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I write on rice-paper. If necessary I can eat my words.

Old Pinemartin’s Book of Impractical Dogs: Slave

Old Pinemartin’s Book of Impractical Dogs - Slave

© Marie Marshall

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Old Pinemartin’s Book of Impractical Dogs: Satan

Old Pinemartin’s Book of Impractical Dogs - Satan

© Marie Marshall

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Old Pinemartin’s Book of Impractical Dogs: the poet’s dog

Old Pinemartin’s Book of Impractical Dogs - the poet's dog

© Marie Marshall

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Old Pinemartin’s Book of Impractical Dogs: Cerberus

Old Pinemartin’s Book of Impractical Dogs - Cerberus

© Marie Marshall

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© Marie Marshall

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© Marie Marshall

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© Marie Marshall

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The disappearing original…

Marie Marshall

Regular readers will know that from time to time I write about art in general. It is not an easy subject to write about, strange though that may seem, because each one of us has prejudices that are difficult to shake off. To one of my readers, for example, technique or technical skill is all-important. To that person, Caravaggio’s work is ‘better’ than Rothko’s because the former’s is representational and skillfully so. Yet as a writer I know only too well that Virginia Woolf, Tolstoy, John Steinbeck, J K Rowling, Barbara Cartland, E L James, and I all use the same technical skills as each other in writing, and that nevertheless we do not produce works of equal – what? – worth, quality, whatever. Nor do we all enjoy equal success, nor is that success necessarily commensurate with any particular literary merit, nor, to come full circle, is that literary…

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© Marie Marshall

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Peace, War, Honour, and Death

Marie Marshall

Peace, War, Honour, and Death – a fable

Honour 1It happened that War saw a beautiful woman, whose name was Peace. Desiring her, he took her away to live with him. But Peace was never happy, and when he asked her why, she answered that it was because she was cold, for though War is hot he can never pass his warmth on to anyone.

One day a knight, whose name was Honour, rode by.

“This man serves me,” thought War, and called out to the knight, “Sir Knight, take off your cloak and give it to my lady Peace!”

The knight stopped, took off his cloak, and unsheathed his sword. Having cut his cloak in two, he put one half of it around Peace’s shoulders to warm her, the other half round his own, and rode away. From that moment, to his name was added Martinus Martianus, Warlike, and the…

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