Salvador Dali The Transparent Simulacrum of the Feigned Image

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been a fool to think otherwise. He turned and, hardly bothering to keep his own heart beating, went back to the University.
Windle trudged across the quad to the Great Hall.
The Archchancellor would know what to do
‘There he is!’
‘It’s him!’
‘Get him!’
Windle’s trained thought ran over a cliff. He looked around at five red, worried, and above all familiar faces.
‘Oh, hallo, Dean,’ he said, unhappily.’And is that the Senior Wrangler? Oh,
and the ‘Grab his leg!’
‘Grab his other leg!’
‘Have you grabbed everything?’ roared the Archchancellor.
The wizards nodded.
Mustrum Ridcully reached into the massive recesses of his robe.Archchancellor, this is -‘ ‘Grab his arm!’‘Don’t look at his eyes!’‘Grab his other arm!’‘This is for your own good, Windle!’‘It’s not Windle! It’s a creature of the Night!’‘I assure you -‘‘Have you got his legs?’
‘Right, fiend in human shape,’ he growled, what d’you think of this, then?

Leroy Neiman Elephant Stampede

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How very fascinating.’
The Patrician leaned the other way, to Ginger and Victor. To his mild surprise they were looking extremely tense. ‘But, ah, you make moving pictures,’ said the Patrician kindly.
‘Yes, but we never see them. We just see bits of them, when the handlemen are gluing it all together. The only clicks I’ve ever seen were on an old sheet outdoors,’ said Victor.
‘So this is all new to you?’ said the Patrician.
‘Not exactly,’ said Victor, grey‑faced.
‘Fascinating,’ said the Patrician, and went back to not listening to Dibbler. He had He’d noticed that as soon as they had walked into the Odium. The boy looked at all the ridiculous ornamentation as if it was something dreadful, and when the girl had stepped into the pit proper he’d heard her gasp.They looked as though they were in shock.‘I expect this is all perfectly commonplace to you,’ he said.‘No,’ said Victor. ‘Not really. We’ve never been in a proper picture pit before.’‘Except once,’ said Ginger grimly.‘Yes. Except once.’

Leroy Neiman The Brooklyn Bridge

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Gaspode wondered how you went about mating with a wolf, and what happened to you when you stopped.
Well, that didn’t matter. What mattered was that true dogs didn’t go around going mad with pleasure just because a human said something to them.
Yeah.
He growled at a pile of trash and dared it to disagree.
Part of the pile . ‘I thought you said it was safer on the hill.’
‘Not any more,’ said the cat. ‘It’sh getting too shpooky.’
Gaspode frowned. ‘You’re a cat,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘You ort to be right alongside the idea of spooky.’
‘Yeah, but that doesh’nt exhtend to having golden sparks crackling off your fur and the ground shaking the whole time. And weird voices that you think must be happening in your own head,’ said catmoved, and a feline face with a defunct fish in its mouth peered out at him. He was just about to bark half-heartedly at it, for tradition’s sake, when it spat the fish out and spoke to him. ‘Hallo, Gathpode.’ Gaspode relaxed. ‘Oh. Hallo, cat. No offence meant. Didn’t know it was you.’ ‘I hateth fisth,’ said the cat, ‘but at leasth they don’t talk back.’ Another part of the trash moved and Squeak the mouse emerged. ‘What’re you two doin’ down here?’ said Gaspode

Vincent van Gogh Wheatfield under a Cloudy Sky

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Get what?’ said Ginger and Victor together.
Then Victor noticed Morry sitting on the sand. There was a sizeable chip out of his arm; Rock was trowelling ‘One minute I’m sitting in a tent, next minute I’m breathing camel,’ said Ginger petulantly. ‘Is it too much to ask what is going on?’
But no-one seemed to be listening to them.
‘Why can’t we find a way of getting sound?’ said Dibbler. ‘That was damn good dialogue there. Didn’t understand a word of it, but I know good dialogue when I hear it.’
‘Parrots,’ said the handleman flatly. ‘Your common Howondaland Greensomething into it. The troll noticed Victor’s expression and gave him a sickly grin. ‘Fink you’re Cohen the Barbarian, do you?’ he said. ‘Yeah,’ said Rock. ‘There was no call to go callin’ him wot you called him. An’ if you’re going to go doin’ fancy swordwork, we’re applyin’ for an extra dollar a day Havin’-Bits-Chopped-Off allowance.’ Victor’s sword had several nicks on the blade. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine how they had got there. ‘Look,’ he said desperately. ‘I don’t understand. I didn’t call anyone anything. Have we started filming yet?’

Raphael Saint George and the Dragon

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These six demons here’, he said, pointing cautiously to avoid the claws, ‘look out through the little hole in the front of the box and paint pictures of what they see. There has to be six of them, OK? Two to paint and four to blow on it to goes by, the faster they have to paint. You got to get the speed just right. Very important job, handlemanning.’
‘But isn’t it all rather, well, cruel?’
Gaffer looked surprised. ‘Oh, no. Not really. I gets a rest every half an hour. Guild of Handlemen regulations.’ get it dry. On account of the next picture coming down, see. That’s because every time this handle here. is turned, the strip of transparent membrane is wound down one notch for the next picture.’ He turned the handle. It went clickaclicka, and the imps gibbered. ‘What did they do that for?’ said Victor. ‘Ah,’ said Gaffer, ‘that’s because the handle also drives this little wheel with whips on. It’s the only way to get them to work fast enough. He’s a lazy little devil, your average imp. It’s all feedback, anyway. The faster you turn the handle, the faster the film

Douglas Hofmann Model

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grabbed a handful of hair and pulled himself up, the camel started to trot.
. . . Think fractals . . .
'Ere, you're going to run straight-' the sergeant began.
There was silence. It went on for a long time.
The The two men stared at the stone for a while.
'Like a mirage,' said the Tsortean, helpfully.
'One of them things, yes.'
'I thought I heard a seagull, too.'
'Daft, isn't it. You don't get them out here.'
The Tsortean coughed politely, and stared back at his men.sergeant shifted uneasily. Then he looked across the rocks to the Tsorteans, and caught the eye of their leader. With the unspoken understanding that is shared by centurions and sergeant-majors everywhere, they walked towards one another along the length of the rocks and stopped by the barely visible crack in the cliff. The Tsortean sergeant ran his hand over it. 'You'd think there'd be some, you know, camel hairs or something,' he said. 'Or blood,' said the Ephebian. 'I reckon it's one of them unexplainable phenomena.' 'Oh. That's all right, then.'

Paul Klee Zitronen

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undulated by the fresco of Queen Khaphut accepting Tribute from the Kingdoms of the World.
'Well, yes,' said Teppic, bewildered by the tone. 'He's dead, isn't he?'
'There's that, too,' said Dios, and Teppic realised that he hadn't been referring to something as trivial as the king's current physical condition.
He was lost .
'"Thin eagle, eye, wiggly line, man with a stick, bird sitting down, wiggly line",' he read. Dios winced.
'I believe we must apply ourselves more to the study of modem languages,' he said, recovering a bit. 'His name is Pta-ka-ba. He is king when the Djel Empire extends from the Circle Sea to the Rim Ocean, when almost half the continent pays tribute to us.'in a horrified admiration. It wasn't that Dios was particularly cruel or uncaring, it was simply that death was a mere irritating transition in the eternal business of existence. The fact that people died was just an inconvenience, like them being out when you called. It's a strange world, he thought. It's all busy shadows, and it never changes. And I'm part of it. 'Who's he?' he said, pointing to a particularly big fresco showing a tall man with a hat like a chimney and a beard like a rope riding a chariot over a lot of other, much smaller, people. 'His name is in the cartouche below,' said Dios primly. 'What?' 'The small oval, sire,' said Dios. Teppic peered closely at the dense hieroglyphics