Paul Cezanne The Railway Cutting

Paul Cezanne The Railway CuttingPaul Cezanne The Hanged Man's HousePaul Cezanne Table CornerPaul Cezanne Still Life with Soup TureenPaul Cezanne Still Life with Fruit Pitcher and Fruit-Vase
wood . . . it was the wrong sort of wood.
Everything was wrong these days. More thin. More fuzzy. No real life in anything. And the days were shorter. Mmm. Something had gone wrong with the days. They were shorter days. Mmm. Every day took an age to go by, patronised by these boys who still had some of their own teeth. Like that Ridcully lad. Windle remembered him clearly. Thin lad, sticking-out ears, never wiped his nose properly, cried for his mother in the dorm on the first night. Always up to mischief. Someone had tried to tell Windle that Ridcully was Archchancellor now.
Mmm. They must think he was daft.which was odd, because days plural went past like a stampede. There weren’t many things people wanted a 130-year-old wizard to do, and Windle had got into the habit of arriving at the dining-table up to two hours before each meal, simply to pass the time. Mmm. Mind you, you didn’t get the sense now that you used to get in the old days.And they let the University be run by mere boys now. In the old days it had been run by proper wizards, great big men built like barges, the kind of wizards you could look up to. Then suddenly they’d all gone off somewhere and Windle was being