“How beautiful it is here, to be sure, but how difficult to paint! I can see what I want to do quite clearly but I’m not there yet. It’s so clear and pure in its pinks and blues that the slightest misjudged stroke looks like a smear of dirt.”
Morning at Antibes, Claude Monet
We’re in a horrible, repugnant place now where kids are told it’s their right and due to be hugely famous. Not good at their job, not good at anything, just hugely famous. This is not sane. Little girls think they’ll be famous if they have vast breast implants and might as well die if they don’t.
“No,” said Luna, observing him with those oddly misty, protuberant eyes. “I don’t suppose you do. That man the Death Eaters killed was your godfather, wasn’t he? Ginny told me.” Harry nodded curtly, but found that for some reason he did not mind Luna talking about Sirius. He had just remembered that she, too, could see Thestrals.
Arkhip Kuindzhi + Landscapes