a human man, the attack on Lady Creamhair, and her curse. . . "Ach,Bill!" My resolve thereafter to be a goat-buck, the rape of Hedda, and Tom's murder at my hands. . . "Ach, Bill!"
"Ishouldn't have been born!" I lamented. Max had gently released me to examine my injuries. "Never mind my legs! They deserve to be broken
Andreas Achenbach paintings
Alphonse Maria Mucha paintings
He legs bunged up in that ol' booklift!" George said indignantly. "A poor naked chile!"
"Oh, Max!" Borne still by the great black George I clung to my dear keeper's neck. "I killed Redfearn's Tommy!"
"Nah, you what!" Max pulled distressfully at his beard. "Put him there, George. What's this with the legs hurt?"
"Sure I got no business touchin' no tapes," George declared. "Ain't nobody's B stuffin' no chile in the booklift, neither!" They laid me on a nearby wooden table; my eyes burned that no one understood my deed.
"I hit Tommy with a crook!" I cried. "He's dead!"
Max clasped me to him then while I choked out my grievous tale. "Ach,Bill!" he groaned at each new disclosure: my resolve to be a human man, the attack on Lady Creamhair, and her curse. . . "Ach,Bill!" My resolve thereafter to be a goat-buck, the rape of Hedda, and Tom's murder at my hands. . . "Ach, Bill!"
"Ishouldn't have been born!" I lamented. Max had gently released me to examine my injuries. "Never mind my legs! They deserve to be broken
Sophia
SophiaMan in Black SuitLucy
Max groaned, but nodded affirmation. "Failure is Passage. A-plus!"
Tears stood in Leonid's eyes. "Commencedomship!" He put his arm around me and declared that while he could not but adore, with each breath he drew, the woman who'd inspired him from the grave, he would no longer dream that she might requite him, but rather that she and I would one day wed. "Never mind you!" he roared at Stoker, whose grin suggested to me that he himself might have arranged My Ladyship's engagement. Anastasia, said Leonid, deserved no less a husband than the very GILES, whom in turn no mate would serve but the passèdest.
I listened uncomfortably. "The fact is, Leonid --"
"You mean the flunkèdest," Peter Greene interrupted. "Durnedest floozy in the whole flunking . Not thatI care!"
The change in Peter Greene's manner, which had begun with his attack on Anastasia and grown during his detention, was now in full flower. So far from admiring My Ladyship for not pressing the charge of rape, he took her admissions
Max groaned, but nodded affirmation. "Failure is Passage. A-plus!"
Tears stood in Leonid's eyes. "Commencedomship!" He put his arm around me and declared that while he could not but adore, with each breath he drew, the woman who'd inspired him from the grave, he would no longer dream that she might requite him, but rather that she and I would one day wed. "Never mind you!" he roared at Stoker, whose grin suggested to me that he himself might have arranged My Ladyship's engagement. Anastasia, said Leonid, deserved no less a husband than the very GILES, whom in turn no mate would serve but the passèdest.
I listened uncomfortably. "The fact is, Leonid --"
"You mean the flunkèdest," Peter Greene interrupted. "Durnedest floozy in the whole flunking . Not thatI care!"
The change in Peter Greene's manner, which had begun with his attack on Anastasia and grown during his detention, was now in full flower. So far from admiring My Ladyship for not pressing the charge of rape, he took her admissions
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Fabian Perez monica painting
Fabian Perez monica paintingJohannes Vermeer Girl with a Pearl Earring paintingJohannes Vermeer girl with the pearl earring painting
You should be ashamed of yourself," Bray told him sharply, and seemed prepared to scold him further for dereliction of responsibility; but one of our own party, left behind at Bray's suggestion to transfer the Founder's Scroll to safer storage in the CACAFILE, rushed up to tell us that the card-file room was now also invaded. The students had so far destroyed nothing beyond the door-locks that impeded them, but their mood was ugly, and we were cut off: he feared that if they did not soon find their quarry they'd destroy the Library in search of me, and anyone they suspected of concealing me.
"It's one flunking goat-boy or all of us," he appealed to the Chief Librarian; "and maybe the stacks too -- some of them have torches."
If any scruple on my behalf lingered in the elder man's mind, it gave way before the notion of fire in the stacks. He clutched Bray's arm and said, "They mustn't even light cigarettes in here! That settles it!"
I perspired. Bray, on the other hand, smiled, not apparently ruffled by the danger. For once our relative fragrances were perhaps reversed.
You should be ashamed of yourself," Bray told him sharply, and seemed prepared to scold him further for dereliction of responsibility; but one of our own party, left behind at Bray's suggestion to transfer the Founder's Scroll to safer storage in the CACAFILE, rushed up to tell us that the card-file room was now also invaded. The students had so far destroyed nothing beyond the door-locks that impeded them, but their mood was ugly, and we were cut off: he feared that if they did not soon find their quarry they'd destroy the Library in search of me, and anyone they suspected of concealing me.
"It's one flunking goat-boy or all of us," he appealed to the Chief Librarian; "and maybe the stacks too -- some of them have torches."
If any scruple on my behalf lingered in the elder man's mind, it gave way before the notion of fire in the stacks. He clutched Bray's arm and said, "They mustn't even light cigarettes in here! That settles it!"
I perspired. Bray, on the other hand, smiled, not apparently ruffled by the danger. For once our relative fragrances were perhaps reversed.
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