Mary Magdalene in the Desert

Mary Magdalene in the DesertLeroy Neiman World Class SkierJuan Gris Violin and EngravingJuan Gris The ViolinJuan Gris The Painter's Window
He'd been a bit ashamed of that play at the time. The famous Battle of Morpork, he strongly suspected, had consisted of about two thousand men lost in a swamp on a cold, wet day, hacking one another into oblivion with rustythat a castle made of painted sacking stretched over a frame could be shoved behind a curtain, and this voice was taking the coal dust of his words and filling the room with diamonds.
I made these words, Hwel thought. But they don't belong to me. They belong to him. swords. What would the last King of Ankh have said to a pack of ragged men who knew they were outnumbered, outflanked and outgeneralled? Something with bite, something with edge, something like a drink of brandy to a dying man; no logic, no explanation, just words that would reach right down through a tired man's brain and pull him to his feet by his testicles.Now he was seeing its effect.He began to think the walls had fallen away, and there was a cold mist blowing over the marshes, its choking silence broken only by the impatient cries of the carrion birds . . .And this voice.And he'd written the words, they were his, no half-crazed king had ever really spoken like this. And he'd written all this to fill in a gap so