Marc Chagall The Fiddler

Marc Chagall The FiddlerPaul Gauguin AreareaGeorges Seurat Sunday Afternoon on the Island of la Grande Jatte
walk away.
Mort a lectern, poring over a map. He looked at Mort as if he wasn't entirely there.
YOU HAVEN'T HEARD OF THE BAY OF MANTE, HAVE YOU? he said.
'No, sir,' said Mort. FAMOUS SHIPWRECK THERE.
'Was there?'
THERE WILL BE, said Death, IF I CAN FIND THE DAMN PLACE.worked steadily through the sixteenths, eighths, quarters and thirds, wheeling the barrow out through the yard to the heap by the apple tree.Death's , neat and well-tended. It was also very, very black. The grass was black. The flowers were black. Black apples gleamed among the black leaves of a black apple tree. Even the air looked inky.Alter a while Mort thought he could see – no, he couldn't possibly imagine he could see . . . different colours of black.That's to say, not simply very dark tones of red and green and whatever, but real shades of black. A whole spectrum of colours, all different and all – well, black. He tipped out the last load, put the barrow away, and went back to the house.ENTER.Death was standing behind