From Bone Hunters, by Steven Erikson

BraventoothAnd there, seated alone at a table, was a monstrosity of a man. Hunched over, tiny black eyes glittering beneath the shadow of a jutting brow. Hairy beyond reason. Twisted snarls exploding out from both ears, the ebon-hued curls wending down to merge with the vast gull’s nest that was his beard, which in turn engulfed his neck and continued downward, unabated, to what was visible of the man’s bulging chest; and, too, climbed upward to fur his cheeks – conjoining on the way with the twin juts of nostril hairs, as if the man had thrust tiny uprooted trees up his nose – only to then merge uninterrupted with the sprung hemp ropes that were the man’s eyebrows, which in turn blended neatly into the appallingly low hairline that thoroughly disguised what had to be a meagre, sloping forehead. And, despite the man’s absurd age – rumoured age, actually, since no one knew for certain – that mass of hair was dyed squid-ink black.



From The Bertie Project, by Alexander McCall Smith

Nicola comforts her grandson Bertie

As Nicola looked out from her embrace, out beyond Bertie’s shoulder on which her hand rested, she found herself staring straight into the eyes of one of the passengers on the bus, a womhqdefaultan of about her own age. The woman was looking back at her, and seemed to know, in an instant what she was witnessing. Only a pane of glass lay between them, and that is too little to suppress fellow feeling—as when we see a person who weeps on one side of a barrier while we are on another. Human barriers are permeable to tears—and always have been.


About the deity the liberal western religions, the Supreme Being was seen as distinctly emollient, as cuddly even, possibly looking a bit like Liberace, and behaving in like manner, a bit given to displaystickman_struck_by_lightning_by_cici1993-d42hbr2s of candelabra and glitz. Though one became too familiar the Supreme Being at one’s peril, thought Domenica, remembering Auden’s tale of the denizen of Fire Island who, hearing thunder, said “There’s Miss God up to her tricks again” only to be immediately struck by lightning. Supreme beings, perhaps, disapprove of archness,
however much they may have liberalized in other respects.

Scottish History

James stabbed his guest twenty-six times when Douglas refused to decouple himself from an alliance that would have challenged royal authority. He then defenestrated him, much to the delight of his secretariat, who joined in the fun, removing the Earl’s brain with an axe.

These were colorful times in Scottish history, and we must be careful not to judge by contemporary standards. Everyone of any significance in Scotland, we may assume, had either got to where they were through violence, or kept their position by the same means. But this sort of thing did set an unfortunate precedent for Scottish hospitality—a reputation that was to be reinforced by the behavior of the Campbells towards their Macdonald guests at that fateful dinner party in Glencoe. The Massacre of Glencoe, as that incident used to be called, is now more politely referred to as the Misunderstanding of Glencoe, although there are those who continue to harp on about not murdering one’s dinner guests.


Terry Pratchett

Soul Music

Rock-legends-screenshots“This was music that had not only escaped but had robbed a bank on the way out, It was music with its sleeves rolled up and its top button undone, raising its hat and grinning and stealing the silver.
It was music that went down to the feet by way of the pelvis without paying a call on Mr. Brain. ”
“It made you want to kick down walls and ascend the sky on steps of fire. It made you want to pull all the switches and throw all the levers and stick your fingers in the electric socket of the Universe to see what happened next. It made you want to paint your bedroom wall black and cover it with posters.”



Unseen Academicals

musicHallAbout City Government

A third proposition, that the city be governed by a choice of respectable members of the community who would promise not to give themselves airs or betray the public trust at every turn, was instantly the subject of music-hall jokes all over the city.

About the shorts worn by the team:

‘How short?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, urgency in his voice.
‘About mid-knee, I believe, said Ponder. ‘Is this likely to be a problem?’
‘Yes it is. The knees should be covered. It is a well-known fact that a glimpse of the male knee can drive women into a frenzy of libidinousness.”

NOT AVAILABLE FOR GREETINGS CARDS A line up for a knobbly knees competition

About the orc’s nature

‘Tactical thinking and combat analysis is part of the orc make-up’, said Nutt.
‘See! No one who uses make-up is going to tear your head off, right?’
‘Didn’t you meet my ex-wife?’ said the baker.

Mr. Nutt explaining soccer to the lady reporterMr.Nutt

‘And there we have the existential puzzle that confronts the striker, for he is both striker
and struck. As the ball flies, all possibilities are inexorably linked, as Herr Frugal said in Das Nichts des Wissens, “Ich kann mich nicht genau erinnern, aber es war so etwas wie eine Vanillehaltige süsse Nachspeisenbeigabe,”: although I believe he was on some medication at the time.

The Watch clears the way into the arena

By the time Lance-Constable Bluejohn of the Watch and two other trolls had forcibly prised open the gates against the pressure of bodies, the noise was just one great hammer of sound. The troll officers opened a path for them with the forethought and delicacy that has made police crowd control such a byword.

AnkhMorporkSinging the Ankh-Morpork Anthem before the game

The Archchancellor was one of those gentlemen who will sing it beautifully, correctly enunciated and very, very loudly.

‘ “When dragons belch and hippos flee, my thoughts, Ankh-Morpork, are of thee,” he began.

“Let others boast of martial dash, for we have boldly fought with cash,” roared the crowd at various pitches and speeds.

Witches Abroad

Granny Weatherwax and Foreign Food

I mean, take that stuff we had for lunch. I’m not saying it wasn’t nice,” said Granny graciously. “In a foreign kind of way, of course. But they called it Cwuissessses dee Grenolly, and who knows what that means?”
“Frogs’ legs,” translated Nanny, without thinking.

The silence was filled with Granny Weatherwax taking a deep breath and a pale green color creeping across Magrat’s face. Nanny Ogg now thought quicker than she had done for a very long time. “Not actual frogs’ legs,” she said hurriedly. “It’s like Toad-in-the-Hole is really only sausage and batter puddin’. It’s just a joke name.”
“It doesn’t sound very funny to me,” said Granny. She turned to glare at the pancakes. “At least they can’t muck up a decent pancake,” she said. “What’d they call them here?”
“Crap suzette,I think”, said Nanny.
Granny forebore to comment. But she watched with grim satisfaction as the owner finished the dish and gave her a hopeful smile.
“Oh, now he expects us to eat them,” she said. “He only goes and sets fire to them, and then he still expects us to eat them!”

Nanny Ogg’s Postcard Home

“funny thing, all the money is different. You have to change it for other money which is all different shapes and is not proper money at all in my opnion. WNannyAndGreeboe generally let Esme sort that out, she gets a very good rate of exchange, it is amazing. Magrat says she will wright a book called Traveling on One Dollar a Day, and it’s always the same dollar. Esme is getting to act just like a foreigner, yesterday she took her shawl off, next thing it will be dancing on tables.”

The Lymond Chronicles, by Dorothy Dunnett

Game of Kings

“I wish to God,” said Gideon with mild exasperation, “that you’d talk—just once—in prose like other people.”

Queen’s Play

Phelim O’Liam Roe

Phelim“It’s fairly dispiriting, I know, ‘ said Thady Boy, ‘when he makes a virtue of the very things that you would be after being sorry at him for.’

Stewart’s voice slid, aggrieved, into its common note. ‘Shambling here and yon, looking at the Seven Wonders of the world as if they were pared from his toenails, and making such a parade of his poorness and silliness that no man of feeling could bring himself to discomfit him. And all the while you’ve got a gey queer feeling that he thinks you’re the fool and he’s the wise, tolerant fellow laughing up the holes in his sleeve.


Thady Boy at the table of the King of France

Banquet-16th-CenturyEach in its nest of gauze and gilt thread, of tissue and taffeta, swathed in silver and satin, in velvet and white fur sugared with diamonds, each face painted, each brow plucked, hair hidden by sparkling hair of raw silk, the well-born of France sat in waxlight and flowers like half a hundred candied sweets in a basket. Last at the last table, soggy gristle next the sugar plums, sat Thady Boy Ballagh.

The French court goes hunting

The dogs were out, rolling yapping, scampering in the paddock: tumblers and lurchers;spaniels for hawking and fowling; the hare hounds, light and nervy, the mastiffs with their flop ears for boar; the flat-headed vicious allaunts and the white, fleet children of Souillard, the famous Royal White Hounds, which never give tongue without cause.


With them were the wolfhounds, Luadhas and her brother, each three feet high; 120 pounds of big boned, brindle dog with thin muzzles and arched loins and mild flat-browed noble heads, who could catch and slaughter a wolf.



hunt-in-the-forest-by-paolo-uuccello-c-1470Taut, merry, nervous, expertly mounted, exquisitely clothed, haughty in their bright youth, the chevaliers of France poured from the disheveled clearing. Sunlit, all that morning, they spanned the glittering woods: diamond on diamond, grey on grey, riches on riches; bough and limb indistinguishable; skirts and meadows sewn in the same silks; skulls in antique fantasy knotted with fhyzome and leafy with fern frond. Webs, manes, beards, spun the same smoke-like filament; rim flashed; jewels sparked, red and fat, on rosebush and ring. Earth and animals wore the same livery. Jazerained in its berries, the oak tree matched their pearls, and paired their brilliant-sewn housings with low mosses underfoot, freshets winking half-ice in the pile.

Ringed Castle

The Tsar receives Lymond in the Kremlin

Facets-Painting-of-the-eastern-wall---Great-Prince-VladimirThe figured vaults, prismatic with colour, chambered the room like a honeycomb, in which sat the Tsar’s golden princes, like bees in the cell. And facing them across the empty tapestried floor, the Tsar sat on his raised golden throne, foiled and jeweled as the ikon above his crowned head, the brocade of his gown seeded with pearls and plated with deep-moulded orphrey.


zlata babaHunting with the golden eagle

Free of the forest, he had watched Lymond fly Slata Baba at her proper prey, as the Turkestan hunters did; or the Tartars who killed wild horses with hawks, lured to seize mane and neck with their talons, and with wing and claw, to terrify and blind and exhaust.

In the same way, Slata Baba took deer, blinding with her powerful wings; sinking through eye and muscle and nerve with her razor-sharp talons, until the huntsman, with bow or spear, could ride to the kill. Diccon saw her swoop once, with her great, sooty brown pinions, and lift a calf from the ground, transfixed like rotten fruit, in passing.

He could tell the sound of her dive, with its swishing moan of twice-compressed air, and the tranquil flight, beating slow as the waves of the sea, and the silly, weak chirrup, which was the only song she possessed. See from behind, her golden tipped ruff pricked in cold, or anger, she looked like a ringleted girl-child. Then the pretty wigged shoulders would swivel, and there was the tearing beak, hooked below the soul-piercing gaze. To hold her, Lymond had his arm gloved to the elbow, and even he, Chancellor saw, turned his head when the bird came to land. Then she was chained to her traveling post, since no man’s arm could bear the weight of a full-grown golden eagle, unsupported.

The burial of the Lapp


In front, uncoffined, they carried their dead, gray and hard on a board, in the sheepskin tunic and cap, the crucifix and skin boots he was accustomed to wearing. And when they took him inside the belfry, and lowered him stiff on his feet, Chancellor saw round him a leaning stack of dead and stony companions, staring out, head upon head at the living. And in the hand of each rigid monolith of humanity was clenched a scrap of birch bark for St. Nicholas, affirming that this old wrinkled Lapp in his furs, that young Russian woman, this hairless baby, its half-made eye open on nothing, had died devout and shriven in Christ.

“Even in Moscow,” Lymond said, “they store them like billets all winter, until, in the spring each man takes his friend, and buries him. Before, the ground is too hard. It is the crown of dead men to see the sun before they are buried. Or so they say. And each has new shoes on his feet, because, they say, he hath a great journey to go.”

The Death of Chancellor

ShipStormySeaAlthough the fishing boats searched, for their own venal reasons, for quite a fair length of time, no man that night or any other laid hands on Richard Chancellor, Grand Pilot of the Muscovy Fleet, or his beloved son, Christopher.

Long before then, they had moved out of the bay, at first tangled kindly together, and later alone, out of sight of each other, but with the same broad and harmonious current bearing them east.

Over the lightening sea lay the path Chancellor had discovered, and the door he had opened, expending on it a sovereign order of courage in an element exacting of courage, for he sailed from home, and not towards it.

We commit a little money to the hazard of fortune; he commits his life. Wherefore, Sidney had said, you are to favour and love the man departing thus from us.

The way he had found opened for him, and his long-studied seas with dignity gave him his bier. And in the morning he was accorded the crown of dead men, to see the sun before they are buried, and he set out with shoes on his feet as do the Muscovites, for he had a long way to go.


Philippa realizes she loves Lymond

Though she combed the earth and searched through the smoke of the galaxies there was no being she wanted but this, who was not and should not be for Philippa Somerville.

The marriage of the queen of Scotland to the Dauphin

francois_maryThe traditional gesture consisted of the release into the air of two hundred dozen birds of all species….The air blackened with wings of all colors, and then blanched with the fruits of their disquietude. On the epaulette of the Archer by Philippa arrived a small portly creature in green, which puked; remarked, ‘Hė, petit capitaine de merde!’ and whirred off as he reached up to throttle it.

From H is for Hawk, by Helen MacDonald

2aeb5ac7d399870e19bec4977bbda499‘One cannot feel for a goshawk the same respect and admiration that one does for a peregrine,’ Blaine explained. ‘the names usually bestowed upon her are a sufficient index to her character. Such names as “Vampire”, “Jezebel”, “Swastika”, or even “Mrs Glasse” aptly fit her, but would ill become a peregrine.’




The things she sees are uninteresting to her. Irrelevant. Until there’s a clatter of wings. We both look up. There’s a pigeon, a wood pigeon, sailing down  to roost in a lime tree above us. Time slows. The air thickens and the hawk is transformed. It’s as if all her weapons systems were suddenly engaged. Red cross-hairs. She stands on her toes and cranes her neck. This. This flightpath. This thing, she thinks. This is fascinating. Some part of the hawk’s young brain has just worked something out, and it has everything to do with death.

2hawkbook hawk makes a curious, bewitching movement. She twitches her head to one side and then turns it upside down and continues to regard me with the tip of her beak pointing at the ceiling. I am astonished. I’ve seen this head-turning before. Baby falcons do it when they play. But goshawks: Really? I pull a sheet of paper towards me, tear a long strip from one side, scrunch it into a ball, and offer it to the hawk in my fingers. She grabs it with her beak. It crunches. She likes the sound. She crunches it again and the lets it drop, turning her head upside down as it hits the floor. I pick it up and offer it to her again. She grabs it and bites it very gently over and over again: gnam gnam gnam. She looks like a glove puppet, a Punch and Judy crocodile. Her eyes are narrowed in bird-laughter.




From High Spirits, by Robertson Davies


And what bottles! Tears came into my eyes, just to look at them. For these were not our ugly mondern bottles, with their disagreeable Government stickers adhering to them, and their high shoulders, and their uniformity of shape, and their self-righteous airs, as though in the half-literate, nasal drone of politicians, they were declaiming: ‘We are the support of paved roads, general education, and public health; we are the pillars of society.’ No, no; these were smaller bottles, in a multiplicity of shapes and colours. There were the slim pale-green maidens of hock; the darkly opalescent romantic ports; the sturdily gay clarets and the high-nosed aristocrats of Burgundy; there were champagnes that almost danced, yet were not gassy impostors; and they were all bottles of the old shapes and the old colours–dark, merry and wicked.


pushkinSometimes we get a surprise–an economist who turns out to be a poet, for instance (I mean a poet in the formal sense: all economists are rapt, fanciful creatures; it is necessary to their profession).




I mentioned our inability to keep a College Cat. In the ten years of our existence we haveJackFace had several cats here, but not one of them has remained with us. They all run away, and there is strong evidence that they all go to Trinity. I thought at one time that they must be Anglican cats, and they objected to our oecumenical chapel. I went to the length of getting a Persian cat, raised in the Zoroastrian faith, but it only lasted two days. There is a fine Persian rug in Trinity Chapel. Our most recent cat had been christened Episcopuss, in the hope that this thoroughly Anglican title would content it; furthermore, the Lionel Massy Fund provided money to treat the cat to a surgical operation which is generally thought to lift a cat’s mind above purely sectarian considerations. But it, too, left us for Trinity. Rationalists in the College suggested that Trinity has more, and richer, garbage than we have, but I still believe our cats acted on religious impulse.


Though I am not a whole-hearted believer in astrology as such, I was brought up Presbyterian, and thus I am inclined to believe bad news from virtually any source.


[About Hell] ‘But have you no lake of burning pitch?’ said I. ‘And how about the ConquerorCommittee worm that dieth not?’
That is very old-fashioned thinking, ‘ said he. ‘The lake of burning pitch gave place long ago to a system of committees; every damned soul is a member of several interlocking committees, and the worst of them have what they call working lunches, where they are made to devour bad food and drink disgusting coffee while discussing projects from which all hope has been drained away. As for the Conqueror Worm That Dieth Not, we have banquets at which people make speeches that have no foreseeable end, about ideas that have no foreseeable application. ‘It sounds horribly familiar,’ said I , in wonderment.


80471_mitre_smIt was John Strachan, without a doubt, in the full day-dress of an Anglican Bishop–gaiters, apron, squarecut long coat, and above all that peculiar hat like a stovepipe with a wireless aerial on either side, which gives a Bishop the appearance of one who is in perpetual receipt of messages from outer space.


From Emma: A Modern Retelling, by McCall Smith

[Mr. Woodhouse is thinking about buying a new mower]

“The tractor brochure portrayed this scene as a rural idyll. A contented middle-aged man sat on his small tractor, a vast swathe of well-cut grass behind him. The sky above was blue and cloudless; in the distance, on the veranda of a summer house, an attractive wife–at least ten years younger than the man on the lawnmower–waited to dispense glasses of lemonade to her hard-working husband. But Mr. Woodhouse was not so easily fooled. What if you put your foot just a few inches under the cover of the blade? What if you fell off the tractor because the ground was uneven–not everyone had even lawns–and your fingers, or even your whole hand, were to get in the way of the tractor and its vicious blade? Or what if a dog bounded up to greet its owner on the tractor and had its tail cut off? The woman dispensing lemonade so reassuringly would shriek and run out, only to slip under the lawnmower and be sliced like a salami in a delicatessen.”

[Mr Woodhouse despairs as his daughter prepares to take a motorbike ride ]
“He wanted to weep. He was convinced that as he watched her go down the drive it would be his last glimpse of his beloved daughter. He should do something to stop her: throw himself in front of the machine; or seize the key–if these things had keys–from John and run off with it, back to the house, ignoring his shouts. The most outrageous act on his part–even fetching his shotgun, his father’s old engraved Purdey–and pointing it at John would be justified in order to save Isabella from this dreadful folly.”

[Miss Bates talks about her niece’s piano]
“It’s a Yamaha. Do you know that sort? I thought that Yamahas were motorbikes, but apparently they’re pianos as well. They’re very ingenious people, the Japanese. It’s remarkable how they manage to make pianos and motorbikes in the same factory, isn’t it? I do hope they don’t get them mixed up from time to time–it would only be human, after all , to put some of the wrong parts in the wrong place. Good heavens, I’ve done it myself in the kitchen often enough. Do you know the Mikado, Miss Woodhouse?”