Jack Vettriano Waltzers

People should hear our music.'
'Sure.' Cliff looked puzzled. 'Right. Of course. Dat's what we want. And some pay, too.'
'Mr Dibbler'll help us,' said Glod, who was too preoccupied to notice the edge in Buddy's voice. 'He must be very successful. He's got an office in Sator Square. Only very posh businesses can afford that .'
A new day suspected that they didn't, either. They seemed to positively enjoy becoming less and less certain about everything and would come in to dinner saying things like 'Wow, we've just overturned Marrowleaf's Theory of Thaumic Imponderability! Amazing !' as if it was something to be proud of, instead of gross discourtesy.
And they were always talking about splitting the thaum, the smallest unit of magic. The Archchancellor couldn't see the point. So you had bits all over the place. What good would that do? The universe was bad enough without people poking it.
The door opened.dawned.It had hardly finished doing so before Ridcully hurried through the dewy grass of the University gardens and hammered on the door of the High Energy Magic Building.Generally he never went near the place. It wasn't that he didn't understand what it was the young wizards in there were actually doing, but because he strongly

Jack Vettriano Lunchtime Lovers

bit where you said "hello, baby",' he said. 'Why'd you do that?'
'Er...'
'I mean, it's not as if they even allow small children into the Drum.'
'I don't know. The words were just there,' said Buddy. 'They were sort of part of the music . . .'
'And you were . . . 'What we do is,' said Cliff, 'we take dat and throw it in de river. All those in favour say "Aye". Or Oook, as the case may be.'
There was another silence. No‑one rushed to pick up the instrument.
'But the thing is,' said Glod, 'the thing is . . . they did love us out there.'
They thought about this.
'It didn't actually feel . . . bad,' said Buddy.moving about in a funny way. Like you were having trouble with your trousers,' said Glod. 'I'm not expert on humans, of course, but I saw some ladies in the audience looking at you like a dwarf looks at a girl when he knows her father's got a big shaft and several rich seams.''Yeah,' said Cliff, 'and like when a troll is thinking: hey, will you look at der strata on dat one . . .''You're certain you've got no elvish in you, are you?' said Glod. 'Once or twice I thought you were acting a bit . . . elvish.''I don't know what's happening!' said Buddy.The guitar whined.They looked at it.

Thomas Kinkade Autumn Lane

tomorrow,' said Hibiscus, 'I'll make it . . . six dollars, how about that?'
'Oh, wow,' said Glod.
Mustrum Ridcully was jolted upright in bed, because the bed itself was being gently vibrated across the floor.
So it had happened at last!
They were out to get him.
The tradition of promotion in the They were sitting in the tiny cramped room behind the bar.
Glod took off his helmet and wiped the inside.
'Would you believe four beats to the bar, two‑four time, melody led, with the bass beat forward in the melody?'
'What's all dat?' said Lias. 'What's all dem words mean?'
'You're a musician, ain't you?' said Glod. 'What do you think you do?'
'I hits 'em with de hammers,' said energetically pumping the bellows and making occasional little 'ooks' of excitement, felt there was a lot more that it could do.
A fully grown male orang‑utan may look like an amiable pile of old carpets but he has a strength in him that would make a human of equivalent weight eat lots of rug. The Librarian only stopped pumping when the lever was too hot to hold and the air reservoirs were farting and whistling around the rivets.
Then he swung himself up into the

Franz Marc fighting forms

three days,' he said.
They rounded the bulk of Unseen University and ambled along The Backs, a dusty little street that saw little traffic or passing trade and was therefore much favoured by the Watch as a place to lurk and have a smoke and explore the realms of the mind.
'You know salmon, sarge,' said Nobby.
'It is a fish of which window, the rickety door.
"Course,' he said. 'It's always been there. Been there years.'
Colon crossed the street and rubbed at the grime. There were dark shapes vaguely visible in the gloom.
'Yeah, right,' he mumbled. 'It's just that . . . I mean . . . was it there for years yesterday?'
'You ail right, sarge?'
'Let's go, Nobby,' said the sergeant, walking away as fast as he could.I am aware, yes.''You know they sell kind of slices of it in tins . . .''So I am given to understand, yes.''Weell . . . how come all the tins are the same size? Salmon gets thinner at both ends.''Interesting point, Nobby. I think–’The watchman stopped, and stared across the street. Corporal Nobbs followed his gaze.'That shop,' said Sergeant Colon. 'That shop there . . . was it there yesterday?'Nobby looked at the peeling paint, the little grime-encrusted.

Guido Reni St Joseph

Francois Boucher Shepherd and Shepherdess Reposing
new helmet my mate Cuddy made me, sir. Hah! People can't say, there go stupid troll. They have to say, who that goodlooking military troll there, acting-constable already, great future behind him, he got Destiny written all over him like writing.'
Vimes digested of the Watch . . . that is, most of the Watch—'
'Hold on a minute,' said Colon, 'here comes his lordship.'
The clop of hooves and the rattle of harness signalled the approach of Lord Vetinari's carriage.
Carrot glanced around at it. Then he looked at it again. And looked up.this. Detritus beamed at him.'And where is Sergeant Colon?''Here, Captain Vimes.''I need a best man, Fred.''Right, sir. I'll get Corporal Carrot. He's just checking the roofs—''Fred! I've known you more than twenty years! Good grief, all you have to do is stand there. Fred, you're good at that!'Carrot appeared at the trot.'Sorry I'm late, Captain Vimes. Er. We really wanted this to be a surprise—''What? What sort of surprise?'Carrot fished in his pouch. 'Well, captain . . . on behalf

George Inness Spring

>can't put them in the Watch!' shouted a dwarf from the crowd.
'Why, hello, Mr Stronginthearm,' said Carrot. 'Good to see community leaders here. Why can't they be in the militia?'
All the trolls scanned the faces. 'Right. We need some honest, law-abiding dwarfs . . . you there . . .'
'Me?' said an unwary dwarf.
'Have you got any previous convictions?'
'Well, I dunno . . . I suppose I used to believe very firmly that a penny saved is a penny earned—'
'Good. And I'll take . . . you two . . . and you. Four listened intently. Stronginthearm realized that he was suddenly the centre of attention, and hesitated.'Well . . . you've only got the one dwarf, for one thing . . .' he began.'I'm a dwarf,' said Carrot, 'technically.'Stronginthearm looked a little nervous. The whole issue of Carrot's keenly embraced dwarfishness was a difficult one for the more politically minded dwarfs.'You're a bit big,' he said lamely.'Big? What's size got to do with being a dwarf?' Carrot demanded.'Um . . . a lot?' whispered Cuddy.'Good point,' said Carrot. 'That's a good point.' He

Juan Gris Portrait of Josette Gris

'May we take some weapons?' he said.
'What?'
'Some weapons? For official purposes?'
The armourer looked unable to cope with this.
'You mean I got a choice?' he said.
'Why, certainly. We practise policing by consent in Ankh-Morpork. If you feel unable to agree to our request, you only have to say the word.'
There was a faint bong as the tip of the iron arrow once again bounced on the back of the armourer's skull. He sought in vain for 'And do you happen to know what it is they say about dwarfs?' said Cuddy.
It crept over Angua once again that Carrot had no irony in his soul. He meant every word. If the man had really held out, Carrot would probably have given in. Of course, there was a bit of a gapsomething to say, because the only word he could think of right now was 'Fire!''Uh,' he said. 'Uh. Yeah. Right. Sure. Take what you want.''Fine, fine. And Sergeant Colon will give you a receipt, adding of course that you release the weapons of your own free will.''My own free will?''You have absolute choice in the matter, of course.'The man's face screwed up in the effort of desperate cogitation.'I reckon . . .''Yes?''I reckon it's OK for you to take 'em. Take 'em right away.''Good man. Do you have a trolley?'

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Mark Spain Encore
stared at them. He knew he'd never be able to understand them in a hundred years.
The frost crumbled in the warmer air.
The equations over.
'I expect you can see the holes in his armour, right?' said Cuddy.
C. M. O. T. Dibbler was a survivor. In the same way that rodents and insects can sense an earthquake ahead of the first tremors, so he could tell if something big was narrowed as they were carried on down the wall and across the floor to where the troll had been sitting, until they became just a few expressions that appeared to move and sparkle with a life of their own. This was maths without numbers, pure as lightning.They narrowed to a point, and at the point was just the very simple symbol: '='.'Equals what?' said Cuddy. 'Equals what?'The frost collapsed.Cuddy went outside. Detritus was now sitting in a puddle of water, surrounded by a crowd of human onlookers.'Can't one of you get him a blanket or something?' he said.A very fat man said, 'Huh? Who'd use a blanket after it had been on a troll?''Hah, yes, good point,' said Cuddy. He glanced at the five holes in Detritus' breastplate. They were at about head height, for a dwarf. 'Could you come over here for a moment, please?'The man grinned at his friends, and sauntered

George Frederick Watts The Recording Angel

Unknown Artist Venice Grand Canal
crimes, it was just that the crimes they committed tended to be so far above the normal level of criminality that they were beyond the turning it over and over in his fingers.
'The current ethnic problem.'
'Are we having one?'
'Well, yes . . . Look at Quarry Lane. There's fighting there every night!'
'And they have absolutely no concept of religion!'reach of men with bad boots and rusting mail. Owning a hundred slum properties wasn't a crime, although living in one was, almost; Being an Assassin – the Guild never actually said so, but an important qualification was being the son or daughter of a gentleman – wasn't a crime. If you had enough money, you could hardly commit crimes at all. You just perpetrated amusing little peccadilloes.'And now everywhere you look it's uppity dwarfs and trolls and rude people,' said Lady Selachii. 'There's more dwarfs in Ankh-Morpork now than there are in any of their own cities, or whatever they call their holes.''What do you think, captain?' said the Duke of Eorle.'Hmm?' Captain Vimes picked up a grape and started

Francois Boucher Venus Consoling Love

in with you, we'll holler if we need 'em back.'
'You're a toff, Mr Colon,' had it for thousands of years," ' said Carrot. And he said, "that's right, so it has antique value".'
'Poor old chap,' said Sergeant Colon. 'OK. What else have we got. . . yes, Carrot?'
'Now, they've got to take the King's Shilling,' said Carrot.
'Right. Yes. OK.' Colon fished in his pocket, and took out three sequin-sized Ankh-Morpork dollars, which had about the gold content of seawater. He tossed them one at a time to the recruits.
'This is called the King's Shilling,' he said, glancing at Carrot. 'Dunno why. You said Here'n'now, wandering down the steps to the cells.Colon shook his head.'Worst thief in the world,' he said.'He doesn't look that good,' said Angua.'No, I mean the worst,' said Colon. 'As in "not good at it".''Remember when he was going to go all the way up to Dunmanifestin to steal the Secret of Fire from the gods?' said Nobby.'And I said "but we've got it, Here'n'now, we've

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—
Gentry on horseback, and I could hear ‘em laughing, and we
got home and Eva said to put a horseshoe on the door and—“
“What about the king?”
“Dunno, miss. Last I remember, he was laughin’ at Thatcher in his straw wig.”
“And Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax? What hap-pened to them?”
“Dunno, miss. Don’t remember seein’ ‘em, but there was
people runnin’ everywhere—“
“And where was all this?”
“Miss?”
Magrat, Magrat’s not to know about this sort of thing. The Dancers? Right.”
“It wasn’t us, miss! It was only make-believe!”
“Hah!”
She unbolted the door again.
“Where’re you going, miss?” said Weaver, who was not a competitor in the All-Lancre Uptake Stakes.
“Where d’you think?”
“But, miss, you can’t take iron—“
Magrat slammed the door. Then

Rembrandt Susanna and the Elders

Rembrandt Christ On The Cross
Magrat went in.
Rooms in the castle could hardly be said to belong to
anyone in any case. They’d had too many occupants over the
centuries. The very atmosphere was the equivalent of those
173
Terry Pratchett
walls scattered It hadn’t worked.
There was the Great Bed of Lancre, which was said to be able to sleep a dozen people, although in what circum-stances and why it should be necessary history had never made clear. It was huge and made of oak.
It was also, very clearly, unslept in.with outbreaks of drawing-pin holes where last term’s occupants hung the posters of rock groups long disbanded. You couldn’t stamp your personality on that stone. It stamped back harder.For Magrat, stepping into a man’s bedroom was like an explorer stepping on to that part of the map marked Here Be Dragons.And it wasn’t exactly what it ought to have been.Verence had arrived at the bedroom concept fairly late in life. When he was a boy, the entire family slept on straw in the cottage attic. As an apprentice in the Guild of Joculators, he’d slept on a pallet in a long dormitory of other sad, beaten young men. When he was a fully fledged Fool he’d slept, by tradition, curled up in front of his master’s door. Suddenly, at a later age than is usual, he’d been intro-duced to the notion of soft mattresses.And now Magrat was privy to the big secret.

Mark Spain Dance I

/YO ift0/£6
always left a window open all night in case he wanted to go out and disembowel something, bless him.
Well, well. Elves. (you liked the color of blood. It got so people didn’t even dare talk openly about the bastards.
You said: The Shining Ones. You said: The Fair Folk. And you spat, and touched iron. But generations later, you forgot about the spitting and the iron, and you forgot why you used those names for them, and you remembered only that they were beautiful.
Yes, there’d been a lot of witches in them days. Too many women found an empty cradleThey couldn’t hear you say the word inside your head, anyway. At least, not unless they were real close.) She really thought they’d seen the last of them. How long was it, now? Must be hundreds and hundreds of years, maybe thousands. Witches didn’t like to talk about it, because they’d made a big mistake about the elves. They’d seen through the buggers in the end, of course, but it had been a close thing. And there’d been a lot of witches in those days. They’d been able to stop them at every turn, make life in this world too hot for them. Fought them with iron. Nothing elvish could stand iron. It blinded them, or something. Blinded them all over.There weren’t many witches now. Not proper witches. More of a problem, though, was that people didn’t seem to be able to remember what it was like with the elves around. Life was certainly more interesting then, but usually because it was shorter. And it was more colorful, if

William Beard Majestic Stag

,” said the Dean. “Just the thing for him.
Countryside. Trees. And . .. and ... trees.”
“Mountain air,” said the Dean.
“Only when he’s had a bath.”
Ridcully rubbed his beard. In fact he quite liked the Librarian, who never argued with him and always kept him-self in shape, even if that shape was a pear shape. It was the right shape for an orang-utan.
The thing about the Librarian was that no one noticed he was an orang-utan anymore, unless a visitor to the University happened to point it out. In which case someone would say, “Oh, yes. Some kind of magical accident,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.“Yes, he’s been looking peaky lately,” said the Reader in Invisible Writings.“It’d be a real treat for him,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.“Home away from home, I expect,” said the Dean.“Trees all over the place.”They all looked expectantly at the Archchancellor.“He doesn’t wear clothes,” said Ridcully. “And he goes ‘ook’ all the time.”38I.OR08 ft^fO LftQfEQ“He does wear the old green robe thing

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soon enough would be her own ...
And then she looked out of the window.
Nanny Ogg balanced carefully on a stool and ran a finger along the top of the dresser. Then she inspected the finger. It was spotless.
“Hummph,” might as well resign herself to a life of mental torture and nameless domestic servitude.
Nanny Ogg never did any housework herself, but she was the cause of housework in other people.
She got down from the stool and beamed at them.
“You kept the place quite nice,” she said. “Well done.”
Her smile faded.she said. “Seems to be moderately clean.”The daughters-in-law shivered with relief.“So far,” Nanny added.The three young women drew together in their mute terror.Her relationship with her daughters-in-law was the only stain on Nanny Ogg’s otherwise amiable character. Sons-in-law were different—she could remember their names, even their birthdays, and they joined the family like overgrown chicks creeping under the wings of a broody bantam. And grandchildren were treasures, every one. But any woman incautious enough to marry an Ogg son

John Singleton Copley The Copley Family

>Simony had told Urn he'd agreed to this. He couldn't quite remember doing so. The sergeant knew a way into the Citadel, that was sensible. And Urn knew about hydraulics. Fine. Now he was walking through these dry tunnels with his toolbelt inserted it between the grille and the stonework. Give me a foot of good steel and a wall to brace . . . my . . . foot . . . against-the grille ground forward and then popped out with a leaden sound-and I can change the world . . .
He stepped inside the long, dark, damp room, and gave a whistle of admiration.
No one had done any maintenance for-well, for as long as it took iron hinges to become a mass of crumbling rust-but all this still worked?
He looked up at lead and iron buckets bigger than he wasclinking. There was a logical connection, but it had been made by someone else.Fergmen turned a corner and stopped by a large grille, which stretched from floor to ceiling. It was very rusty. It might once have been a door-there was a suggestion of hinges, rusted into the stone. Urn peered through the bars. Beyond, in the gloom, there were pipes."Eureka," he said."Going to have a bath, then?" said Fergmen."Just keep watch."Urn selected a short crowbar from his belt and

Mark Rothko White over Red

Paul Klee Fire in the Evening
What do you mean, and then what?"
Brutha looked out glumly at the darkening court­yard.
"Believe in the Great God Om or be stricken with thunderbolts," he said.
"Sounds good to me."
"Is that how it always has to be?"
The last rays of the sun glinted off the statue in the center of the courtyard. It was vaguely feminine. There was a penguin perched on one shoulder.
"Patina, Goddess of Wisdom," said Brutha. "The one with a penguin. Why a penguin?"
"Can't imagine," little stroll. We will take the evening air."
"Yes, lord."
"You have enjoyed your visit to Ephebe."
Vorbis seldom asked a question if a statement would do.said Om hurriedly."Nothing wise about penguins, is there?""Shouldn't think so. Unless you count the fact that you don't get them in Omnia. Pretty wise of them.""Brutha!""That's Vorbis," said Brutha, standing up. "Shall I leave you here?""Yes. There's still some melon. I mean loaf."Brutha wandered out into the dusk.Vorbis was sitting on a bench under a tree, as still as a statue in the shadows.Certainty, Brutha thought. I used to be certain. Now I'm not so sure."Ah, Brutha. You will accompany me on a
"It has been . . . interesting."
Vorbis put one hand on Brutha's shoulder and used the other to haul himself

Thomas Kinkade The Night Before Christmas

never chose anyone," said Om. "They chose themselves."
"If you're it was wicked to ask, but he wanted to know what the memory was. Anyway, could it be wicked? If the God was sitting there talking to you, could you say anything truly wicked?
Face to face? Somehow, that didn't seem so bad as saying something wicked when he was up on a cloud or something.
"As far as I can recall," said Om, "I'd intended to be a big
Thomas Kinkade NASCAR THUNDER
really Om, stop being a tortoise.""I told you, I can't. You think I haven't tried? Three years! Most of that time I thought I was a tortoise.""Then perhaps you were. Maybe you're just a tortoise who thinks he's a god.""Nah. Don't try philosophy again. Start thinking like that and you end up thinking maybe you're just a butterfly dreaming it's a whelk or something. No. One day all I had on my mind was the amount of walking necessary to get to the nearest plant with decent lowgrowing leaves, the next . . . I had all this memory filling up my head. Three years before the shell. No, don't you tell me I'm a tortoise with big ideas."Brutha hesitated. He knew

Leroy Neiman Rocky vs Apollo

wasn't just the seasickness. He didn't know where he was. And Brutha had always known where he was. Where he was, and the existence of Om, had been the only two certainties in his life.
It was Out of contact with the ground, on the mutable surface of the sea, the thread flapped loose.
In his box, Om tossed and shook to Brutha's motion as Brutha staggered across the moving deck and reached the rail.
To anyone except the novice, the boat was clipping through the waves

something he shared with tortoises. Watch any tortoise walking, and periodically it will stop while it files away the memories of the journey so far. Not for nothing, elsewhere in the multiverse, are the little traveling devices controlled by electric thinking-engines called "turtles."Brutha knew where he was by remembering where he had been-by the unconscious counting of footsteps and the noting of landmarks. Somewhere inside his head was a thread of memory which, if you had wired it directly to whatever controlled his feet, would cause Brutha to amble back through the little pathways of his life all the way to the place he was born.

John Constable The White Horse

noise. The staff was rolling back towards Coin, who looked down at it in horror.
Pick me up.
'You don't have to,' said Rincewind again.
You cannot resist me. You cannot defeat yourself, said the staff.
Coin reached out very slowly, and picked it up.
Rincewind glanced at his sock. It was a stub of burnt wool, its brief career as a weapon of war having sent it beyond the Without me, who would there be to tell you what to do?
'That is true,' said Coin slowly.
See what you have achieved.
Coin stared slowly around at the frightened faces.
'I am seeing,' he said.help of any darning needle.Now kill him.Rincewind held his breath. The watching wizards held their breath. Even Death, who had nothing to hold but his scythe, held it tensely.'No,' said Coin.You know what happens to boys who are bad.Rincewind saw the sourcerer's face go pale.The staff's voice changed. Now it wheedled.