Louis Aston Knight paintings
Leon Bazile Perrault paintings
Leon-Augustin L'hermitte paintings
Collins and I spent several economical and instructive weeks together in Ravenna. A bleak wind blew from the Adriatic among those mighty tombs. In an hotel bedroom designed for a warmer season, I wrote long letters to Sebastian and called daily at the post: office for his answers. There were two, each from a different address, neither giving any plain news of himself, for he wrote in a style of remote fantasy - ...’Mummy and two attendant poets have three bad colds in the head, so I have come here. It is the feast of S. Nichodemus of Thyatira, who was martyred by having goatskin nailed to his pate, and is accordingly the patron of bald heads. Tell Collins, who I am sure will be bald before us. There are too many people here, but one, praise heaven! Has an ear trumpet, and that keeps me in good humour. And now I must try to catch a fish. It is too far to send it to you so I
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
Monday, 29 September 2008
Don Li-Leger paintings
Don Li-Leger paintings
David Hardy paintings
Dirck Bouts paintings
have for a long time hesitated to tell this story of Edward. For six weeks past, since Edward late one evening interrupted my essay to grow expansive over my whiskey, I have done the manly thing and told no one—at least practically no one. But lately this wasting of “copy”—as all good journalists are wont to describe the misfortunes of their friends—has been for me a matter of increasing and intolerable regret; and now that I have learned from Anne “in a manner which it is not convenient to record,” much of which Edward and Poxe are ignorant, I find it wholly impossible to remain silent. I have obscured the identities of the chief actors so far as it has been in my power to do so. Edward at any rate I feel should be safe from detection.
The more I consider the nature of Edward the more incredible it all seems. He is to all outward showing the most wholly and over-masteringly ordinary undergraduate. Every
David Hardy paintings
Dirck Bouts paintings
have for a long time hesitated to tell this story of Edward. For six weeks past, since Edward late one evening interrupted my essay to grow expansive over my whiskey, I have done the manly thing and told no one—at least practically no one. But lately this wasting of “copy”—as all good journalists are wont to describe the misfortunes of their friends—has been for me a matter of increasing and intolerable regret; and now that I have learned from Anne “in a manner which it is not convenient to record,” much of which Edward and Poxe are ignorant, I find it wholly impossible to remain silent. I have obscured the identities of the chief actors so far as it has been in my power to do so. Edward at any rate I feel should be safe from detection.
The more I consider the nature of Edward the more incredible it all seems. He is to all outward showing the most wholly and over-masteringly ordinary undergraduate. Every
Saturday, 27 September 2008
Frida Kahlo paintings
Frida Kahlo paintings
Frederick Carl Frieseke paintings
Flamenco Dancer paintings
him. Mostly she spent her day alone with her needlework and in correspondence connected with one or two charitable organizations with which, in age, she had become involved. She was sewing when Basil sought her out after luncheon (oysters again, two dozen this time with a pint of champagne—his strength waxed hourly) and she continued to stitch at the framed grospoint while he confided his problem to her.
“Yes, I’ve met Charles Albright. He’s rather a friend of Robin’s.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me what Barbara sees in him.”
“Why, you, of course,” said Sonia. “Haven’t you noticed? He’s the dead spit—looks, character, manner, everything.”
“Looks? Character? Manner? Sonia, you’re raving.”
“Oh, not as you are now, not even after your cure. Don’t you remember at all what you were like at his age?”
“But he’s a monster.”
“So were you, darling. Have you quite forgotten? It’s all as clear
Frederick Carl Frieseke paintings
Flamenco Dancer paintings
him. Mostly she spent her day alone with her needlework and in correspondence connected with one or two charitable organizations with which, in age, she had become involved. She was sewing when Basil sought her out after luncheon (oysters again, two dozen this time with a pint of champagne—his strength waxed hourly) and she continued to stitch at the framed grospoint while he confided his problem to her.
“Yes, I’ve met Charles Albright. He’s rather a friend of Robin’s.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me what Barbara sees in him.”
“Why, you, of course,” said Sonia. “Haven’t you noticed? He’s the dead spit—looks, character, manner, everything.”
“Looks? Character? Manner? Sonia, you’re raving.”
“Oh, not as you are now, not even after your cure. Don’t you remember at all what you were like at his age?”
“But he’s a monster.”
“So were you, darling. Have you quite forgotten? It’s all as clear
Warren Kimble paintings
Warren Kimble paintings
Wassily Kandinsky paintings
William Etty paintings
Well, ladies, I think that finishes the workout for this morning. We’re getting along very nicely. We mustn’t expect immediate results you know. Same routine tomorrow.” He replaced the lid on a small enamelled bin. The ladies looked hungrily at it but went in peace.
“Whisky,” said Basil.
“Whisky? Why, I couldn’t give you such a thing even if I had it. It would be as much as my job’s worth.”
“I should think it is precisely what your job is worth.”
“I don’t quite follow, sir.”
“My wife had grouse pie this morning.”
He was a cheeky young man much admired in his own milieu for his bounce. He was not abashed. A horrible smirk of complicity passed over his face. “It wasn’t really grouse,” he said. “Just a stale liver pâté the grocer had. They get so famished here they don’t care what they’re eating, the poor creatures.”
“Don’t talk about my wife in those terms,” said Basil, adding: “I shall know what I’m drinking, at a pound a snort.”
Wassily Kandinsky paintings
William Etty paintings
Well, ladies, I think that finishes the workout for this morning. We’re getting along very nicely. We mustn’t expect immediate results you know. Same routine tomorrow.” He replaced the lid on a small enamelled bin. The ladies looked hungrily at it but went in peace.
“Whisky,” said Basil.
“Whisky? Why, I couldn’t give you such a thing even if I had it. It would be as much as my job’s worth.”
“I should think it is precisely what your job is worth.”
“I don’t quite follow, sir.”
“My wife had grouse pie this morning.”
He was a cheeky young man much admired in his own milieu for his bounce. He was not abashed. A horrible smirk of complicity passed over his face. “It wasn’t really grouse,” he said. “Just a stale liver pâté the grocer had. They get so famished here they don’t care what they’re eating, the poor creatures.”
“Don’t talk about my wife in those terms,” said Basil, adding: “I shall know what I’m drinking, at a pound a snort.”
Peter Paul Rubens paintings
Peter Paul Rubens paintings
Rudolf Ernst paintings
Robert Campin paintings
Well, she won’t want you.”
“Pobble, you sound awfully feeble.”
“Who wouldn’t who’s only had one carrot in the last three days.”
“Oh, you are brave.”
“Yes.”
“How’s mummy?”
“Your mother is not keeping the régime as strictly as I am.”
“I bet she isn’t. Anyway, please, can I go back to London?”
“No.”
“You mean ‘No’?”
“Yes.”
“Fiend.”
Basil had gone hungry before. From time to time in his varied youth, in desert, tundra, glacier and jungle, in garrets and cellars, he had briefly endured extremities of privation. Now in the periods of repose and solitude, after the steam bath and the smarting deluge of the showers, after the long thumping and twisting by the huge masseuse, when the chintz curtains were drawn in his bedroom and he lay towel-wrapped and supine gazing at the pattern of the ceiling paper, familiar, forgotten pangs spoke to him of his past achievements
Rudolf Ernst paintings
Robert Campin paintings
Well, she won’t want you.”
“Pobble, you sound awfully feeble.”
“Who wouldn’t who’s only had one carrot in the last three days.”
“Oh, you are brave.”
“Yes.”
“How’s mummy?”
“Your mother is not keeping the régime as strictly as I am.”
“I bet she isn’t. Anyway, please, can I go back to London?”
“No.”
“You mean ‘No’?”
“Yes.”
“Fiend.”
Basil had gone hungry before. From time to time in his varied youth, in desert, tundra, glacier and jungle, in garrets and cellars, he had briefly endured extremities of privation. Now in the periods of repose and solitude, after the steam bath and the smarting deluge of the showers, after the long thumping and twisting by the huge masseuse, when the chintz curtains were drawn in his bedroom and he lay towel-wrapped and supine gazing at the pattern of the ceiling paper, familiar, forgotten pangs spoke to him of his past achievements
Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida paintings
Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida paintings
Joseph Mallord William Turner paintings
Julien Dupre paintings
You’re fat and red.”
“So are you.”
“Yes, why not? Almost everyone is.”
“Except Ambrose.”
“Well, he’s a pansy. I expect he takes trouble.”
“We don’t.”
“Why the hell should we?”
“We don’t.”
“Exactly.”
The two old friends had exhausted the subject.
Basil said: “About those shirts. How did your girl ever meet a fellow like that?”
“At Oxford. She insisted on going up to read History. She picked up some awfully rum friends.”
“I suppose there were girls there in my time. We never met them.”
“Nor in mine.”
“Stands to reason the sort of fellow who takes up with undergraduettes has something wrong with him.”
“Albright certainly has.”
“What does he look like?”
“I’ve never set an eye. My daughter asked him to King’s Thursday when I was abroad. She found he had no shirts and she gave him mine.”
“Was he hard up?”
“So she said.”
Joseph Mallord William Turner paintings
Julien Dupre paintings
You’re fat and red.”
“So are you.”
“Yes, why not? Almost everyone is.”
“Except Ambrose.”
“Well, he’s a pansy. I expect he takes trouble.”
“We don’t.”
“Why the hell should we?”
“We don’t.”
“Exactly.”
The two old friends had exhausted the subject.
Basil said: “About those shirts. How did your girl ever meet a fellow like that?”
“At Oxford. She insisted on going up to read History. She picked up some awfully rum friends.”
“I suppose there were girls there in my time. We never met them.”
“Nor in mine.”
“Stands to reason the sort of fellow who takes up with undergraduettes has something wrong with him.”
“Albright certainly has.”
“What does he look like?”
“I’ve never set an eye. My daughter asked him to King’s Thursday when I was abroad. She found he had no shirts and she gave him mine.”
“Was he hard up?”
“So she said.”
Friday, 26 September 2008
Andrew Atroshenko What a Wonderful Life painting
Andrew Atroshenko What a Wonderful Life paintingAndrew Atroshenko Just for Love paintingEdward Hopper Sunday painting
companies of young warriors. Major Gordon breathed gratefully. This was the world he understood, arms, an army, allies, an enemy, injuries given and taken honourably. Very high above them a huge force of minute shining bombers hummed across the sky in perfect formation on its daily route from Foggia to somewhere east of Vienna.
“There they go again,” he said. “I wouldn’t care to be underneath when they unload.”
It was one of his duties to impress the partisans with the might of their allies, with the great destruction and slaughter on distant fields which would one day, somehow, bring here where they seemed forgotten. He delivered a little statistical lecture to Bakic about block-busters and pattern-bombing. But another part of his mind was all the time slowly being set in motion. He had seen something entirely new, which needed new eyes to see clearly: humanity in the depths, misery of quite another order from anything he had guessed before. He was as yet not conscious of terror or pity. His steady Scottish mind would take some time to assimilate the experience.
companies of young warriors. Major Gordon breathed gratefully. This was the world he understood, arms, an army, allies, an enemy, injuries given and taken honourably. Very high above them a huge force of minute shining bombers hummed across the sky in perfect formation on its daily route from Foggia to somewhere east of Vienna.
“There they go again,” he said. “I wouldn’t care to be underneath when they unload.”
It was one of his duties to impress the partisans with the might of their allies, with the great destruction and slaughter on distant fields which would one day, somehow, bring here where they seemed forgotten. He delivered a little statistical lecture to Bakic about block-busters and pattern-bombing. But another part of his mind was all the time slowly being set in motion. He had seen something entirely new, which needed new eyes to see clearly: humanity in the depths, misery of quite another order from anything he had guessed before. He was as yet not conscious of terror or pity. His steady Scottish mind would take some time to assimilate the experience.
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