Vincent van Gogh Self-Portrait with Straw

Vincent van Gogh Self-Portrait with StrawVincent van Gogh Self-Portrait with Felt Hat greyVincent van Gogh Seascape at Saintes-MariesVincent van Gogh Road with CypressesVincent van Gogh Peach Tree in Blossom
Yes. Excuse me,’ said Victor. He pushed past the astonished wizard and climbed over the seats to where Ginger was still sitting, staring at her own image. The monster Ginger was looking around and blinking very slowly, like a lizard.
‘That’s me?’
‘No!’ said Victor. ‘That is, yes. Maybe. Not really. Sort of. Come on.’
‘But it looks just like me!’ said Ginger, her voice modulated with hysteria.
‘That’s because they’re having to use Holy Wood! It . . . it defines how they can appear, I think,’ said Victor ?’ she yelled, as they stumbled through the broken seats.
‘It looks worse than you can imagine!’
‘I can imagine some pretty bad things!’
‘That’s why I said worse!’
‘Oh.’hurriedly. He tugged her out of the seat and into the air, his feet kicking up mist and scattering banged grains. She stumbled along after him, looking over her shoulder.‘There’s another one trying to come out of the screen,’ she said.‘Come on!’‘It’s you!’‘I’m me! It’s . . . something else! It’s just having to use my shape!’‘What shape does it normally use?’‘You don’t want to know!’‘Yes I do! Why do you think I asked
The giant spectral Ginger passed them, flickering like a strobe

Leroy Neiman Hand Off Superbowl III

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Azhural stood on a low hill, watching the sea of elephants move below him. Here and there a supply wagon bobbed between the dusty grey bodies like a rudderless boat. A mile of veldt was being churned into a soggy mud wallow, bareof mobile smile. A handy lad with a brush and shovel, but not what you might call a major achiever.
And then suddenly someone somewhere wanted a thousand elephants, and the lad had raised his head and a gleam had come into his eye and you could see that under that grin was a skilled kilopachydermatolist ready to answer the call. Funny. You could know someone for their whole life and not realize that the gods had put them in this world to move a thousand elephants around the place. of grass - although, by the smell of it, it’d be the greenest patch on the Disc after the rains came. He dabbed at his eyes with a corner of his robe. Three hundred and sixty-three! Who’d have thought it? The air was solid with the piqued trumpeting of three hundred and sixty-three elephants. And with the hunting and trapping parties already going on ahead, there should be plenty more. According to M’Bu, anyway. And he wasn’t going to argue. Funny, that. For years he’d thought of M’Bu as a sort

Franz Marc Blaues Pferdchen

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hundred miles that way. Maybe less, even. Yeah. We could really do it.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Y’know, I’ve always wanted to do something big with my life. Something real,’ said Azhural. ‘I mean, an ostrich here, a giraffe there . . . it’s not the sort of thing you get remembered for . . . ‘ He stared at the purple-‘A thousand elephants,’ he muttered. ‘D’you know, boy, when they built the Tomb of King Leonid of Ephebe they used a hundred elephants to cart the stone? And two hundred elephants, history tells us, were employed in the building of the palace of the Rhoxie in Klatch city.’
Thunder rumbled in the distance. grey horizon. ‘We could do it, couldn’t we?’ he said. ‘Sure, boss.’ ‘Right over the mountains!’ ‘Sure, boss.’ If you looked really hard, you could just see that the purple-grey was topped with white. ‘They’re pretty high mountains,’ said Azhural, his voice now edged with doubt. ‘Slope go up, slope go down,’ said M’Bu gnomically. ‘That’s true,’ said Azhural. ‘Like, on average, it’s flat all the way.’ He gazed at the mountains again.

Camille Pissarro Boulevard Montmarte

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imps? Any good with your hands at all?’
‘No,’ Victor admitted.
‘Can you sing?’
‘A bit. . ‘Can’t sing. Can’t dance. Can handle a sword a little.’
‘But I have saved your life twice,’ said Victor.
‘Twice?’ snapped Silverfish.
‘Yes,’ said Victor. He took a deep breath. This was going to be risky. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘and now.’
There was a long pause. In the bath. But not very well,’ Victor conceded. ‘Can you dance?’ ‘No.’ ‘Swords? Do you know how to handle a sword?’ ‘A little,’ said Victor. He’d used one sometimes in the gym. He’d never in fact fought an opponent, since wizards generally abhor exercise and the only other University resident who ever entered the place was the Librarian, and then only to use the ropes and rings. But Victor had practised an energetic and idiosyncratic technique in front of the mirror, and the mirror had never beaten him yet. ‘I see,’ said Silverfish gloomily

Frederic Edwin Church Twilight in the Wilderness

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other high priests were faring no better. Rituals hallowed by time had filled the air in the palace with sweet blue smoke and cooked enough assorted livestock to feed a famine, but the gods were settling in the Old Kingdom as if they owned it, and the people therein were no more than insects.
And the would people listen to?
While he fought to think clearly his hands went through the motions of the Ritual of the Seventh Hour, guided by neural instructions as rigid and unchangeable as crystals.
'You have tried everything?' he said.
'Everything that you advised, O Dios,' said Koomi. He waitedcrowds were still outside. Religion had ruled in the Old Kingdom for the best part of seven thousand years. Behind the eyes of every priest present was a graphic image of what would happen if the people ever thought, for one moment, that it ruled no more. 'And so, Dios,' said Koomi, 'we turn to you. What would you have us do now?' Dios sat on the steps of the throne and stared gloomily at the floor. The gods didn't listen. He knew that. He knew that, of all people. But it had never mattered before. You just went through the motions and came up with an answer. It was the ritual that was important, not the gods. The gods were there to do the duties of a megaphone, because who else

Andy Warhol Banana

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'Oh,' said Chidder. 'Gosh, I'm sorry.'
'Oh, no. It's not like that. It's what he would have wanted. I think he was rather looking forward to it. In our family, death is when you really start to, you know, enjoy life. I expect he's rather enjoying it.'

In fact the pharaoh was sitting on a spare slab in the ceremonial preparation room watching his own soft bits being ,' said Dil wearily. 'And while we're on the subject I didn't think much of the Gottle of Geer routine, either.'
'Sorry, master.'
'And pass me over a number three brain hook while you're up that end, will you?'
'Coming right up, master,' said Gern.
'And don't jog me. This is a fiddly bit.'
'Sure thing.'carefully removed from his body and put into the special Canopic jars. This is not a sight often seen by people - at least, not by people in a position to take a thoughtful interest. He was rather upset. Although he was no longer officially inhabiting his body he was still attached to it by some sort of occult bond, and it is hard to be very happy at seeing two artisans up to the elbows in bits of you. The jokes aren't funny, either. Not when you are, as it were, the butt. 'Look, master Dil,' said Gern, a plump, red-faced young man who the king had learned was the new apprentice. uk... hght... watch this, watch this.. . hgk.. your name in lights. Get it? Your name in lights, see?' 'Just put them in the jar, boy

Salvador Dali Corpus Hypercubus

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'And you let everyone believe that—'
Granny Weatherwax pulled her shawl around her.
'We're bound to be truthful,' she said. 'But there's no call to be honest.'
'No, no, what you're saying is that the King of Lancre isn't really—'
'What I'm saying is,' said Granny firmly, 'that we've got a king who is no worse than most and better than many and who's got his head screwed on right—'
'Even if it is against the thread,' said Nanny.
'—and the old king's ghost has been laid to rest happy, there's been an enjoyable coronation and some of us got mugs we weren't entitled to, them being only for the kiddies and, all in all, things are a lot more satisfactory than they might be. That's what I'm saying. Never mind what should be or what might be or what ought to be. It's what you, I really am,' she said. 'You're witches. That means you have to care about things like truth and tradition and destiny, don't you?'
'That's where you've been getting it all wrong,' said Granny, 'Destiny is important, things are that's important.''But he's not really a king!''He might be,' said Nanny.'But you just said—''Who knows? The late queen wasn't very good at counting. Anyway, he doesn't know he isn't royalty.''And you're not going to tell him, are you?' said Granny Weatherwax.Magrat stared at the moon, which had a few clouds across it.'No,' she said.'Right, then,' said Granny. 'Anyway, look at it like this. Royalty has to start somewhere. It might as well start with him. It looks as though he means to take it seriously, which is a lot further than most of them take it. He'll do.'Magrat knew she had lost. You always lost against Granny Weatherwax, the only interest was in seeing exactly how. 'But I'm surprised at the two of