
Guernica
A screaming horse, a mother with her dead child, all in grey. Picasso painted it in weeks after German bombers leveled a Basque town.

A screaming horse, a mother with her dead child, all in grey. Picasso painted it in weeks after German bombers leveled a Basque town.

Louis Prima's tune, Krupa's tom-toms, and a performance long enough to fill both sides of a twelve-inch 78.

Janie comes home to a Black town in Florida and tells a friend about her three marriages and how she found her own voice. Hurston writes porch talk exactly as it sounded.

Thirteen dwarves turn up at a comfortable hobbit's door and talk him into helping them rob a dragon. The comedy is real, and the riddle game in the dark still frightens children.

Disney mortgaged his own house to make the first cel-animated feature, and the industry called it his folly: the queen's transformation still frightens small children exactly as intended.

Picasso pulled her out of the screaming mother in Guernica and gave her the face of Dora Maar, his lover and a photographer.
And then he will carry me away to his castle, where we will live happily ever after.

George looks after Lennie, huge and slow-witted, across the California ranches, and the two of them keep describing a farm they mean to buy. Steinbeck presses the Depression into that dream.

Byron crossed Persia and Afghanistan in the 1930s hunting domes and minarets, and the diary he kept is funny, rapturous, and cruel about everyone he meets. Paul Fussell called it travel writing's Ulysses.

The kneeling figure on the left is the same shape as the stone hand on the right, holding an egg with a flower coming out.

Cheap grace forgives without changing anyone, Bonhoeffer wrote from an outlawed seminary in Nazi Germany. Real grace costs a life: Christ calls a man to come and die. He was hanged in 1945.
A head arrangement built section by section, Lester Young and Herschel Evans trading solos, Basie's theme song ever after.

"I had a farm in Africa," Dinesen begins. Seventeen years below the Ngong Hills end in ruined coffee and a forced sale, and she tells it in prose that never asks for sympathy.
When hearts are high the time will fly, so whistle while you work.

Xiangzi pulls a rented rickshaw through 1920s Beijing and wants a cart of his own. Soldiers seize the first he buys, a policeman takes his savings, and Lao She grinds him to nothing.

Three swans on a lake, and in the reflection the necks have become trunks and the trees have become legs.

Johnson recorded everything he left behind in two sessions, in a hotel room and a warehouse, playing with his face turned to the corner.

A cannon points across a room whose walls are panelled with samples of the world: sky, wood grain, fire, bells, a woman's torso.

Persian fiction's darkest book: an opium-addicted painter of pen cases draws the same scene, an old man and a girl in black offering a lily, then finds it living behind his wall.

Red New Mexico hills roll across the canvas with a few flowers brought right up close, the vast and the fragile in one frame.

The Bauhaus grids and circles have given way to floating amoebas. Kandinsky in Paris at the end, inventing a biology instead.

Cary Grant became Cary Grant in this film: Leo McCarey threw out the script daily and improvised on set, and a divorcing couple sabotage each other's new engagements out of pure spite.
I see one-third of a nation ill-housed, ill-clad, ill-nourished.
Angel, ha! She's a female! And all females is poison! They're full of wicked wiles!
As with the Christian religion, the worst advertisement for Socialism is its adherents.