… they were a cunning bunch, poets, and could sneak up on you when your back was turned. (Sn)
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'The poet Hoha once dreamed he was a butterfly, and then he awoke and said, “Am I a man who dreamed he was a butterfly or am I a butterfly dreaming he is a man?”‘ said Lobsang, trying to join in.
‘Really?’ said Susan briskly. ‘And which was he?’ ‘What? Well…who knows?’ ‘How did he write his poems?’ said Susan. ‘With a brush, of course.’ ‘He didn’t flap around making information-rich patterns in the air or laying eggs on cabbage leaves?’ ‘No one ever mentioned it.’ ‘Then he was probably a man,’ said Susan. (TOT) There are many things to be said about cabbages. One may talk at length about their high vitamin content, their vital iron contribution, the valuable roughage and commendable food value. In the mass, however, they lack a certain something: despite their claim to immense nutritional and moral superiority over, say, daffodils, they have never been a sight to inspire the poet’s muse. Unless he was hungry, of course. (M)
'The Arts are not my field,’ he added, in a way that suggested his was a pretty superior field with much better flowers in
it. (MM) ... ballet had to be Art even though it was a bit short on plinths and urns, on account of it being expensive to look at ... (Th)
He knew in his heart that spinning upside down around a pole wearing a costume you could floss with definitely was not
Art, and being painted lying on a bed wearing nothing but a smile and a small bunch of grapes was good solid Art, but putting your finger on why this was the case was a bit tricky. (Th) ... it was always nice to look at the pictures of big pink women with no clothes on. (Th)
... the common people of the city had a keen eye for works like Caravati’s Three Large Pink Women and One Piece of Gauze or Mauvaise’s Man with Big Figleaf ... (TOT)
'Fine Art. It’s just men paintin’ pictures of young wimmin in the nudd. The altogether,’explained Colon the connoisseur. ‘The caretaker told me. Some of them don’t even have any paint on their brushes, you know.' (GG)
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The world has lost Sir Terry, and it's so much the poorer for that. Vale Sir Terry. Categories
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