Joseph Mallord William Turner The Grand Canal Venice paintingJohn Singer Sargent El Jaleo paintingRembrandt Susanna and the Elders painting
You have given these people a profound spiritual experience, no question. Don't think we modern types lack a spiritual dimension."
"The people have left me," Ayesha said.
"The people are confused," Saeed replied. "Point is, if you actually take them to the sea and then nothing happens, my God, they really could turn against you. So here's the deal. I gave a tinkle to Mishal's papa and he agreed to underwrite half the cost. We propose to fly you and Mishal, and let's say ten -- twelve! -- of the villagers, to Mecca, within forty-eight hours, personally. Reservations are available. We leave it to you to select the individuals best suited to the trip. Then, truly, you will have performed a miracle for some instead of for none. And in my view the pilgrimage itself has been a miracle, in a way. So you will have done very much."
He held his breath.
"I must think," Ayesha said.
"Think, think," Saeed encouraged her happily. "Ask your archangel. If he agrees, it must be right."
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
Vincent van Gogh Self Portrait painting
Vincent van Gogh Self Portrait paintingVincent van Gogh Sunflowers paintingVincent van Gogh The Starry Night painting
How hot it is: steamy, close, intolerable. This is no Proper London: not this improper city. Airstrip One, Mahagonny, Alphaville. He wanders through a confusion of languages. Babel: a contraction of the Assyrian "babilu". "The gate of God." Babylondon.
Where's this?
-- Yes. -- He meanders, one night, behind the cathedrals of the Industrial Revolution, the railway termini of north London. Anonymous King's Cross, the bat-like menace of the St Pancras tower, the red-and-black gas-holders inflating and deflating like giant iron lungs. Where once in battle Queen Boudicca fell, Gibreel Farishta wrestles with himself.
The Goodsway: -- but O what succulent goods lounge in doorways and under tungsten lamps, what delicacies are on offer in that way! -- Swinging handbags
How hot it is: steamy, close, intolerable. This is no Proper London: not this improper city. Airstrip One, Mahagonny, Alphaville. He wanders through a confusion of languages. Babel: a contraction of the Assyrian "babilu". "The gate of God." Babylondon.
Where's this?
-- Yes. -- He meanders, one night, behind the cathedrals of the Industrial Revolution, the railway termini of north London. Anonymous King's Cross, the bat-like menace of the St Pancras tower, the red-and-black gas-holders inflating and deflating like giant iron lungs. Where once in battle Queen Boudicca fell, Gibreel Farishta wrestles with himself.
The Goodsway: -- but O what succulent goods lounge in doorways and under tungsten lamps, what delicacies are on offer in that way! -- Swinging handbags
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Thomas Kinkade La Jolla Cove painting
Thomas Kinkade La Jolla Cove paintingThomas Kinkade elegant evening paintingThomas Kinkade Cobblestone Evening painting
wolf howls and the obscene bird of night chatters." Take _that_, kids. -- And in a separate but proximate g!ass display--case of the younger, happier Chamcha's fancy there fluttered a captive from a piece of hit-parade Butterfly, which shared _l"amour_ with the _oiseau rebelle_.
Love, a zone in which nobody desirous of compiling a human (as opposed to robotic, Skinnerian-android) body of experience could afford to shut down operations, did you down, no question about it, and very probably did you in as well. It even warned you in advance. "Love is an infant of Bohemia," sings Carmen, herself the very Idea of the Beloved, its perfect pattern, eternal and divine, "and if you love me, look out for you." You couldn't ask for fairer. For his own part, Saladin in his time had loved widely, and was now (he had come to believe) suffering Love's revenges upon the foolish lover. Of the things of the mind, he had most loved the protean, inexhaustible culture of the Englishspeaking peoples; had said, when courting Pamela, that _Othello
wolf howls and the obscene bird of night chatters." Take _that_, kids. -- And in a separate but proximate g!ass display--case of the younger, happier Chamcha's fancy there fluttered a captive from a piece of hit-parade Butterfly, which shared _l"amour_ with the _oiseau rebelle_.
Love, a zone in which nobody desirous of compiling a human (as opposed to robotic, Skinnerian-android) body of experience could afford to shut down operations, did you down, no question about it, and very probably did you in as well. It even warned you in advance. "Love is an infant of Bohemia," sings Carmen, herself the very Idea of the Beloved, its perfect pattern, eternal and divine, "and if you love me, look out for you." You couldn't ask for fairer. For his own part, Saladin in his time had loved widely, and was now (he had come to believe) suffering Love's revenges upon the foolish lover. Of the things of the mind, he had most loved the protean, inexhaustible culture of the Englishspeaking peoples; had said, when courting Pamela, that _Othello
Jean Beraud A Game of Billiards painting
Jean Beraud A Game of Billiards paintingPaul Cezanne Young Man with a Skull paintingPaul Cezanne The Railway Cutting painting
archangel, and then informed one and all that Gibreel had exonerated Ayesha." Salman spread his arms in worldly resignation. "And this time, mister, the lady didn't complain about the convenience of the verses."
o o o
Salman the Persian left the next morning with a northbound camel-train. When he left Baal at The Curtain, he embraced the poet, kissed him on both cheeks and said: "Maybe you're right. Maybe it's better to keep out of the daylight. I hope it lasts." Baa! replied: " there is something there to love." Salman's face went blank. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and left.
"Ayesha" came to Baal's room for reassurance. "He won't spill out the secret when he's drunk?" she asked, caressing Baal's hair. "He gets through a lot of wine."
Baal said: "Nothing is ever going to be the same again." Salman's visit had
archangel, and then informed one and all that Gibreel had exonerated Ayesha." Salman spread his arms in worldly resignation. "And this time, mister, the lady didn't complain about the convenience of the verses."
o o o
Salman the Persian left the next morning with a northbound camel-train. When he left Baal at The Curtain, he embraced the poet, kissed him on both cheeks and said: "Maybe you're right. Maybe it's better to keep out of the daylight. I hope it lasts." Baa! replied: " there is something there to love." Salman's face went blank. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and left.
"Ayesha" came to Baal's room for reassurance. "He won't spill out the secret when he's drunk?" she asked, caressing Baal's hair. "He gets through a lot of wine."
Baal said: "Nothing is ever going to be the same again." Salman's visit had
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Irene Sheri Mediterranean Sunset painting
Irene Sheri Mediterranean Sunset paintingIrene Sheri Dreaming of Tomorrow paintingFrederick Carl Frieseke Through the Vines painting
blamed; Chamcha's antics were sufficient to have distracted the keenest eyes. It should also, in fairness, be stated that Saladin failed to notice the change himself. borrowed pantaloons (delicacy forbids the publication of explicit details), -- something else, let us leave it at that, got a little smaller, too. Be that as it may: it transpired that the optimism of the report in the imported movie magazine had been ill founded, because within days of its publication the local papers carried news of Billy Battuta's arrest, in
What happened? This: during Chamcha's brief but violent outburst against Gibreel, the horns on his head (which, one may as well point out, had grown several inches while he languished in the attic of the Shaandaar B and B) definitely, unmistakably, -- by about three-quarters of an inch, -- _diminished_.
In the interest of the strictest accuracy, one should add that, lower down his transformed body, -- inside
blamed; Chamcha's antics were sufficient to have distracted the keenest eyes. It should also, in fairness, be stated that Saladin failed to notice the change himself. borrowed pantaloons (delicacy forbids the publication of explicit details), -- something else, let us leave it at that, got a little smaller, too. Be that as it may: it transpired that the optimism of the report in the imported movie magazine had been ill founded, because within days of its publication the local papers carried news of Billy Battuta's arrest, in
What happened? This: during Chamcha's brief but violent outburst against Gibreel, the horns on his head (which, one may as well point out, had grown several inches while he languished in the attic of the Shaandaar B and B) definitely, unmistakably, -- by about three-quarters of an inch, -- _diminished_.
In the interest of the strictest accuracy, one should add that, lower down his transformed body, -- inside
Monday, November 3, 2008
Grand Canal scene painting
Grand Canal scene paintingCarl Fredrik Aagard Villa at Lake Como paintingCarl Fredrik Aagard Lodge on Lake Como painting
nobody laughed at the clown, because where Ayesha was concerned the villagers were willing to believe anything. They had grown convinced that the snow-haired girl was the true successor to old Bibiji, because had the butterflies not reappeared in the year of her birth, and did they not follow her around like a cloak? Ayesha was the vindication of the longsoured hope engendered by the butterflies' return, and the evidence that great things were still possible in this even for the weakest and poorest in the land.
"The angel has taken her away," marvelled the Sarpanch's wife Khadija, and Osman burst into tears. "But no, it is a wonderful thing," old Khadija uncomprehendingly explained. The villagers teased the Sarpanch: "How you got to be village headman with such a tactless spouse, beats us."
"You chose me," he dourly replied.
nobody laughed at the clown, because where Ayesha was concerned the villagers were willing to believe anything. They had grown convinced that the snow-haired girl was the true successor to old Bibiji, because had the butterflies not reappeared in the year of her birth, and did they not follow her around like a cloak? Ayesha was the vindication of the longsoured hope engendered by the butterflies' return, and the evidence that great things were still possible in this even for the weakest and poorest in the land.
"The angel has taken her away," marvelled the Sarpanch's wife Khadija, and Osman burst into tears. "But no, it is a wonderful thing," old Khadija uncomprehendingly explained. The villagers teased the Sarpanch: "How you got to be village headman with such a tactless spouse, beats us."
"You chose me," he dourly replied.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
George Stubbs Horse Attacked by a Lion painting
George Stubbs Horse Attacked by a Lion paintingUnknown Artist Wave Rider paintingJohannes Vermeer Young Woman with a Water Jug painting
He was a small person with wire coathanger shoulders and an enormous capacity for nervous agitation, evidenced by his pale, sunken--eyed face; his thinning hair -- still entirely black and curly -- which had been ruffled so often by his frenzied hands that it no longer took the slightest notice of brushes or combs, but stuck out every which way and gave its owner the perpetual air of having just woken up, late, and in a hurry; and his endearingly high, shy and self-deprecating, but also hiccoughy and over--excited, giggle; all of which had helped turn his name, Jamshed, into this Jumpy that everybody, even first-time acquaintances, now automatically used; everybody, that is, except Pamela Chamcha. Saladin's wife, he thought, sucking away feverishly. -- Or widow? -- Or, God help me, wife, after all. He found himself resenting Chamcha. A return from a watery grave: so operatic an event, in this day and age, seemed almost indecent, an act of bad faith.
He had rushed over to Pamela's place the moment he heard the news,
He was a small person with wire coathanger shoulders and an enormous capacity for nervous agitation, evidenced by his pale, sunken--eyed face; his thinning hair -- still entirely black and curly -- which had been ruffled so often by his frenzied hands that it no longer took the slightest notice of brushes or combs, but stuck out every which way and gave its owner the perpetual air of having just woken up, late, and in a hurry; and his endearingly high, shy and self-deprecating, but also hiccoughy and over--excited, giggle; all of which had helped turn his name, Jamshed, into this Jumpy that everybody, even first-time acquaintances, now automatically used; everybody, that is, except Pamela Chamcha. Saladin's wife, he thought, sucking away feverishly. -- Or widow? -- Or, God help me, wife, after all. He found himself resenting Chamcha. A return from a watery grave: so operatic an event, in this day and age, seemed almost indecent, an act of bad faith.
He had rushed over to Pamela's place the moment he heard the news,
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