Nativity by Marten de Vos.
Today I was engrossed in finishing a book review for a site I hope will send me ARCs (Advance Readers' Copies) and ask me to contribute regularly. Does it get fatiguing, you ask, sending work out into the atmosphere that never receives a response much less the boundless adulation it deserves? A little, I suppose, but I troop onward, and hope you do, too, in the direction of your hearts' desires.
These are not holiday-themed blurbs. I shot the wattage in my cottage on that score yesterday. Nevertheless, they may be of interest in an artistic sense. And art is the yule log that burns eternal in the furnace of my dimly-lit soul.
1) Chimp's paintings fool modern art expert.
2) Via the Scrivener. Why widely-read, beloved crime writers shouldn't sweat literary snobs.
3) Via Straight Dope. Venemous spider bites to humans are rarer than lottery winners.
4) New Jersey wants a new marketing slogan, and rejects We'll Win You Over as starting too deep in the hole. All the entries are here, but my favorite promises the least: Come See For Yourself. You could say that about the Ritz or a toxic slick. It works.
5) Some bastard has stolen Alistair Cooke's cancerous bones rather than letting them be cremated. Give them back, inhuman dungbeetles.
Adore you all and Venite Adoremus, ya'll!