Pablo Picasso Gertrude Stein paintingTamara de Lempicka Portrait of Madame paintingEric Wallis Girls at the Beach painting
Gibreel, the tuneless soloist, had been cavorting in moonlight as he sang his impromptu gazal, swimming in air, butterfly-stroke, breast-stroke, bunching himself into a ball, spreadeagling himself against the almost-infinity of the almost-dawn, adopting heraldic postures, rampant, couchant, pitting levity against gravity. Now he rolled happily towards the sardonic voice. "Ohé, Salad baba, it's you, too good. What-ho, old Chumch." At which the other, a fastidious shadow falling headfirst in a grey suit with all the jacket buttons done up, arms by his sides, taking for granted the improbability of the bowler hat on his head, pulled a nickname-hater's face. "Hey, Spoono," Gibreel yelled, eliciting a second inverted wince, "Proper London, bhai! Here we come! Those bastards down there won't know what hit them. Meteor or lightning or vengeance of God. Out of thin air, baby. _Dharrraaammm!_ Wham, na? What an entrance, yaar. I swear: splat."
Out of thin air: a big bang, followed by falling stars. A universal beginning, a miniature echo of the birth of time . . . the jumbo jet _Bostan_, Flight AI-420
Showing posts with label Pablo Picasso Gertrude Stein painting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pablo Picasso Gertrude Stein painting. Show all posts
Monday, October 27, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Pablo Picasso Gertrude Stein painting
Pablo Picasso Gertrude Stein paintingTamara de Lempicka Portrait of Madame paintingEric Wallis Girls at the Beach painting
best efforts, working out to deeper water -- until at length the rapids took my legs from under me and fetched me thump against my adversary. In a whole panic, strangling and spitting, I clambered on him as upon a black boulder, not to drown; in only a moment I had climbed to his shoulders and got my legs round his neck. Whereupon a remarkable change came over him: instead of flinging me off or ducking me under, he gripped my ankles, and giving over the assault, struck out purposefully and midstreamwards.
Now I had time to hear Max crying behind us, "Yi yi yi!" while from the shore ahead, where she flickered in the firelight, the bridge-girl resumed her call. And if itwas G. Herrold's ghost who bore me, death had worked alterations on him: the head I clutched was bald instead of woolly, he had grown a muscled paunch, and in general his body was huger and more gross. Then I heard him respond with his curious noise to the girl's cry "Croaker," and it struck me hedid rather croak than grunt. I addressed him myself in that wise: sure enough, his grip tightened on my ankles, and he seemed to nod his head as he croaked
best efforts, working out to deeper water -- until at length the rapids took my legs from under me and fetched me thump against my adversary. In a whole panic, strangling and spitting, I clambered on him as upon a black boulder, not to drown; in only a moment I had climbed to his shoulders and got my legs round his neck. Whereupon a remarkable change came over him: instead of flinging me off or ducking me under, he gripped my ankles, and giving over the assault, struck out purposefully and midstreamwards.
Now I had time to hear Max crying behind us, "Yi yi yi!" while from the shore ahead, where she flickered in the firelight, the bridge-girl resumed her call. And if itwas G. Herrold's ghost who bore me, death had worked alterations on him: the head I clutched was bald instead of woolly, he had grown a muscled paunch, and in general his body was huger and more gross. Then I heard him respond with his curious noise to the girl's cry "Croaker," and it struck me hedid rather croak than grunt. I addressed him myself in that wise: sure enough, his grip tightened on my ankles, and he seemed to nod his head as he croaked
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