Georges Seurat Le Chahut

Georges Seurat Le ChahutWilliam Blake NebuchadnezzarWilliam Blake Jacob's LadderVincent van Gogh The Olive Trees
She looked like Magrat. Or, at least, like Magrat wished she looked and maybe as Verence always thought of her. Granny nodded. As one expert to another, she recognized accomplished nastiness when she saw it.
“And you’re going to face her like that,” she said.
“Certainly. Eventually. At the finish. But don’t feel sorry for her. She’s only going to die. Would you like me to show you what you might have been?”
“No.”
“I could do it .
Woods pressed in on either side. The elves would have to come this way There looked like hundreds of them and there was only one Magrat Garlick.
She knew there was such a thing as heroic odds. Songs and ballads and stories and poems were easily. There are other times than this. I could show you grandmother Weatherwax.”“No.”“It must be terrible, knowing that you have no friends. That no one will care when you die. That you never touched a heart.”“Yes.”“And I’m sure you think about it... in those long eveningswhen there’s no company but the ticking of the clock and thecoldness of the room and you open the box and look at—“The Queen waved a hand vaguely as Granny tried to break free.“Don’t kill her,” she said. “She is much more fun alive.”Magrat stuck the sword in the mud and hefted the battleaxe