Marc Chagall I and the Village paintingMarc Chagall Birthday paintingGeorges Seurat Sunday Afternoon on the Island of la Grande Jatte painting
people, how happy he was! But now his eye is dim. Now he won't fight."
That afternoon Salahuddin found himself alone with his father while the two women napped. He discovered that he, who had been so determined to have everything out in the open, to say the word, was now awkward and inarticulate, not knowing how to speak. But Changez had something to say. his dignity. I don't want that to happen." Salahuddin was awestruck. _First one falls in love with one's father all over again, and then one learns to look up to him, too_. "The doctors say you're a case in a million," he replied truthfully. "It looks like you have been spared the pain." Something in
"I want you to know," he said to his son, "that I have no problem about this thing at all. A man must die of something, and it is not as though I were dying young. I have no illusions; I know I am not going anywhere after this. It's the end. That's okay. The only thing I'm afraid of is pain, because when there is pain a man loses
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
John William Godward Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder painting
John William Godward Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder paintingJohn William Waterhouse Echo and Narcissus paintingJohn William Waterhouse The Lady of Shalott painting
Sarpanch Muhammad Din, saw an archangel in a dream. "Gibreel," she whispered, "is it you?"
"No," the apparition replied. "It's I, Azraeel, the one with the lousy job. Excuse the disappointment."
The next morning she continued with the pilgrimage, saying nothing to her husband about her vision. After two hours they neared the ruin of one of the Mughal milepost inns that had, in times long gone, been built at five--mile intervals along the highway. When Khadija saw the ruin she knew nothing of its past, of the wayfarers robbed in their sleep and so on, but she understood its present well enough. "I have to go in there and lie down," she said to the Sarpanch, who protested: "But, the march!" "Never mind that," she said gently. "You can catch them up later."
She lay down in the rubble of the old ruin with her head on a smooth stone which the Sarpanch found for her. The old man wept, but that didn't do
Sarpanch Muhammad Din, saw an archangel in a dream. "Gibreel," she whispered, "is it you?"
"No," the apparition replied. "It's I, Azraeel, the one with the lousy job. Excuse the disappointment."
The next morning she continued with the pilgrimage, saying nothing to her husband about her vision. After two hours they neared the ruin of one of the Mughal milepost inns that had, in times long gone, been built at five--mile intervals along the highway. When Khadija saw the ruin she knew nothing of its past, of the wayfarers robbed in their sleep and so on, but she understood its present well enough. "I have to go in there and lie down," she said to the Sarpanch, who protested: "But, the march!" "Never mind that," she said gently. "You can catch them up later."
She lay down in the rubble of the old ruin with her head on a smooth stone which the Sarpanch found for her. The old man wept, but that didn't do
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Vincent van Gogh The Night Cafe in the Place Lamartine in Arles painting
Vincent van Gogh The Night Cafe in the Place Lamartine in Arles paintingVincent van Gogh The good Samaritan Delacroix paintingVincent van Gogh A Novel Reader painting
pupil waited: long, rainbow-haired and, Jumpy added, just past her eighteenth birthday. -- Not knowing that Jumpy, too, was suffering some of the same illicit longings, Saladin crossed town to be nearer to Mishal Sufyan.
o o o
He had expected the meeting to be small, envisaging a back room somewhere full of Jumpy emphasized, adding, as he got up to leave, "Urn, there's a public meeting about it tomorrow. Pamela and I have to go; please, I mean if you'd like, if you'd be interested, that is, come along if you want."
"You asked him to go with us?" Pamela was incredulous. She had started to feel nauseous most of the up a good deal, and found the idea of fatherhood growing on him. One night he dreamed a dream that made him weep, the next morning, in delighted anticipation: a simple dream, in which he was running down an avenue of overarching trees, helping a small boy to ride a bicycle. "Aren't you pleased with me?" the boy cried in his elation. "Look: aren't you pleased?"
pupil waited: long, rainbow-haired and, Jumpy added, just past her eighteenth birthday. -- Not knowing that Jumpy, too, was suffering some of the same illicit longings, Saladin crossed town to be nearer to Mishal Sufyan.
o o o
He had expected the meeting to be small, envisaging a back room somewhere full of Jumpy emphasized, adding, as he got up to leave, "Urn, there's a public meeting about it tomorrow. Pamela and I have to go; please, I mean if you'd like, if you'd be interested, that is, come along if you want."
"You asked him to go with us?" Pamela was incredulous. She had started to feel nauseous most of the up a good deal, and found the idea of fatherhood growing on him. One night he dreamed a dream that made him weep, the next morning, in delighted anticipation: a simple dream, in which he was running down an avenue of overarching trees, helping a small boy to ride a bicycle. "Aren't you pleased with me?" the boy cried in his elation. "Look: aren't you pleased?"
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Juan Gris The Violin painting
Juan Gris The Violin paintingJuan Gris The Painter's Window paintingJuan Gris The Mountain Le Canigou painting
some more, and then, with a gleam of desperate hope, makes an offer. "I can show you where your true enemies are." This earns him a few seconds. The Prophet inclines his head. Khalid pulls the kneeling Salman's head back by the hair: "What enemies?" And Salman says a name. Mahound sinks deep into his cushions as memory returns.
"Baal," he says, and repeats, twice: "Baal, Baal."
Much to Khalid's disappointment, Salman the Persian is not sentenced to death. Bilal intercedes for him, and the Prophet, his mind elsewhere, concedes: yes, yes, let the wretched fellow live. O generosity of Submission! Hind has been spared; and Salman; and in all of Jahilia not a door has been smashed down, not an old foe dragged out to have his gizzard slit like a chicken's in the dust. This is Mahound's answer to the second question: _What happens when you win?_ But one name haunts Mahound, leaps around him, young, sharp,
some more, and then, with a gleam of desperate hope, makes an offer. "I can show you where your true enemies are." This earns him a few seconds. The Prophet inclines his head. Khalid pulls the kneeling Salman's head back by the hair: "What enemies?" And Salman says a name. Mahound sinks deep into his cushions as memory returns.
"Baal," he says, and repeats, twice: "Baal, Baal."
Much to Khalid's disappointment, Salman the Persian is not sentenced to death. Bilal intercedes for him, and the Prophet, his mind elsewhere, concedes: yes, yes, let the wretched fellow live. O generosity of Submission! Hind has been spared; and Salman; and in all of Jahilia not a door has been smashed down, not an old foe dragged out to have his gizzard slit like a chicken's in the dust. This is Mahound's answer to the second question: _What happens when you win?_ But one name haunts Mahound, leaps around him, young, sharp,
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Peter Paul Rubens Mars and Rhea Silvia painting
Peter Paul Rubens Mars and Rhea Silvia paintingPeter Paul Rubens Duke of Lerma paintingJohn William Godward Youth and Time painting
poor Allie has to go through this now, the unfortunate child." Alicja's strategy was to keep her emotions strictly under control. She was a tall, ample woman with a sensual mouth but, as she put it, "I've never been a noise--maker." She was frank with Allie about her sexual passivity, and revealed that Otto had been, "Let's say, otherwise inclined. He had a weakness for grand passion, but it always made him so miserable I could not get worked up about it." She had been reassured by her knowledge that the women with whom her little, bald, jumpy husband consorted were "her type", big and buxom, "except they were brassy, too: they did what he wanted, shouting things out to spur him on, pretending for all they were worth; it was his enthusiasm they responded to, I think, and maybe his chequ, too. He was of the old school and gave generous gifts."
Otto had called Alleluia his "pearl without price", and dreamed for her a great future, as maybe a concert pianist or, failing that, a Muse. "Your sister, frankly, is a disappointment to me," he said three weeks before his death in that study
poor Allie has to go through this now, the unfortunate child." Alicja's strategy was to keep her emotions strictly under control. She was a tall, ample woman with a sensual mouth but, as she put it, "I've never been a noise--maker." She was frank with Allie about her sexual passivity, and revealed that Otto had been, "Let's say, otherwise inclined. He had a weakness for grand passion, but it always made him so miserable I could not get worked up about it." She had been reassured by her knowledge that the women with whom her little, bald, jumpy husband consorted were "her type", big and buxom, "except they were brassy, too: they did what he wanted, shouting things out to spur him on, pretending for all they were worth; it was his enthusiasm they responded to, I think, and maybe his chequ, too. He was of the old school and gave generous gifts."
Otto had called Alleluia his "pearl without price", and dreamed for her a great future, as maybe a concert pianist or, failing that, a Muse. "Your sister, frankly, is a disappointment to me," he said three weeks before his death in that study
Thomas Kinkade Sunday at Apple Hill painting
Thomas Kinkade Sunday at Apple Hill paintingThomas Kinkade Streams of Living Water paintingThomas Kinkade San Francisco A View Down California Street From Nob Hill painting
Badoomboom, went the heart, and his torso jerked. _Watch it or I'll really let you have it. Doomboombadoom_. Yes: this was Hell, all right. The city of London, transformed into Jahannum, Gehenna, Muspellheim.
Do devils suffer in Hell? Aren't they the ones with the pitchforks?
Water began to drip steadily through the dormer window. Outside, in the treacherous city, a thaw had come, giving the streets the unreliable consistency of wet cardboard. Slow masses of whiteness slid from sloping, grey-slate roofs. The footprints of delivery vans corrugated the slush. First light; and the dawn chorus began, chattering of road--drills, chirrup of burglar alarms, trumpeting of wheeled creatures clashing at corners, the deep whirr of a large olive--green garbage eater, screaming radio--voices from a wooden painter's cradle clinging
Badoomboom, went the heart, and his torso jerked. _Watch it or I'll really let you have it. Doomboombadoom_. Yes: this was Hell, all right. The city of London, transformed into Jahannum, Gehenna, Muspellheim.
Do devils suffer in Hell? Aren't they the ones with the pitchforks?
Water began to drip steadily through the dormer window. Outside, in the treacherous city, a thaw had come, giving the streets the unreliable consistency of wet cardboard. Slow masses of whiteness slid from sloping, grey-slate roofs. The footprints of delivery vans corrugated the slush. First light; and the dawn chorus began, chattering of road--drills, chirrup of burglar alarms, trumpeting of wheeled creatures clashing at corners, the deep whirr of a large olive--green garbage eater, screaming radio--voices from a wooden painter's cradle clinging
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Henri Rousseau The Orchard painting
Henri Rousseau The Orchard paintingHenri Rousseau The Merry Jesters paintingHenri Rousseau The Flamingos painting
and must therefore simulate, the dry heat of Desh, the once and future land where even the moon is hot and dripping like a fresh, buttered chapati. O that longed--for part of the world where the sun and moon are male but their hot sweet light is named with female names. At night the exile parts his curtains and the alien moonlight sidles into the room, its coldness striking his eyeballs like a nail. He winces, narrows his eyes. Loose-robed, frowning, ominous, awake: this is the Imam.
Exile is a soulless country. In exile, the furniture is ugly, expensive, all bought at the same time in the same store and in too much of a hurry: shiny silver sofas with fins like old Buicks DeSotos Oldsmobiles, glass-fronted bookcases containing not books but clippings files. In exile the shower goes scalding hot whenever anybody turns on a kitchen tap, so that when the Imam goes to bathe his entire retinue must remember not to fill a kettle or rinse a dirty plate
and must therefore simulate, the dry heat of Desh, the once and future land where even the moon is hot and dripping like a fresh, buttered chapati. O that longed--for part of the world where the sun and moon are male but their hot sweet light is named with female names. At night the exile parts his curtains and the alien moonlight sidles into the room, its coldness striking his eyeballs like a nail. He winces, narrows his eyes. Loose-robed, frowning, ominous, awake: this is the Imam.
Exile is a soulless country. In exile, the furniture is ugly, expensive, all bought at the same time in the same store and in too much of a hurry: shiny silver sofas with fins like old Buicks DeSotos Oldsmobiles, glass-fronted bookcases containing not books but clippings files. In exile the shower goes scalding hot whenever anybody turns on a kitchen tap, so that when the Imam goes to bathe his entire retinue must remember not to fill a kettle or rinse a dirty plate
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