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Journey in a Carriage


Journey in a Carriage

Oil on Canvas, 1890

Alfred Wierusz Kowalski


“Lo, beyond the River Blapp
The Carriage comes, the Carriage Black
By shadowed steed with shadowed tack
And shadowed driver driving

Child, pray the Maker let you sleep
When comes the Carriage down your street
Lest all your dreams be dreams of teeth
And Carriages arriving

To wrest you from your berth and bower
In deepest night and darkest hour
Across the sea to frozen tower
Where Gnag the Nameless pounds you

At Castle Throg across the span,
A world away from kith and clan
You’ll weep at how your woes began
The night the shadows bound you 

Away, beyond the River Blapp,
The Carriage came, the Carriage Black
By shadowed steed with shadowed tack
The night the Carriage found you.”


--Andrew Peterson, On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness


Starry Night over the Rhone


Starry Night over the Rhone

Oil on Canvas, 1888

Vincent Van Gogh

He remembered unpacking his bags at boarding school while his roommate watched. His roommate had asked him what the helmet was for, and Henry had suddenly had the suspicious sensation that he had been kept in the dark, that the world was off behaving in one way while he, Henry, wore a helmet. He had barely prevented himself from answering his roommate honestly. The words, “It’s a helmet my mom bought me to wear in PE” were replaced with, “It’s for racing. I don’t think I’ll need it here.”

            Whatever was going on inside the wall in his room was much bigger than finding out that other boys didn’t have to wear helmets. If there really were forgotten doors and secret cities, and maps and books to tell you how to find them, then he needed to know. He looked around at the tall, dew-chilly grass and for a moment didn’t see grass. Instead, he saw millions of slender green blades made of sunlight and air, thick on the ground and gently blowing, tickling his now damp feet, and all the while silently pulling life up out of the earth. Each was another kid without a helmet, a kid who knew how things were actually done.

            Above him, the stars twinkled with laughter. Galaxies looked. Nudged each other. Chuckled.

            “He didn’t know about secret cities,” Orion said. “His mother never told him.”

            The Great Bear smiled. “Did his dad tell him about forgotten doors?”



            “Only having to do with science projects or bicycle trips.”


            “Mostly topographic, or the kind that shade countries in different colors based on gross national product or primary exports.”

            “Nothing with ‘Here be dragons’ on the edges?”



--N.D. Wilson, 100 Cupboards


Portrait of an Old Man in Red



Portrait of an Old Man in Red

Oil on Canvas, 1652-1654

Rembrandt Van Rijn

"He was past the prime of life, but Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life."


--Charles Dickens, Barnaby Rudge


New York Movie

New York Movie

Oil on Canvas, 1939

Edward Hopper

"The tide of the twentieth century was flowing in a different direction altogether. It was the picture palaces, their fronts so brilliantly lighted, inside so mysteriously dark, that provided our true churches and chapels. There we sat, separately or clasped together, in scented darkness (in those days attendants during intervals squirted perfume like Flit over the heads of the patrons in their seats) and worshipped our tribal gods: sex, money and violence as they were projected on to the screen and entered into our own minds and bodies. Thus the new gospel was propounded in the beginning was the Flesh and the Flesh became Word; to be carnally minded is lifedying in the Spirit to be re-born in the Flesh. There was no more ardent acolyte than I, and yet, trudging homewards late at night along the empty tram-lines, a fearful sense of desolation would fall upon me. I strained my ear, but heard only the sound of my own footsteps; I peered ahead, but saw nothing except the tramlines reaching into the distance."

--Malcolm Muggeridge, Jesus Rediscovered


Bronze Horseman


Bronze Horseman
Oil on Canvas, 1870
Vasily Ivanovich Surikov

"In the woods there was a little church, of course disused now. The Fronts of such churches, like the Greek ones, are painted with bright colours; blues bluer than the bluest sky, whites whiter than the whitest snow. Someone - heaven knows who - had painted up the one in the Kliasma woods. Standing in front of this unknown painter's handiwork, I blessed his name, feeling that I belonged to the little disused church he had embellished, and that the Kremlin with its scarlet flag and dark towers and godlen spires was an alien kingdom. A kingdom of power such as the Devil had in his gift, and offered to Christ, to be declined by him in favour of the kingdom of love. I, too, must decline it, and live in the kingdom of love."

-Malcolm Muggeridge in his Chronicles of Wasted Time