Friday, December 18, 2009


Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind-stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.

"If I could work my will," said Scrooge indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!"
I wonder if Charles Dickens, in his wildest dreams, ever imagined we'd still be reading his little Xmas story over 160 years after he wrote it?

It's a story I never get tired of no matter how many times I hear or read it. Hopefully that isn't because I'm too much like Scrooge.

I deliberately made most of the colors as gray and desaturated as possible so that the red scarf would really pop. Why? Um... because I thought it would look cool.

Drawn in Photoshop on the graphic tablet. The text was hand lettered.
Here's the original sketch of Scrooge.

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