Francois Boucher The Setting of the Sun

Francois Boucher The Setting of the SunFrancois Boucher The Rest on the Flight into EgyptFrancois Boucher The Rape of Europa
motion. In the Ramtop village where they dance the real Morris dance, for example, they believe that no-one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away - until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine shethe high moorland under the moon. Not entirely wolves, not entirely human. With any luck, they’d have best of both worlds. Not just feeling . . . but knowing.
Always best to have both worlds.
Death sat in his chair in his dark study, his hands steepled in front of his face.
Occasionally he’d swivel the chair backwards and forwards made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life, they say, is only the core of their actual existence. As he walked through the foggy city to an appointment he had been awaiting ever since he was born, Windle felt that he could predict that final end.It would be in a few weeks ‘ time, when the moon was full again. A sort of codicil or addendum to the life of Windle Poons - born in the year of the Significant Triangle in the Century of the Three Lice (he’d always preferred the old calendar with its ancient names to all this new-fangled numbering they did today) and died in the year of the Notional Serpent in the Century of the Fruitbat, more or less.There’d be two figures running across