Sunday, September 28, 2008

John Singer Sargent paintings

John Singer Sargent paintings
Jean-Leon Gerome paintings
Lorenzo Lotto paintings
Thanks,” said Jeremy, and sat down.
I reached for the decanter and found it empty. There must have been nearly a bottle there that morning.
“Jeremy, that damned man of mine has finished the sherry. I am sorry.”
“Never mind. I’ll just smoke a cigarette and go.”
My cigarettes are particularly large and take at least a quarter of an hour to smoke. I banished all my dreams of white tiles and steam and took a cigarette myself.
“I haven’t anything particular to say,” said Jeremy, “I was just passing your and thought I might as well drop in for a little. It is hard to know what to do before hall, isn’t it?”
“I generally have a bath.”
“Ah, our baths are not open at this hour.”
He propped his feet on the side of the fireplace. He was wearing that detestable sort of dark brown suede shoes that always looks wet.
“Oh, I know one thing I wanted to ask you. I want to meet Richard

Friday, September 26, 2008

Pierre Auguste Renoir Sleeping Girl painting

Pierre Auguste Renoir Sleeping Girl paintingPierre Auguste Renoir Dance at Bougival I paintingThomas Kinkade The Garden of Prayer painting
Some such thoughts had passed through Major Gordon’s mind. Now he paused, looked at Mme. Kanyi and was ashamed. “No,” he said.
“I suppose it would be natural to think so,” said Mme. Kanyi gravely. “It is not always true that suffering makes people unselfish. But sometimes it is.”
Major Gordon returned to his quarters in a reflective mood that was unusual to him.

The partisans were nocturnal in their habits. They slept late in the mornings, idled about at midday smoking, ate in the early afternoon, and then towards sundown seemed to come alive. Most of their conferences took place after dark.
That evening Major Gordon was thinking of going to bed when he was summoned to the General. He and Bakic stumbled along cart tracks to the villa which housed the general staff

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Arthur Hughes Phyllis painting

Arthur Hughes Phyllis paintingSir Lawrence Alma-Tadema A Harvest Festival paintingSir Lawrence Alma-Tadema A coign of vantage painting confirmed went up to the chancel rails, Charles with them. Symonds sat back, twisted his long legs into the aisle to allow his row to pass, and remained in his place. Charles took Communion and returned to his row. He had been confirmed the term before, incuriously, without expectation or disappointment. When, later in life, he read accounts of the emotional disturbances caused in other boys by the ceremony he found them unintelligible; to Charles it was one of the rites of adolescence, like being made, when a new boy, to stand on the table and sing. The Chaplain had “prepared” him and had confined his conferences to theology. There had been no probing of his sexual life; he had no sexual to probe. Instead they had talked of prayer and the sacraments.
Spierpoint was a product of the Oxford Movement, founded with definite religious aims; in eighty years it had grown more and more to resemble the older Public Schools, but there was still a strong ecclesiastical flavour in the place. Some boys were genuinely devout and their peculiarity was respected; in general profanity was rare and ill-looked-on. Most of the Sixth professed themselves agnostic or atheist.
The school had been chosen for Charles because, at the age of eleven, he had had a “religious phase” and told his father that he wished to become a priest

Unknown Artist Brent Lynch Coastal Drive painting

Unknown Artist Brent Lynch Coastal Drive paintingUnknown Artist Brent Lynch Cigar Bar paintingUnknown Artist Paris Eiffel Tower painting
unremarkable clothes, subfusc today, with the Corinthian tie which alternated with the Carthusian, week in, week out. He was a clean, curly, spare fellow; a little wan for he was in constant pain from an injury on the football field which had left him lame and kept him at Spierpoint throughout the war. This pain of his redeemed him from heartiness. In chapel his innocent, blue eyes assumed a puzzled, rather glum expression like those of an old-fed child in a room full of grown-ups. Frank was a bishop’s son.
Behind the masters, out of sight in the side aisles, was a dowdy huddle of matrons and wives.
The service began with a procession of the choir: “Hail Festal Day,” with Wykham-Blake as the treble cantor. At the rear of the procession came Mr. Peacock, the Chaplain and the Headmaster. A week ago Charles had gone to church in London with Aunt Philippa. He did not as a rule go to church in the , but being in London for the last week Aunt Philippa had said, “There’s nothing much we can do today. Let’s see what entertainment

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Thomas Kinkade The Heart of San Francisco painting

Thomas Kinkade The Heart of San Francisco paintingThomas Kinkade Sunset on Lamplight Lane paintingThomas Kinkade Sunday Outing painting
This was uncomfortably near the truth. “You misunderstand me,” I said.
“I hope I do. A remark like that would start a roughhouse at the Wimpole.”
A new and glorious idea came to me. “Atwater,” I said, cautiously for his oppressed mood was still on him. “Please do not take offence at my suggestion but, supposing I were to pay—as a loan, of course—would it be possible for us, do you think, to lunch at the Wimpole?”
He took the suggestion quite well. “I’ll be frank with you,” he said. “I haven’t paid this month’s sub yet. It’s seven and sixpence.”
“We’ll include that in the loan.”
“Good scout. I know you’ll like the place.”
The taxi driver, to whom I gave the address “Wimpole Club,” was nonplussed. “Now you’ve got me,” he said. “I thought I knew them all. It’s not what used to be called the ‘Palm Beach’?”
“No,” said Atwater, and gave more exact directions.
We drove to a mews off Wimpole Street. (“It’s handy for chaps in the motor Great Portland Street way,” said Atwater.) “By the way, I may as well explain, I’m known as Norton at the club.”

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Theodore Robinson The Ship Yard painting

Theodore Robinson The Ship Yard paintingTheodore Robinson World's Columbian Exposition paintingMary Cassatt Children on the Shore painting
nothing written. It was no good until I got things settled, I told myself; but “getting things settled” merely meant waiting until the house was sold and the lawyers had finished with the will. I took furnished rooms in Ebury Street and waited there, my thoughts more and more turning towards the country and the need of a house there, a permanent of my own possession. I began to study the house-agents’ advertisements on the back page of The Times. Finally I notified two or three firms of my needs, and was soon amply supplied with specifications and orders-to-view.
During this time I received a call from young Mr. Godley of Goodchild and Godley. There was nothing at all artistic about young Mr. Godley. He looked and spoke like a motor man; his galleries were his “shop” and their contents “stuff” and “things.” He would have seemed at ease, if we had met casually, but the long preamble of small talk—references to mutual acquaintances, abroad, sport, a “first-class man for job lots of wine”—suggested uncertainty; he was trying to decide how to take me. Finally he came to the point.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Pierre Auguste Renoir The Umbrellas painting

Pierre Auguste Renoir The Umbrellas paintingPierre Auguste Renoir Sleeping Girl paintingPierre Auguste Renoir Dance at Bougival I painting
importance in the town, and cabled back a moving “human” story of Prunella’s position in the heart of the colony. From now onwards to three millions or so of readers Miss Brooks became Prunella. (There was only one local celebrity whom he was unable to meet. Poor Mr. Stebbing had “gone under” with the heat and had been shipped back to England on sick leave in a highly deranged condition of nerves and mind.)
On the second day he interviewed Mr. Youkoumian. They sat down together with a bottle of mastika at a little round table behind Mr. Youkoumian’s counter at ten in the morning. It was three in the afternoon before the reporter stepped out into the white-dust heat, but he had won his way. Mr. Youkoumian had promised to conduct him to the bandits’ camp. Both of them were pledged to secrecy. By sundown the whole of Matodi was discussing the coming expedition, but the journalist was not embarrassed by any inquiries; he was alone that evening, typing out an account of what he expected would happen next day.
He described the start at dawn ... “grey light breaking over the bereaved township of

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Jacques-Louis David Napoleon crossing the Alps painting

Jacques-Louis David Napoleon crossing the Alps paintingJoaquin Sorolla y Bastida Children on the Beach paintingThomas Gainsborough The Morning Walk painting
interminable and dilapidated walls that stretched on past corners and curves with leafless trees dripping on to their dingy masonry. At last they were broken by lodges and gates, four gates and three lodges, and through the ironwork I could see a great sweep of ill-kept drive.
But the gates were shut and padlocked and most of the windows in the lodges were broken.
“There are some more gates further on,” said the school bully, “and beyond them, and beyond them again. I suppose they must get in and out somehow, sometimes.”
At last we found a white wooden gate and a track which led through some farm buildings into the main drive. The park land on either side was railed off and no doubt let out to pasture. One very dirty sheep had strayed on to the drive and stumbled off in alarm at our approach, continually looking over its shoulder and then starting away again until we overtook it. Last of all the house came in sight, spreading out prodigiously in all directions.
The man demanded eight shillings for the fare. I gave it to him and rang the bell.
After some delay an old man opened the door to me.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Jean Francois Millet The Gleaners painting

Jean Francois Millet The Gleaners paintingJacques-Louis David Napoleon crossing the Alps paintingJoaquin Sorolla y Bastida Children on the Beach painting
you'd actually given us a unique opportunity. All the texts are corrupt, you know, even these -- copies of copies of copies, full oferrata andlacunae - - but we never could agree on a common reading, and of course the old Scrolls acquired a great spurious authority for sentimental reasons, even though they contradict each other and themselves." At an interdepartmental faculty luncheon that same day, therefore, a committee of experts from various relevant disciplines had been established to reconstruct, from the shards of the Founder's Scroll (actually several scrolls, overlapping, redundant, discrepant), the parent text, until then hypothetical, from which all known variants had descended and on which their authority was ultimately based.
"A radical project, to be sure," said the library-scientist, who was also chairman of thead hoc committee. "But we like to think of ourselves asavant-garde classicists, so to speak. Little paradox there. . ." After a small digression then on the etymology of the wordlacuna, and a more extravagant one on the worddigression (which he justified with the chuckled preface thatdigression andextravagance were "etymological kissing cousins,

Marc Chagall The Grand Parade painting

Marc Chagall The Grand Parade paintingMarc Chagall Marc Chagall The Fiddler paintingMarc Chagall Marc Chagall The Concert painting
So didI ," said the girl on his arm indignantly. "And you're both wrong: He flewdown, from higher up." And this opinion she defended stoutly against the most cynical objections: maybe itwas a publicity stunt, or a Telerama trick; she neither knew or cared; but that Bray had by one means or another flown into the Belfry with his girlfriend she was as absolutely certain as was her beau that he'd done nothing of the sort and the first girl that he'd scaled the tower barehanded and -footed. Strongly I gimped through, sticking and butting my way in some circumstances, politely begging leave to pass in others. Once, recognizing a knot of my erstwhile lynchers, I slipped into my Bray-mask till I was by them; in another instance I declared I was on official Chancellory Business; in yet another, that I was George Giles, Goat-Boy and true Grand Tutor, en route to rescue my distressed Ladyship.
"From what?" Stoker demanded, puttering behind me on the motorcycle. "Who said shewants rescuing?"
A few male students chuckled. Others whispered to their

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Thomas Moran Monterey Coast

Thomas Moran Monterey CoastThomas Moran Grand CanyonGrand Canyon of the Yellowstone
Examineme," she said. Her voice wavered, but not for an instant her extraordinary resolution. She was a changed woman.
"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

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Andreas Achenbach paintings

Andreas Achenbach paintings
Alphonse Maria Mucha paintings
Benjamin Williams Leader paintings
faileder? Better to deceive himself about the worth of things than about their want of it! That Miss Sally Ann had several times horned him I was fairly sure; but that she was no "floozy" I was certain. New Tammany College, as best I could judge from much reading and a little observation, was neither a Graduate School on the one hand nor a Dunce's collon the other; in its history and present state there was much to wince at -- and much to take pride in: a few Ira Hectors, a few Lucky Rexfords, and many Peter Greenes, for better and worse. Whom too I thought him wronger about than before: he was not "all right," surely not "all wrong," but in his former error he'd at least been generous, cheerful, energetic, and on the whole more agreeable than not, whereas now. . .
But there was no time for such analysis, nor did I think it would much touch him. Stoker approached with a jingle of keys and a mocking whistle. Therefore I repeated Bray's quotation from the Founder's Scroll --Passèd are the kindergarteners -- and declared my

Aubrey Beardsley paintings

Aubrey Beardsley paintings
Andrea del Sarto paintings
Alexandre Cabanel paintings
taken for granted before my fall, but which since baffled, even appalled me: I mean her continuing high regard for me, however indiscriminate and quirked. Why did she heed my flunkèd counsels? Why had she mated with Harold Bray, or pledged to -- on my account but against my wish -- back when she'd thought him the true Grand Tutor and but pitied me? Why had she pledged to now again, to free me, and declared belief in me against my own denial? I couldn't fathom her at all, not at all. And under my assertion, however sincere, that a Grand Tutor (not that Iwas one) oughtn't to permit himself the luxuries either of loving or of being loved, in the passion-way, there lay a dark suspicion that I was incapable of both.
"She needs a proper human man, not a goat-boy," I said to Max, who acknowledged the possibility with a shrug of his hand.
Peter Greene said "Haw," and popped a pimple. Since the night of the rape his aversion to mirrors had changed into gloomy fascination. Throughout his detainment he had used to stare at his reflection in anything shiny, growling oaths and making horrid faces. Now he had managed to get my stick from Croaker, and aided by the mirror near its tip was bursting pustules on his cheek, cursing himself with every pinch. "Y'all

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Frida Kahlo paintings

Frida Kahlo paintings
Frederick Carl Frieseke paintings
Flamenco Dancer paintings
choice, not the right reason.Pfui on Entelechus."
"Pfuion the right choice, too," I said, and he saw my point at once, so clearly that his application of it to Leonid left me little to add:
"You should stay or go, which you please," Max told him; "go back to Chementinski or transfer to New Tammany, and don't worry the Pass-key himself?
"It mysteries me, that talk!" he said. "But never mind! You I open door for; go make wife of Mrs. Anastasia!"
I replied that he must put by self-effacement and vie for her himself, without scruple or restraint; certainly without deference to me. For not only waits exclusiveness. If I had allowed myself any such emotion in the past (especially on discovering that My Ladyship was not my sister), I was to that extent flunked; if I should in the future, it would be purely because failure is passage. In

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Claude Monet Water Lilies painting

Claude Monet Water Lilies paintingVincent van Gogh Poppies 1886 paintingHenri Matisse Goldfish painting
smirk, which happily her hair hid from her benefactor.
Out of his notice, I observed that the supply of goods in the cartons ran out as the receptionist approached. Ex-Chancellor Hector frowned, shrugged, smiled, cleared his throat, and deftly rolled himself a cigarette.
"That's the end, boys," he said briskly. "No more to hand out."
There was a chorus of complaints, but the aides sharply marshaled the supplicants past me into the hall, reminding them to call a final Thank-you-sir as they left. Few did, except mockingly. Me they regarded with expressions of suspicion, contempt, or hostility -- a reassuring surprise, considering my mask. One called me a charlatan, another a "square," another a "company man"; they were, it was clear, disaffiliated from the mainstream of New Tammany sentiment, and my heart warmed to them. Indeed, I privately resolved to seek them out, once I'd proclaimed myself, and enlist them among my first Tutees, as they were beyond doubt the goatliest of undergraduates. Mightily tempted to reveal myself, I urged them to wait with their classmates outside, as I had good tidings concerning their friend the Goat-Boy. Naturally they sniffed at this news; the aides rallied them along then, despite their threats to "go limp" if anyone laid a hand on them.
"Flunking ingrates," one aide muttered to me. "We'll see how they holler

Jean Beraud Boulevard des capucines painting

Jean Beraud Boulevard des capucines paintingHenri Rousseau The Snake Charmer paintingHenri Rousseau The Sleeping Gypsy painting
Chancellor, I asked to be set down, declared again into a row of microphones that important announcements would soon be forthcoming, perhaps from Reginald Hector as well as myself, and insisted that no one accompany me into the building. As I strode porchwards (gimplessly as possible) campus patrolmen assembled to contain the crowd -- which I was gratified to see make no effort to push past them. A number of photographers and journalism-majors were rude enough to press after me up the walk, and though I respected their professional persistence, I was pleased when the military doorman, having inspected my ID-card and saluted me, obliged them to remain without.
"The P.-G's in the P.P.P.O., sir," he informed me; and so satisfying was his brisk courtesy I thanked him and stepped inside before considering what his message signified. Happily, another like him, only female, came forward from a desk in the reception-hall as I entered, and inquired politely whether it was the P.-G. I sought; if so, she was sure he would interrupt his P.P.F.-work for another audience with the Grand Tutor

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Edvard Munch The Scream painting

Edvard Munch The Scream paintingGustav Klimt Mother and Child detail from The Three Ages of Woman paintingRembrandt Samson And Delilah painting
perplexities. To reconceive him so abruptly, from foe into accomplice of my destiny, was beyond my managing, the more for the Stokerish air of his invitation, which seemed to me fraught with guile. Did he tempt me, then, like Stoker, in order to be refused? And if so, was it refusal that would flunk me, or refusal to refuse? The Abyss yawned under me, as in the Assembly-Before-the-Grate; I resisted it by yielding, not to the temptation to denounce him, but to an especially strong contraction of the chamber-walls, which virtually ejected me, headlong, through the port. It winked shut instantly behind, like an eye, or the drawstrung mouth of Virginia Hector's purse, slung over my shoulder. Even as I picked myself up -- from a small grassplot luckily situated under the aperture -- the crowd pressed to me, torches in hand, and lights from a mobile Telerama-unit flooded the scene.
"Hooray for Bray!" they seemed to be shouting. I had time for one glance behind me; he had contrived by some means to remain in the Belly. Then the vanguard was upon me, laughing and cheering; my heart quailed. But it was in victory they hoist me