Frederic Edwin Church Cotopaxi

Frederic Edwin Church CotopaxiGeorge Frederick Watts Watts HopeAlbert Bierstadt In the Mountains
Will and Lyra were soaked through, shivering, racked with pain, and stumbling blindly through mud and over rocks and into little gullies where storm-fed streams ran red with blood. Lyra was afraid that the Lady Salmakia was dying: she hadn't uttered a word for several minutes, and she lay faint and limp in Lyra's hand.
As they sheltered in splashed through the icy, bone-aching water and scrambled up the far side of the gully just in time. The riders who came over the slope and clattered down to drink didn't look like cavalry: they seemed to be of the same kind of close-haired flesh as their horses, and they had neither clothes nor harness. They carried weapons, though: tridents, nets, and scimitars.
Will and Lyra didn't stop to look; they stumbled over the rough ground one riverbed where the water was white, at least, and scooped up handfuls to their thirsty mouths, Will felt Tialys rouse himself and say:"Will, I can hear horses coming, Lord Asriel has no cavalry. It must be the enemy. Get across the stream and hide, I saw some bushes that way...""Come on," said Will to Lyra, and they

Thomas Gainsborough Mr and Mrs Andrews

Thomas Gainsborough Mr and Mrs AndrewsSandro Botticelli La PrimaveraSalvador Dali clock melting clocks
around: gloom and desolation on every side. But she'd been wrong before about the appearance of things, trusting Mrs. Coulter of the dead had heard what was happening and were coming to join the great march. Tialys and Salmakia flew back to look and were overjoyed to see their own people there, and every other kind of conscious being who had ever been punished by the Authority with exile and death. Among them were beings who didn't look human at all, beings like the mulefa, whom Mary Malone would have recognized

Jack Vettriano Dressing to Kill

Jack Vettriano Dressing to KillJack Vettriano Dream LoverJack Vettriano Devotion
sympathy or annoyance, but there was nothing they could do to help, and they all walked on disconsolately through the fading landscape as the child's thin cries went on, and on, and on.
The Chevalier Tialys had spoken to Salmakia before skimming ahead, and Will and Lyra watched the dragonfly with eyes greedy for its brightness and vigor as it got smaller and smaller. The Lady flew down and perched her insect on Will's now that they were out of sight of their own village. The sky was as dark as if a mighty storm were threatening, but there was none of the electric tension that comes ahead of a storm. The ghosts walked on steadily, and the road ran straight ahead across a landscape that was almost featureless.
From time to time one of them would glance at Will or Lyra, or at the brilliant dragonfly hand."The Chevalier has gone to see what's ahead," she said. "We think the landscape is fading because these people are forgetting it. The farther the, not wander along and get lost.""They feel unhappy there," Will said, guessing. "It's where they've just died. They're afraid of it.""No, they're pulled onward by something," said the Lady. "Some instinct is drawing them down the road."And indeed the ghosts were moving more purposefully

Jack Vettriano Just Another Saturday Night

Jack Vettriano Just Another Saturday NightJack Vettriano Just Another DayJack Vettriano Jealous Heart
Well?" said Lyra, seeing Tialys raise his eyebrows. "You should always pay for what you take."
At that moment Salmakia came in through the back door, landing her dragonfly on the table in a shimmer of electric blue.
"There are men coming," she said, "on foot, with weapons. They're only a few minutes' walk away. And there is a village burning The spies were looking through, puzzled. But it was more than puzzlement they felt. Just as the air had resisted the knife, so something in this opening resisted their going through. Will had to push against something invisible and then pull Lyra after him, and the Gallivespians beyond the fields."And as she spoke, they could hear the sound of boots on gravel, and a voice issuing orders, and the jingle of metal."Then we should go," said Will.He felt in the air with the knifepoint. And at once he was aware of a new kind of sensation. The blade seemed to be sliding along a very smooth surface, like a mirror, and then it sank through slowly until he was able to cut. But it was resistant, like heavy cloth, and when he made an opening, he blinked with surprise and alarm: because the world he was opening into was the same in every detail as the one they were already standing in."What's happening?" said Lyra.

John Constable The White Horse

John Constable The White HorseJohn Constable The Hay WainJohn Constable Salisbury Cathedral
running fast and low.
Then he was at Lyra's side, and she was deep asleep, Pantalaimon around her neck; and then Will held up the knife and felt carefully, and a second later there would have been an opening to pull Lyra through into safety…
But he looked up. He that monkey first. He was tensed to meet its leap, and he found he still had the hilt of the knife in his hand; at least he could use it to hit with.
But there was no attack either from the golden monkey or from Mrs. Coulter. She simply moved a little to let the light from outside show the pistol in her hand. In doing so, she let some of the light shine on what Ama was doing: she was sprinkling a powder on Lyra's upper lip and watching as Lyra breathed in, helping it into her nostrils by using her own daemon's looked at Mrs. Coulter. She had turned around silently, and the glare from the sky, reflected off the damp cave wall, hit her face, and for a moment it wasn't her face at all; it was his own mother's face, reproaching him, and his heart quailed from sorrow; and then as he thrust with the knife, his mind left the point, and with a wrench and a crack, the knife fell in pieces to the ground.It was broken.Now he couldn't cut his way out at all.He said to Ama, "Wake her up. Do it now."Then he stood up, ready to fight. He'd strangle

Andy Warhol Knives black and white

Andy Warhol Knives black and whiteAndy Warhol GunsAndy Warhol Gun 1982
thought of one of those things falling on her was enough to make her take her rucksack and run out of the grove altogether. What were they? Seedpods?
Watching carefully upward, she ventured under the canopy again to look at the nearest of the fallen objects. She pulled it upright andimpression at all.
Her fingers seemed smoother. She smelled them; there was a faint fragrance there, under the smell of dust. She looked at the seedpod again. In the center there was a slight glistening, and as she touched it again, she felt it slide easily under her fingers. It was exuding a kind of oil.
Mary laid the thing down and thought about the way this world had evolved rolled it out of the grove, and then laid it on the grass to look at it more closely.It was perfectly circular and as thick as the width of her palm. There was a in the center, where it had been attached to the tree. It wasn't heavy, but it was immensely hard and covered in fibrous hairs, which lay along the circumference so that she could run her hand around it easily one way but not the other. She tried her knife on the surface; it made no

Alfred Gockel Moved By The Music V

Alfred Gockel Moved By The Music VWassily Kandinsky UpwardWassily Kandinsky In Blue
above-mentioned “Slowing Down to the Speed of life”, but he’s more famous for this book (actually a series of books that started with book was going to be about competitive running, and in some ways it is, but really it’s about a philosophy of life, of living life to its fullest in every way. Sheehan’s essays are beautiful and inspiring. He’s written a bunch of excellent books, but this one was written after he learned he had a terminal disease. 10. Upgrade Your life, by Gina Trapani. This is lifehacker in book form — all the tips and tricks that will help you turn technology from something that distracts and overwhelms you into something that makes you more productive and effectivethis book). The book’s title becomes more meaningful when you hear the subtitle: “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff — and it’s all small stuff”. This book teaches you to keep things in perspective and in doing so, stop stressing out about things. It teaches you to appreciate the things — and especially people — around you. Really an excellent book. 9. Running to Win, by George Sheehan. Sheehan was a running philosopher. I thought this

Paul Gauguin Nave Nave Moe

Paul Gauguin Nave Nave MoePaul Gauguin Manao tupapauPaul Gauguin Mahana No Atua
First, let’s have a peek at why the old ways don’t work in creating a lasting impact on our lives.
Problems with New Year’s Resolutions:
I don’t know about you, but when I hear the words “New Year’s Resolution”, my stomach tightens in angst. Through years of resolutions are not effective:
* We look at our list only once a year. * We do not review the throughout the year. * We don’t know why we want to achieve the goal. * Not enough passion or reasons to motivate us into action. * The goal is not specific. Too vague. * The goal seems too large and overwhelming, so we never start failed resolutions, my association with these words has become “empty goals I don’t look at until next New Year”.What’s the point of setting these goals if we don’t plan on taking them seriously? They shouldn’t even be called “goals”, they should really be called “wishful thoughts” instead.Here are some common reasons why

Andy Warhol Buttons

Andy Warhol ButtonsAndy Warhol Butterflies big green in middleAndy Warhol Brooklyn Bridge
mounted a 16-year-and-older-only exhibition of its vast collection of erotica that included a grainy six-minute film made in 1921 showing two women in lingerie servicing one man.
But even here, there are subtle interviewers that she “would love” to have Mr. Sarkozy’s children.
In Mr. Sarkozy’s cabinet, meanwhile, Justice Minister Rachida Dati, 42, who is unmarried and was born a Muslim, has announced that she is pregnant, although she has not identified the father.changes that reflect both a willingness to be more open about sex and a determination to keep things secret, to be both more and less judgmental.President Nicolas Sarkozy is partly responsible for the shifting terrain. For the first time in France’s 50-year-old Fifth Republic, Mr. Sarkozy and his new, third wife, the model-turned-pop-singer Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, have moved the personal lives of the president and first lady squarely into the public domain. The two have posed for photographers in the private quarters of the Élysée Palace, even sitting together on the presidential bed. Ms. Bruni-Sarkozy, who is 40, has told

Jack Vettriano The Picnic Party

Jack Vettriano The Picnic PartyJack Vettriano The Missing ManJack Vettriano The Man in the Mirror
between Ennis’s legs, said he was worried about his boy who was, no doubt about it, dyslexic or something, couldn’t get anything right, fifteen years old and couldn’t hardly read, he could see it though goddamn Lureen wouldn’t admit to it and pretended the kid was o.k., refused to get any bitchin kind a help about it. He didn’t know what the f*ck the answer was. Lureen had the money and called the shots. “I used a want a boy for a kid,” said enough time, never enough.
A day or two later in the trailhead parking lot, horses loaded into the trailer, Ennis was ready to head back to Signal, Jack up to Lightning Flat to see the old man. Ennis leaned into Jack’s window, said what he’d been putting off the whole week, that likely he couldn’t get away again until November after they’d shipped stock and before Ennis, undoing buttons, “but just got little girls.”“I didn’t want none a either kind,” said Jack. “But f*ck-all has worked the way I wanted. Nothin never come to my hand the right way.” Without getting up he threw deadwood on the fire, the sparks flying up with their truths and lies, a few hot points of fire landing on their hands and faces, not for the first time, and they rolled down into the dirt. One thing never changed: the brilliant charge of their infrequent couplings was darkened by the sense of time flying, never

Jack Vettriano The Same Old Game II

Jack Vettriano The Same Old Game IIJack Vettriano The Sailor's ToyJack Vettriano The Runaways
Bow, wow, wow! ... Good-morning! Good-morning, my little god! . . At last, at last we can talk! . . Bark and wag my tail as I might, you never understood!... I love you! I love you!"
Who can this extraordinary person be, who jostles everybody and fills the house with his noisy gaiety? We know him at once. It is Tylô, the good Dog who tries his hardest to understand mankind, the good-natured Animal who goes with the Children to the forest, the faithful guardian who protects the door, the staunch friend who is ever to see him kissing his little master and mistress and calling them "his little gods!" He sits up, he jumps about the room, knocking against the furniture, upsetting Mytyl with his big soft paws, lolling his tongue, wagging his tail and puffing and panting as though he were out hunting. We at once see his simple, generous nature. Persuaded of his own importance, he fancies that he alone is indispensable in the new world of Things.
After making all the fuss he wanted of the Children, he started going the round of the company, distributing the attentions which he thought that none could do without. true and ever loyal! Here he comes walking on his hindpaws, as on a pair of legs too short for him, and beating the air with the two others, making gestures like a clumsy little man. He has not changed: he still has his smooth, mustard-coloured coat and his jolly bull-dog head, with the black muzzle, but he is much bigger and then he talks! He talks as fast as he can, as though he wanted in one moment to avenge his whole race, which has been doomed to silence for centuries. He talks of everything, now that he is at last able to unbosom himself; and it is a pretty sight