Dining Table Dimensions Standard

weep too much as he wants Anne Carson, the writer aulentissima academic, daughter of Homer. It will be difficult for her to surpass those of dogs shameless annunziani that fill the shelves and get to earn a place in the century so worm-eaten. Yet I even oust quell'Orwell for her (imagine other dogs), who with his pigs and his eyes on me came to boredom as the poncho Clint Eastwood in him the same. The defect of the times? I never seemed to writers from Centuri. (Do not complain, I do my best to contain it.)

'Autobiography of Red' is a book as he wrote once, with the ink and feather pen. Yet it looms as a very deep iceberg. Travel "on the golden wings of poetry and is tense and vibrant as ever rusty bow of Cupid. And 'in fact a book about love, and as always happens when you write books about love - This is no exception - is also its opposite. Because from time immemorial, all more or less like Geryon, the hero and fragile winged monster of this novel, we saw the dark spots of the night it was raining on him, as Whitman said the great, perhaps feeling the anger to depression or perhaps the melancholy the duende that takes us on a winter's night and suffocates us a thousand times and it is reborn with the present or with random acts that reveal a kind gesture of the beloved and then take us back to the extreme prostration, in the eternal cycle impietosissimo the seasons of the heart. Geryon as we have all felt our whole body trace lover "the curve of a scream - Bulleted verso il costume tutto umano dell’amore sbagliato”.

L’amore sbagliato, ahi! Esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte!

I richiami mitici sono potenti e meravigliosi.

Si ricostruisce, invertendo il mito, e a partire dai pochi frammenti della Gerioneide del poeta Stesicoro, “nato dopo Omero e prima di Gertrude Stein”, la storia dolorosissima di un giovane ragazzo, Gerione, che viaggia su aereoplani fa fotografie e non balla il tango a Buenos Aires - pertanto modernissimo - , le cui ali inutilizzate sono insieme lo stigma della sua diversità e inadeguatezza nondimeno il simbolo della sua immortalità. Non risulterebbe interessante a nessuno la sua storia se la Carson, al pari di qualunque altro scrittore vivente semidotato, pensasse per individui anziché per specie. Ciò che invece viene disegnata, pur nell’arte raffinatissima della verosimiglianza, non priva di metafore (e che metafore cojones di un bariccolos), è l’universalità. Obbedendo perciò a quella sacra legge che dice che si disegna tutto, persino l’infinito, la poetessa si addentra in quel pervicace territorio delle relazioni umane, umanissime, dove lo scambio è bandito e qualsiasi esempio di democrazia è solo un’utopica forma di comunione. Se c’è desiderio dell’altro non c’è democrazia, ma lotta, disarmonia. Il desiderio as a light attracts moths without ensuring their safety. In the cruel game of human relations and the modern condition in which Carson puts them, be released from the reports of abuse that existed in myth, Geryon and Heracles are free to love each other, if both want it. But if the myth of Herakles kill Geryon with his club terrible, to fulfill its tenth last effort in the history of Carson Heracles kills his treacherous character with the weapons of seduction, slowly, but left the fate of "friend". An unequal struggle. For the divine Carson, as well as for our beloved Savinio, even wars have lost their frankness. There are no more wars and wars just nice just nasty. E l’infelicità si sprigiona, come la lava di un vulcano reticente, dall’ambiguità dei rapporti. Ci immalinconisce nella Carson il pensiero che non saremo in grado di riconoscere i segni. Anche abbandonarsi alla contemplazione della natura non placherà, come nell’antichità, le nostre angosce. Occorrerà fare il gesto, per non aver cose di seconda mano.
Si narra che Elena abbia accecato il poeta Stesicoro per aver questi composto un poema dove la donna funesta veniva dipinta con parole infuocate e blasfeme. Questi fu così astuto però da scrivere una palinodia per riottenere la benevolenza, riavendo così immediatamente la vista. La Carson si chiese dove fu la grandezza di Stesicoro. E nella prima parte del suo poema narrativo parla di Stesicoro come del poeta che liberò l’essere, che diede nuova brillantezza alla tradizione, mutando e sciogliendo le divine figure da quegli aggettivi che li immortalavano in figure fisse ed eterne, però morte. Elena, tra queste, era immortalata nel gesto turpe e volgare di chi innesca una guerra, di chi provoca sciagure. Stesicoro, secondo la Carson, ebbe la capacità di liberare Elena dal suo aggettivo, dal suo epiteto inclemente. E la liberazione fu così potente e meravigliosa che questa emanò una luce così intensa che rese cieco per pochi istanti il poeta. La versione ribaltata dell’episodio dell’accecamento crea tra la Carson e Stesicoro un gioco di specchi impareggiabile, e ci suggerisce, con il piglio tutto profumato della grande letteratura, come sia accecante il potere della parole e della narrativa.

Give Peace a Chance

Girdles And Ball-gags

Il borgomastro di Furnes

Una mattina S. si svegliò e iniziò a scrivere il Borgomastro di Furnes.
Il libro quale si presentò ai diversi editori era un libro devastante nella sua perversa diligente analisi, minuziosa quanto quella di Dio quando creò i fondali marini. Bompiani chiese a S. di modificarlo – il libro era troppo morboso - , supplicò di trarre conclusioni meno affrettate e crudeli, e avrebbe così considerato la possibile segnalazione a Nottetempo editore. Einaudi invece fece sapere che non rientrava nel loro triangolo editoriale. Sellerio si lamentò the fact that although the spirit of the book to be very insular and Leopard, not even a word - a - it was in Sicilian dialect. Feltrinelli not pronounced and, if he spoke, he did so badly and rudely. Adelphi instead, spitting on the plate where he had eaten for years, accused S. of plagiarism, and sued. Calasso, remorse, the day of Judgement, farting all morning.
Bleah.
The mayor, banned from the universe, ended tragically in the hands of an insurgent aNobiiano all who read it completely twice and then reviewed. He called the mayor of Funes, because everyone was reminded of the manuscript and was in their memory like a photograph, a shot vulgar and inclementissimo, and how the teacher said Hugo's book was "subject to absences in the infinite." They all agreed as a truffle dogs that sniff that this was indeed a white truffle and also, but no one was sure of himself so much to eat and then die not intoxicated. Pessoa said that the book was in fact a Hamlet who was preparing a trap, but that there was the play right to recite it. The aNobiiano was not of the same opinion, and adduced a number of reasons that I can not remember but which are cited in the courts. The book is really dangerous, as another pointed out aNobiiano. However, all measures were appropriate.
It tells of a man, and this già è una novità. L’uomo non solo è sessualmente completo, ma medita vivendo gli ultimi infausti giorni della sua rigida, discutibile carriera di borgomastro, e questo oltre che essere una novità gli fa onore. Molti sono morti senza averlo fatto e sapevano di star per morire; lui, pur non sapendo se nel libro morirà, si carica sulle spalle questo gravoso affare; S. certamente se sa una cosa è che non sopravvivrà. Sopravvivere nel senso di rimanere fra la vita e la morte. In quel limbo dove non esiste quella che Keats chiamava la “capacità negativa”, ossia la capacità dell’immaginazione di resistere strenuamente e fisicamente, di sopportare passioni ossimeriche (nel senso di omeriche e contrastanti), mantenendo l’atteggiamento più impassibile e distaccato possibile. La capacità negativa è prerogativa della vita, ha odore di animale, e si nutre di locuste e miele selvatico. Ah! Se il nostro borgomastro potesse firmare questo contratto, firmerebbe, per diana, se firmerebbe!
Non contento infatti S. non solo lo espone a simili intemperie, ma ci mostra anche come nel cuore dove alberga una lotta, fuori dalla sua porta si scatena la tempesta. Attorno al borgomastro infatti scorrono, come bisce, una lunga sequenza di tipi umani. Sono i surrogati della società, i mefitici buontemponi del tutto bene-come stai-spero bene. Quelli a cui non daresti la mano perché è “umidiccia”, come quella del signor kempenaar. You can not say at all that St. seeks to strengthen its plot with "a foreign splendor, a splendor foreigner as Wordsworth said, the trick that allows any writer to give average good shine to the central frame with a series of parallel sub-plot or characters comfortable. None splendor behind this superb creation. No God would repeal a flood on this mass of petulant criminals. Everything in the story, becomes a matter burial. And if the climax is the expectation itself, the police here is not in unmasking a murderess, but in finding a fee and who does his duty and that is also strongly disumano.Commuove like this man, the mayor of Furnes, both man which is reserved for a task, such as living in a small town, along its streets and piazzas, and descend to the bottom of his dark, as would the food, "they can not refuse to sin, because sin of the man who refuses to sin is not forgivable. "
Simenon's death, especially this Simenon, reminds us of how his work as a scribe could write pages to the end of the world, and therefore, like all sacred dead, reminds us of the masterpieces that we have lost forever and insights that we see today or tomorrow without their help.

you had a vision of the road that barely covers the road (TS Eliot)

Give Peace a Chance

I Do Day Care Of Much Of My Food Can I Deduct?

NORWEGIAN WOOD di MURAKAMI HARUKI

I have read most of this novel in the garden next to a Japanese university equipped with the inevitable I-Pod that sometimes looked at me and smiled, as if to say our good eh Murakami , you're amused at you '? I smiled from time to time, even though there was nothing to smile about. The Japanese, however, listened to heavy metal, other than Miles Davis.

Whether it is a great novel westernized strxxxxxx spread like wildfire just writing a little 'everywhere. I have some small experience of narrators ciaina-Thai-Japanese to realize that we are faced with the most Japanese novels Japanese-Thai-ciaina. The song Norwegian Wood could very well be replaced with Takeda komora not and would not have changed anything a.

A premise, Murakami is an informant. He knows that his readers more interested in the fire in the attic in the Latin Quarter that a revolution in Madrid, as a famous journalist once said. And so what happens inside the characters is only a vague reflection of what is happening outside, much less powerful and fruitful. Do not believe in revolutions in men but appears to be his motto. It 's my entire life.

addition Murakami, more than one informant, is the "silent spider" Flaubertian of memory. How is he able to weave boredom, hardly anyone else is capable. Why weaves a boring class in every corner of your heart and then asks for the bill as well. You are therefore forced to remove his wallet and can not wait to say good piece of shit. However, he has won.

uscirmene I could with the most classic phrases "It's not my thing ..." if I had already a few snipers ready to shoot me for having always said with some bravado: "I'm not the enemy of genres. Then I have to untangle the skein and hang some star at the beautiful nativity scene. But I'm still on the high seas and tragically not Ulysses.

I confess to being a lover of trash and splatter. A novel where he died a bit 'of people, without even a drop of blood on the floor or ceiling on him makes me very sorrowful. For rituals are shortened, but they are still bloody.

In Noruwei no mori, a difference of Hamlet, there are glints of rattling of swords or daggers, but as in Hamlet all die anyway. But here in the sense that death is not the end. No, here is a disease that poisons, like cancer. There those who have it, and who's not. And you're there in the middle, born from the existential malaise of the characters, their children. In fact, as in all great novels, the protagonists have no children. Do not leave offspring. We do not know if we meet again. Because as well P. Lotor says "if a meeting must take place will be in you." Therefore be careful to do this meeting. Since their coupling can arise yourself. And if it is true, as Pascal says, that no one dies so poor that nothing is left as an inheritance, you are also ready-fucked.

Give Peace a Chance

Step By Step Hairstyles

GESÙ HA UCCISO KAFKA: IO HO LE PROVE

I want to tell a story.

Many years ago, in an unspecified region of northern Russia, a guard in a prison of detainees ordered to chop wood, because one-tenth of its production must go to state police, as had been established. The stacks accumulated in the prison yard was huge. To prisoners and the guards it was a superhuman work. One of the detainees had the courage to ask: "And if I refuse to do it?". The answer came quickly: for he loomed yet another night of fasting.

then they began to chop wood, already weak and undernourished, and the sun had not yet arrived at midday and were already exhausted. They asked for a break el'ebbero. All stopped, drank water, broke the limbs contracted and tense. All except one who had asked that question. He continued undaunted to chop wood. The others looked at him, mocking. Then resumed, despite the effort, and he also continued, and with a fury greater than all the others put together. The guards dismounted because they had finished their work, the prisoners continued for a while 'and then stopped. But the guy was still in demand, as in the throes of a fit of madness. It was four, then five. And what was up and down. The others began to look at it, if before mocking, now with an expression of surprise, sometimes in terror. They came almost eight and that finally put down the ax, and went to sleep under the gaze of all in disbelief. Including myself. No more competition was opened after that event in that prison.

The incident so disturbing is taken from my notes - before any imperfections - on the readings of Brodsky. The poet tells us this episode to mention those famous passages in completing the Sermon on the Mount.

If someone strikes you on the right cheek,

you bestow on him also the left

Brodsky tells us that most likely the young prisoner, unlike Gandhi or Tolstoy, who turned that into a kind of manifesto of passive resistance, had in mind the fact that after that verse Christ is not silent. But he kept saying

and if one wants to call you in court and take your tunic,

you cedilla also your cloak

And if one forces you to go one mile,

you va'con him two miles

suggesting that, contrary to what many thought, the first priests, Christ calls us to win only morally, but it is a victory of existence that he seeks. There is no liability that transpires from these verses, no. Indeed. E 'implicit in the poem, the poet says, well, the idea that evil can be rendered absurd excess. In this sense, the victim becomes the aggressor. And 'the effect that makes us man. Splitting all that wood, the man suggests the senselessness of the whole scene. It urges us not to turn the other cheek, so to handle the guilt, because we could end up battered. Who can always attack far tacere in lui tutti i sensi di colpa del mondo. E darcele di santa ragione. Dobbiamo mostrargli l’assurdità della sua richiesta faticando il doppio, il triplo.

Potremmo ridimensionare su una scala di più piccola entità questa storia della vittima e il carnefice. E scorgendo i diari di Kafka, scopriamo come il suo desiderio fu quello di non essere sicuramente la vittima. Parlare di Kafka come il carnefice pare blasfemo, eppure c’è in lui qualcosa che cerca di emergere, che cerca di comandare. Tuttavia se Kafka nasce come un uomo che cerca di avere delle pretese sulla sua vita, lui è sicuramente il massimo sconfitto della nostra epoca. Perché la punizione di Cristo, la sua condanna, il make it with all the evidence of the absurdity of evil, suffers not only once but many times.

Christ is the true perpetrator of Kafka.

When we roam and wander amid the desolate ruins of his work, everywhere we see people who walk for miles and miles, naked women who have also sold their clothes, chopping wood prisoners who relentlessly. The persuasive power of Christ, the existential victory, hit a weak like Kafka, of which Christ does not take into account in the parable, undoing all his effort, however minimal, to impose itself and create a life.

to Kafka's life is not life, but is a being without form, which has similarities to Odradek, that star-shaped coil, which can stand on two feet and that is "the sorrow of a father figure, because conscious of his uselessness as well as the its existence. Odradek live in dark corners, hallways, attics. It does not have a room like everybody else. When he laughs, his laughter is not normal, but it sounds like "the roar of fallen leaves."

Give Peace a Chance

Seven Dimensions In Judaism

UNA ROSA

Tonight

struggle in which the last verses of sun
a rose is my obsession.
I see young white
attract attention
Tennyson knows that if the capissi
otterrei l’universo la terra
già chiusa al volere
scoprire una mossa
e ogni atto futuro e passato;
mi consolo alterando così
il vecchio proverbio persiano:

era un’inutile sera, ma ore
e saldi secoli erano in sua attesa

Give Peace a Chance

Will I Get A W-2 For State Dissability

AMATO BORGES


In principio furono le sue Inquisizioni, poi venne l'universo e ogni altra cosa.
Questa introduzione forse non sarebbe dispiaciuta a Borges che amava tanto citare Mallarmè mettendogli in bocca parole ormai non più sue: il mondo esiste per approdare ad un libro. Forse è vero, forse no. Ma questo non ha importanza.
In un sense, Borges has contaminated everything he has read and even his own players.
the reader with some diligence can not help but feel, in fact become a borgecitos. I remember an essay that said Llosa just something like, anyone who tries to imitate his style, ends up looking like ridiculous, awkward, creepy. What about him is beautiful, authentic, original, looking like a caricature ends, false suspicion. As a bald wig out the evil that would be better not to wear. Borges has a substantial virtues: the need to be inconceivable and out of those words. At the time I tried in vain some poems. Fetched extravagant metaphors, which invariably to coincide finivono with mirrors and mazes. The power of contamination was evident in that case. Every word he writes seems to assume a higher value and you can not believe that it can be written in another way. It 's like when we read the intro of Don Quixote "in a village of La Mancha, whose name I do not want to remember ...", we do not know if those words are correct, but we feel them as necessary. I felt this affinity for Borges. And if it is true that the player changes the law by investing it with meaning that, like the Divine Comedy has been enriched by its age-old commentators, so in my mind, his work has spread and it takes me. It 's true for me what Borges said Stevenson is for me a form of happiness.

His idea of \u200b\u200bliterature tends to a constant de-contextualization, a perpetual disintegration patterns. I was never surprised that he never attempted a novel. Critics fill entire volumes in search of answers to this question and do not realize that Borges is essentially a passionate skeptic. Just nights ago I discussed with my friend the impossibility of a Borges fantasy. Nothing could be further from him that a world where he can roam beyond the limits and circumstances. Borges passionate in what is the ongoing challenge to this world fantastic, illusory. A cross the pillars of Hercules but were still in the narrow Mediteranneo ... If there is a What I have in common with him is my total inability to know myself fall in history, losing in them. In its work force a careful control, a calculation that may seem cold (it seemed so to Hemingway, Truman Capote ...) but not at all and I forgive these people, who perhaps had not read the bottom with enough attention . I've never seen a more polished writer and equally fond of him. In the literature or are extremely shiny or is extremely passionate. Borges had both of these virtues, and we can not negarglielo, despite the outcry and incubated with envy (?) Of the various Hemingway, Mr. Capote ... An example? Yes, I think at this point right. There is a sua poesia che dà il titolo ad un suo libro che è 'Elogio dell'ombra'. Tra quei versi c'è ne sono alcuni che sono estremamente belli, almeno per me. E sono:

Nella mia vita sono sempre state troppe le cose;

Democrito di Abdera si strappò gli occhi per pensare;

il tempo è stato il mio Democrito.

E' una riflessione lucida e consapevole. Ho pensato troppo, sono andato al di là di ciò che era in mio potere. Democrito si è strappato gli occhi da solo per far questo. Il tempo è stato ciò che io non sono riuscito a fare, è stato il mio Democrito.

thinking becomes an inescapable destiny to Borges, his blindness, that almost obliges the development of mind and humility that he accepted with resignation.

The latter then returns us to the inevitable passionate flavor that pervades his work, anything but cold and cynical. I would say instead epic - the adjective would have moved, I know, and you would be deemed unworthy, that he loved westerns and the Norse sagas - epic because, far from me the literal meaning of the word and literary reading Borges I realized how much people will be thirsty.

The stories are many and there are those who sometimes find the right words to tell and it is important that they are many or there is only one word, which is a storyteller, or are in many, the literature, like all art, is a miracle that does not like to reveal itself and it would be impossible if one day something happened to us similar to what happened to that painter at the end of his life: having drawn paintings on canvas, landscapes on landscapes, portraits portraits, he saw at the end that the whole his work was a single drawing and painting: that of his face .

At first I thought the literature was a large space, which would include history, geography, everything. Borges has taught me the love for certain authors, or rather to certain pages, or even better for certain phrases.

Give Peace a Chance

Does Atena Cover Braces?

...DOLOROSO PASSO

The Kreutzer Sonata, this stroboscopic masterpiece that stubbornly continues to not exalted despite those years and re-read, now scrambled after thoughtful, marks his arrival here. Not open any more, so be it. And this act is already a sign of my infinitesimal leave (hopefully slow, slow) from the universe on such gestures T. built a career. Flying over the plot and style, and I only a few puntarella di stagione. Nonostante continui ad apprezzare più il Tolstoj di Chadzi Murat o dei racconti di Sebastopoli o di alcuni episodi romanzeschi, la Sonata è fra tutte le opere tolstoine quella che mi mette più ansia, anzi che no. Non saprei definire cosa mi mette sulle scapole. Sarà che anch’io son caduto nella trappola del Conte finendo per soffermarmi sull’intrinseca malia morale dell’opera, passando solo in breve rassegna quella estetica, a torto. Perché il ritmo galoppante e il concitato racconto di Pozdnyšev sono quanto di meglio T. abbia fatto e continui a fare per l’umanità, e immancabilmente non ce lo vuole mostrare.

La bellezza del racconto procede di pari passo with its linearity and its clarity. Hemingway will remember as long fields of this lesson, too. When the alter ego of Hem, Nick Adams, he sees the trout incredulously through the clear water, clear, smooth river, we learn, through those eyes, all the effort that has cost the poetic to the author and his satisfaction. Few will see the trout in that way.
I wondered if it makes sense today to talk about sexual acts performed as a means of rehabilitation of humanity. I think not. He still makes sense to refer to a "tragedy of the bedroom," as T. called them. The idea that Tolstoy clings singular in this case is the beautiful and equally disturbing sonata of Beethoven, with whom he shared the power of expression and representation. Kipling's friend reminds us, in that wonderful diptych leaf of which are books of Puck, and the beautiful story of Brother tail, that Pharaoh and the druggist Toby "did not speak much to each other, but playing together and, those who can hear, the music is as good as the conversation. " Nothing could be truer. Also, perhaps the poor wife of Pozdnyšev was limited to the conversation, but denied the audacity to Tolstoy, and she died. And we weep for those who do not know and with whom they identify.

The last sad and smile at the end of Pozdnyšev His tragic story, the narrator leads almost to tears as the story of Paolo and Francesca did with Dante. And then we remember the opening words with which Pozdnyšev begins his story: "You want to tell you how your love has brought me to do what I have done?" Those very same words that Dante gives tearful fans: "Alas! How many pleasant thoughts, how much desire / Conducted these unto the dolorous pass! (...) Francesca, your martyrs / to make me weep with grief and pity. / But tell me at the time of those sweet sighs, / what and in what manner Love conceded, / That you should know your dubious desires? (...) Is no greater sorrow than to recall a happy time ... But, if know the first root / Of love thou hast so great desire, / I will say as one who weeps and says. "

The stories, both painful, both pathetic, are divided into a single point: the supremacy of carnal love in 'one, the story of Dante's love than the most exemplary leadership in the other. But they have so many similarities that when T. the story closes, we look around in wonderment and we understand to be in hell, and in the deepest and the narrow literary hell.

Give Peace a Chance

Usrcheat Pokemon Soul Silver R4

UNO DI NOI

The man who watching trains go by - Georges Simenon

poping Kees has a job and a family like many others, a devoted wife and two children as nerve-wracking so common that take to slap every single day if it were not for social services. She speaks four languages, but it uses only a hopelessly. It 's a great chess player, but may miss small distractions and thus undermine its credibility. Watch the trains pass with melancholy and in Groningen in the thirties I would have watched it too.

seems to live, but only known to exist.

Its leader, one night, reveals the end of the company - bankrupt - and its imminent escape after having staged a fake suicide, providing insight that too with mr poping not have the right words or perhaps because of the words to explain. But I do not know that in the cauldron of everyday life of poping bubbles always the desire to revenge himself refute that poping up to forty years made a curt "I'd rather not." But as Samuel Johnson would say, forty years it is time to make a move.

We do not know for sure what he thought or what's around the head, if it was the thought of a moment or the conclusion of a long and endless series of moments. We only know that Kees poping railed hard against the wall of hypocrisy and conventions, and tried to break through, with success. When he is on the other hand, armed with Calepino and in the hands of fate, we follow him, but not how to follow a thief or a murderess. We follow with poping because there is a small part of ourselves, and we would wholeheartedly be safeguarded, not mocked, not flat-spotted on the pages of the first newspaper in the city. Poping goes for a walk in Paris with his private ethics, a small piece of all of us, perhaps the oldest phylogenetically.

's prose, as usual, is fluid and the magic is at hand, the author has put the grout to even the smallest cracks. Needless to say, the few times that Simenon does open his mouth to protect us, then nobly silent and still looking too, with our own curiosity, as it ends the story of a man who "was one of us."

Give Peace a Chance

How Long Can You Hav Chlamydia

NEL PETTO FEDELE

The shadow line - Joseph Conrad

They asked me why I read this book three times. I had to say in fact that it is the third reading. I read it every year. Ho questa buona abitudine. Non è troppo lungo per impegnarmi troppo, nè troppo breve da lusingarmi del suo pieno possesso. Ciò che possiedo di 'The Shadow Line' è invero molto poco.

Ha le caratteristiche giuste per attrarre le mie esigenze di lettore - una macchina perfetta che viaggia con il vento in poppa nonostante il ristagno della bonaccia che ivi si racconta - e le doti giuste per plasmare quest'essere che sono e che si sta formando e che si fatica a chiamare uomo. Intravedo la mia linea d'ombra, ma non ne ho la certezza e non vorrei fosse un miraggio o, peggio ancora, una fata morgana.

Il racconto è una storia d'amore. Oserei dire la migliore storia d'amore mai scritta. But do not deceive you the breadth of the intro, no. This is not a history of weddings and the like. But please read and tell me

Placing his hand on my shoulder made me turn a little, while his other arm pointed. "There it is! That's your ship, captain," he said.

I felt a sinking heart. It was once, as if his heart had stopped beating. (...) Yes, it was there. His boat, its equipment filled my eyes with joy. That feeling of emptiness that had made me so restless in the last month lost its bitter plausibility its evil influence, dissolved into a stream of joyful emotions.

There seem to these accents of a heart in love? But Conrad never cease to amaze - if he were describing his wife, his lover - and to move us:

At first glance I saw that he was a high class vessel, a harmonious creature in the lines of the body well Indeed, in the height of its proportionate trees. (...) One of her companions moored to the shore, all older than she looked like a noble race of creatures - an Arab steed in a team of horses.

The story avrebbe dovuto intitolarsi 'Primo comando' come ci dice Conrad nella sua nota, perchè nasceva dall'inesperienza del giovane autore come comandante, per la prima volta, di nave; ma il racconto si intitolò 'la linea d'ombra' e mai titolo fu più suggestivo e interpretabile.

Cos'è la linea d'ombra?

E' Conrad stesso a spiegarci e svelarne il senso. Chiunque abbia visto una linea in questo romanzo penso sia fuori strada. Non c'è un momento in cui noi sentiamo che questa linea è stata attraversata, eppure il protagonista alla fine è cambiato, ha un'aria diversa. "Mi sento vecchio. Tutti voi a terra mi sembrate un mucchio di giovincelli bizzosi" dice al capitano Giles dopo aver scampato un shipwreck. Yet that line continues to be indefinite, precisely in the shade. The ship was seized by tropical fevers and all the crew fell ill, except the captain and the cook Ransome, but that is a heart condition. In addition, the supply of quinine, which was to keep them alive was deceptively destroyed by the former captain in the middle of megalomania and destruction. The only ones not sick are those who have hurt inside, suffering inwardly. And who are having to fight a lot, which is more serious than expected. The captain, the young man who has abandoned all met this great opportunity of the first command, and Ransome, a heart condition. At this point it is difficile non commuoversi, trovando la chiave di lettura. Nel congedare Ransome e nel congratularsi con lui per l'ottimo servizio reso, nonostante la sua salute, il capitano sente questi allontanarsi dalla sua cabina e salire le scalette del boccaporto con cautela, gradino per gradino, "nel timor panico di far adirare di improvviso la nostra comune amica, che era suo destino di dover consapevolemente portar nel petto fedele". Con sublime maestria questo passo chiarificatore ci illumina e ci fa comprendere tutto. Oltrepassare la linea d'ombra è essere coscienti della morte "la nostra comune amica", è fare le scale "gradino dopo gradino", è essere consapevoli della sua esistenza. Questa è la verità. Difficile non commuoversi e non meravigliarsi because all is said and suffusion with that skill that makes it immortal. I think Conrad has brought this image in its intimate, almost an ideal, for all his life and make us more aware of what we read while we are, what we will and we can not be.

Far, through the mists of a nebulous future, I like you, perhaps we will find our line of shade. Blessed is he who knows how to find, like Conrad, the right words to its meaning.

Give Peace a Chance

How To Make Homemade Rigatoni Noodles

LO STILE DELL'ANATRA

some time ago I read a book by Raffaele La Capria who had a rather odd way: The style was called duck. The demon of curiosity, I suggested ear interpretive options, and gave in to his blackmail: I bought the book and began leafing through it.

Curiosity led me always, in every choice, Leonardo da Vinci discovered it through a cave, and gave you all my life, when he was still a child he found himself in front of a dark cave that attracted him so irresistible. Since then I still have this image in mind, curiosity must be a dark cave facing the gaze of a child. I remembered years later when, immersed in literary rage, stumbled across a work of art (in De Crescenzo some talk about his book) that was nothing more than a plywood board that had been made a lot of holes, the artist, with peaks of wisdom, the work was written under the title, namely sex, and even more under a note inviting his audience to put his finger in each of these holes, making sure that in one of these, only one, there was a nail with the tip pointing outward. Then everyone, armed with holy patience, spent a good fifteen minutes to put your finger in each of these holes, with extreme caution and care in order not to cause harm with that one nail in a rather cruel, only to find at the end that non c’era nessun chiodo. Il sesso era rappresentato benissimo. Una camera buia in cui si entra con estrema cautela, senza sottrarsi però al piacere di provare, quindi anche con curiosità. W la curiosità.
Ero rimasto dunque allo stile dell’anatra. Che cos’è dunque questo stile? Una nuova categoria olimpionica? I 200 metri stile anatra? Fatta apposta per le olimpiadi cinesi? E’ pur sempre un libro di La Capria, massimo rispetto al vecchio.

Osservate un’anatra sulla superficie di un lago. Osservate il suo scivolare lieve, soffice, quasi impalpabile sulla distesa acquorea. Quel movimento, così lirico, così uniforme e trasparente, è il frutto di due gambine che sotto fanno un gran lavorio. Il tutto avviene sotto la superficie dell’acqua, e noi non possiamo vederlo. Ma vediamo ciò che c’è in superficie: uno spettacolo, la meraviglia del creato che si dispiega nel movimento e nella poesia del movimento.

Alice Munro dunque; chi è costei? L’erede di Čechov? di Flannery O’Connor? Forse no; non saremo noi a dirlo. Noi siamo troppo coinvolti dal presente per fare spazio nel mistero dell’eternità. E dell’eternità letteraria. Possiamo dire però che la Munro ha uno stile molto simile a quello dell’anatra. Ha due gambine forti, poderose, che trascinano il sottile corpo con eleganza, raffinatezza, narrative with great shrewdness.

The eyes of vivisection Munro reality, but in his stories there is no smell of formalin. In his stories there is a growing vibrancy, richness and opulence of the everyday one and only in its vitality.

Balzac, one of the two prefaces to Father Goriot, wrote that the old father was the murderer as the dog, licking the hand of the owner when it is stained with blood, he does not question and does not judge: it loves. The Munro knows by heart the great lesson of Balzac. 'S why his characters can succeed, and often successful, wonderful. And what shocked me at first, because when I read Balzac I always seem to be the only (that arrogance and presumption!) to take care of him.
extreme use of the real thus making it akin to Chekhov, but a reality that just described and shaped well, eventually deform under his gaze, as the metal at the hands of the blacksmith. But the nice thing is that it is his gaze to distort it. The reality here is distorted from within, from the bone begins to fester on its own. It 's great lesson, not only of the French naturalists, from which the Munro took his soul and female portraits, but also that of "metaphysical" American: Hawthorne, above all. You ever read "The veil of the shepherd" or "Wakefield"? Here, the homework home.

Enemy, friend, lover ... is an exceptional book. Probably unique in the literary scene today.

There is a wonderful poem do not know who - is so beautiful that I ended up forgetting who wrote it - in which there is a soldier lying on a hill in the grass and a lawn full color, blazing with vitality, which is described in its forms, and its development, in its harmony with creation and the universe. We suspect's resting, which is to release a moment by the weight of war and its unspeakable torture. We enjoy seeing him lying down, breathe deeply, finally free to put down his rifle. The last touch of the poet, however, that there had been feasting on such a wonderful ecstasy of the senses, makes us understand, in fact just makes us understand clearly that what we see before us is just a soldier fell, dead, probably not hard or cold. With a final flash, the poet avoids the simple glorification of the grandeur and harmony of the universe, and its quiet warning inextricably linked to the idea of \u200b\u200bthe end of this magnitude, of transience. With that last flicker of light bends the poet tells us, as the Munro that takes us by the hand and leads us, leads us to touch that body which we thought vital, beautiful, handsome, with that light, flash of light bends the poet shows us the ineffable union of life and death.

Give Peace a Chance

What Musucles Do Floor Wipers Work

KAFKIANO

L metamorphosis in part by an axiom.

Gregor Samsa (if we replace the D in K and M in F we own him) wakes up one morning and finds himself transformed into an insect. If we postulate this as true, the whole story has a logical consistency and a sad reality.

We know that Kafka asked his friends to destroy his work once disappeared, but it is clear to everyone that if he really wanted would done himself. Maybe it's unloaded weight. The weight that I was not happy and have longed for. The weight of a man looking for a place in the universe, albeit small, but that is denied. Kafka suffered and endured all this, but posterity has not forgotten his heartfelt lament. They've bestowed an adjective "Kafkaesque", which indicates something overwhelming, something that tends to nightmare. For my part I can not deny that every time I read his stories I do not think he would not like it. I have a little 'time in mind to write to any one Zingarelli. Adjective deserves a different meaning. Worth, in my opinion, this meaning, something that despite everything, despite adversity e le incomprensioni, tende e aspira alla felicità. Detta così allora possiamo dire che ogni uomo è kafkiano. Perchè questo fu Kafka: un uomo non felice ma che bramò di esserlo.

Give Peace a Chance

Denise Milani Vs Linsey Mckinsey

KIM, UN CAPOLAVORO DI FELICITA'

Kim è uno dei libri più felici che siano mai stati scritti da un uomo e uno dei miei libri preferiti.

Chi non l’ha letto non può avere un’idea della felicità di cui parlo. E il Ventesimo secolo (Kim è del 1901- un libro vecchio cent'anni) si apre con un inno alla vita, alla gioia che non ha eguali.

Non lo consiglierei a un giovane, nonostante the book is wrongly categorized as a children's book, because young people must learn to look at life with their own eyes, still full of radiance and in the morning. And 'the book of youth, not for youth. I would recommend it to who, along the way, lost enchantment, the old, the detecting, the lost. A Serb who in the depths of his heart a barren stalk that can still catch fire. He should go to Kim and her story.

It 's a first-rate book, as Edmund Wilson said, "where Kipling, more than any other in his book, his imagination left free to follow his memoirs and exploration." Wherever you lay eyes lively Kim, the Little Friend of All the World, flows a river of life. The lama as usual, was deep in meditation, but Kim's bright eyes were wide open. The broad river of life was pleasant in his opinion, much more interesting than the narrow crowded streets of Lahore. There were new types and new shows with each step ... he knew that caste and caste to him unknown. We are in the look of Kim a lightness and vivacity fresh, for him there is no mystery that can not be revealed, there is no cross that can not be raised together, there is the dialect that can not be understood. The strength of the charge which his gaze is not due to the world but to himself. It does not matter the world, but his eyes to watch it. And the language to call it. If the world is awake, Kim, there is in the middle, more alert and impassioned as ever, "chewing a twig which then serve as a toothpick," as Kim takes her costumes everywhere in the country he knows and loves. Nobody knows why a little later, in the grip of an unconscious need, Kipling relies on little friend around the world in light of the terrible task of the Great Game Anglo-Russian rivalry. How to tell someone, many years after Kipling will prove still unrepentant in his autobiography for this choice. Kim, during the trip with the Lama in search of a sacred river, is enlisted in the regiment of father, and, impressed by its dual nature of English but also of "black as a coal indigenous" ("so was born a hundred years") hired him in the secret services. He goes to "Bobs" the details of a 'planned invasion by' five confederate kings, a conniving northern power, a Hindu banker in Peshawar, a factory of 'arms in Belgium and an independent Muslim principality in the South. " I read on the web: Kim - so full of what Le Carre called "tricks of the trade" - will have even greater significance because it will lead to the founding in 1904 - three years after its publication - the Indian secret service, quickly followed by MI6. Kim inspired even the birth of the U.S. Secret Service. Kipling's friend, U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt - who had answered the 'call of Kipling's "bear the burden of' white man" by throwing his knights against the Cubans' English Empire - he used to call his son Kermit "Kim" and will then Kermit / Kim founded the Oss (Office of Strategic Services, later the CIA). One of its first director, Allen Dulles, always kept on the table a copy of Kim, who became one of the reference manuals of the CIA. Born as its creator in 1865, just eight years after the dramatic anti-British uprising of 1857, the character Kim is also the "cover story" of Kipling, his second hidden life. In the novel, the spy Kim refines the same qualities that the journalist / spy Rudyard was learning: the spirit of observation and attention to detail, as in "Kim's Game" (a classic game of observation). Both were just as many other indicators, an outsider who lived in two cultures. "

They lived in two cultures." Kim In no trace of this duality, because the author with a clever narrative structure gives the reader a wonderful cohesion to the whole, still included. As in a circle, the story ends there, where it was started, with no apparent pattern. His mother tells him in a dark windy autumn: You know you can not write a plot to save your soul. Even life and death here does not appear the two poles of existence, but intimately connected and blended. Tell a native in the story: "When I was fifteen, I had already killed a man and given birth to a son." As in a magic act.

The novel can be summed up because, as one critic said, Kim focuses on himself, with an incomparable happiness, every literary genre: the novel 's adventures, picaresque novel, novel travel, spy novel, a novel of initiation , mystical novel.

bed after several years, I can not help but look back on Kipling with Kim that offers its readers. Enchanting. It 'a look of understanding, curious, passionate, who knows the danger without escape, without knowing the evil bland. In the beautiful "simple stories of the hills," reads:

Throwing stone on each hand

From each well-ordered road we travel

And the whole world is wild and unknown.

For Kipling the world does not obey an order, but is on the brink of confusion and irresponsibility. What fascinated him, however, and he adapts his heart to the beat of the earth. And his call is noble and solemn, supportive, ecumenical.

My brother (so says Kabir)

Adora brass and stone as an infidel,

but in the voice of my brother

feel the same anguish of my heart.

Its God is the one that gave him the Fates ...

His prayer is that of every other man ... and mine.

Why Kipling reminds us every step of his work that the sky has its lofty wars, but the earth's wars trivial. So "who you beat the narrow way, between flashes of hell, to the day of Judgement, when the infidel Please be kind to the Buddha in Kamakura."

Give Peace a Chance

Good Movies With Teachers

BARBARI - CAPITOLO CONCLUSIVO DELLA TRILOGIA DELLA COSTIERA

The night was plain as a Bottani.
been years since I wanted to start with an incipit that.
I heard the owl with his left around the house and shake your heart. The old record player working again, who would have thought. It seemed therefore a good time to put on the Masonic Funeral Mass K 477 Amadeus of the divine. The favorite piece from my great-grandfather George Louis Philippe Roncalli. I even had the good idea to hire a vampire movie that I had begun to ischemizzare the first quarter of the ventricle, rather than the Mauerische Trauermusik with surround sound and volume galore. Add to that also this: My girlfriend left me permanently, discovered correspondence with Mme. And this: the play-station was flown into the hands of his grandson scassaminchia. And this: on the pc I did not miss the first version of Supermariobros.
Pacman? you say. No, not Pacman.
Sazio ? I was on a diet for two weeks.
Money? Dismissed with a kick in the pants.
Well guys, I was in pieces, worse than Harry.
I got up at four. As expected, I opened the fridge. Even
Gee, my dog, opened one eye and seemed to curse me for the crash. "Bau Bau Bausch, what the fuck bai at this time," read the liquid in that eye. Fuck Gee, after all the legs and chicken wings that I was sipping pounds of private breast to feed him, also had the courage to look that way. I flashed the thought of a piece of spaghetti with garlic oil and red pepper, freckled face of my dietician. But I remembered that it had not even a cherry color. That dish was not even a cherry? I gave up. I put in the pan 12 mini-hot dogs and me scafai them all. I had the poster hanging in the kitchen of Pulp Fiction, Uma Thurman and, as thin as a plate of boiled vegetables, seemed to look quite disgusted with air, probably because of those mini-hot dogs.
- Fuck you too, - I said.
Stappai also a Bud.
E bariccolo where is it? say the children from the banks of the fund.
Be patient, it will come.
The mini-hot dogs had turned the smart move. Yarns were smooth at the valves conniving and had already taken the first duodenal loop of the fast before the big chicane. They feasted in the colon and lacked only the cutlery. I had returned to happiness, a word without meaning in those last weeks. I decided to
mandare un sms alla mia ex:
Dì a quello scassaminchia di tuo nipote che si può tenere la play. E a tuo padre che l’ultimo passito di Pantelleria secondo me era una fregatura.
Ma che motivo avevo? Rabbia? Offesa? Decisi di godermi la vita e di non farmi trascinare in circoli viziosi e sentimentali. Intanto era passata un’ora. Le cinque. A quest’ora molti uomini si alzano per andare in fabbrica e portare il pane a casa. Le donne invece si alzano per fare più comodamente la pipì. Gli amanti si separano per non essere sorpresi dal giorno. La luna cede il passo all’alba omerica dalle dita rosate e qualche gabbiano è incerto se gracchiare o restare in silenzio per non disturbare la quiete. E io invece I just want someone to break the bales.
I called the first number I had marked in address book, saying loud and clear:
- Alarm clock, the hour of irrevocable decisions has come to completion. One hour flying in the sky marked by the destiny of our homeland.
waited a second, I had done it. It was five o'clock in the morning, eh. After a while, 'I heard a voice from the grave:
- Sigrud? But I was fucking ciriveddro I fuck the burglary at this time of morning? Obviously I was caught, unwittingly, the inspector Salvo Montalbano and unfortunate friend.

- What the fuck you want?
- I called Livia.
- Veramenti?
- I swear. Sui sacramenti.
- E che ti disse?
- Mi disse cose ingloriose sul vostro rapporto, ma che si dava speranza assai ad una tua ambasciata a Torino, dov’ella ti aspetta forse a braccia aperti. Commissà, ma come fai a sopportarla? Ti faranno una statua a Vìgata.
- Speriamo. E perché minchia ha telefonato a te?
- Una cosa a tre, è quello che vuole.
- Sigrud non ti allargare. Ma che ci fa Livia a Torino.
- Hai mai sentito parlare di relazione adulterina con proprietari di scuole di scrittura creativa?
- Ma che mi dici Sgrud? Non è la manera giusta questa di diri le cose.
- Commissario, non mi far parlare assai. Sono cosi delicati. Parliamoci aperto, faccia a faccia. Prendi il primo Attain trip to Turin, I'll be there in the afternoon. I will run to greet a friend and we're all happy. Livia in a special way. We're two big boy or not?

.

Montalbano was waiting near a phone booth. He was unshaven and reeking of cologne. Only his whiskers gave him an air of respectful.
I greeted him and made him quick to point out what would be the first pang in my heart the day. A stone's throw from Central Station, a huge billboard depicting Livia half naked, with a scroll in his hand and below the inscription:

The young Holden is waiting for you. Subscribe to include yourself in the legendary school. Learning to write is not never been easier since we are there with our twentieth-century rules.

A red pepper would have been less of the bald head of Salvo.
- What does this mean I Sgrud?
- means that Livia was sold to the highest bidder.
- And who is he?
- I know, I know. I organized a meeting for this evening. E 'willing to fight in the ring for her. You put it on the canvas, Livia stop doing the bitch, I'll put a lid on it and do not talk about it anymore.
- when I put the rug?
- Tonight.
- And why hold an event in style to make it black?
- so he has decided, he likes a spectacle of it all.
- Sgrud But the last time I fought was for a dish of sardines with fennel that Pepe Carvalho! I had
ringalluzzirlo.
- And here's a pepper fennel gliel'hai dates?
- a thrashing.
- There, see? I knew it.

entered the arena that had made nine. It was a hellish inferno, as it should be.
The stands were lit and a crowd of spectators, rigidly divided into castes, drummed with their feet and welcomed the entry of the forces. Unless seemed excited.
- What? - I told him.
- my heart beats. I did not want
docile and softie. It was time to pull out the nails.
- Oh, but keep in mind when you here the heart beats, beats Livia here ...
- Porcomondo that made me think.
Porcomondo yes. We were in the midst of a quagmire, if we had needed to get us out matters worse at the price of humiliation.
- See how many people came to see you? There is also Fazio and Catarella ...
- Sgrud Oh, there's even my grandfather Andrea Fan Club!
Fan Club was recognizable because it was the only one to stay in the smoking compartment, without air conditioning.
After a while, 'he said - Sgrud, you saw that group down there? Look, all have hand in my latest book, My Life as a warbler !
- Oh yes Salvo. Those come from all parts of Italy. They are the aNobiani. People whose distrust, are worse than the leech. Accustomed as they are to live the lives of others.
Unless it gave me a straight, a greeting to which he would give four stars instead of fixed and aNobiani applaud and cheer, responded with the way that most deemed adequate and appropriate to their status: they started writing all those who commented on a notebook .
Empathy was at maximum levels.
Suddenly the lights went out and left the music Eye of the Tiger .
Someone said: - What raw!
the ring fell a platform shaped like a ship and inside was the team Holden. Piovvero pomodori dalle tribune.
Bariccolo era avvolto in un mantello leopardato di ciniglia. Salutava e offriva smancerie a destra e a manca. Ogni tanto qualcuno gli passava del succo di idromele e lui inghiottiva senza dir parola. I muscoli mi sembravano troppo pompati dall’ultima volta che lo avevo visto e conclusi che erano gonfiati a botte di anabolizzanti. Anche la bariccolessa del resto, vestita di raso dalla cima dei capelli alla punta dei piedi, esibiva molte rughe in meno. Tutto sembrava pronto.
L’arbitro, il vecchio Pietro Citati, cercava di mantenersi in piedi e dare avvio all’incontro. Disse: - In nome di Gadda, non facciamo pasticciacci con le regole. Niente colpi bassi. Il primo che mena un colpo basso s’impara a memoria una cantica del paradiso.
Bariccolo non ci stava. Dante era roba antiquata. Ma il vecchio Citati, con la rigidità che gli era propria, sembrava inflessibile e fece no con il capo, respingendo le sue proteste.
Si fremeva per il gong iniziale. Gli aNobiani misero mani ai loro taccuini, i Camilleriani iniziarono l’ottavo pacchetto di sigarette. Il cronista alzò la voce e disse a chiare lettere che Livia comunque fosse andata sarebbe stata nel cuore di tutti. Salvo allargò le narici e mi disse invece che voleva spegnergli tutti i neuroni dell’ippocampo con un bel diretto a quel tizio, altro che cuori di tutti. Suonò il gong, erano partiti. Il mio uomo si teneva defilato e studiava l’avversario. Barick cercava di meravigliare the audience with an impressive series of pirouettes. He tried to do the moonwalk as well, but unless he was on with a volley of punches in the ribs. Barick denounced the coup and lifted his eyes to heaven with carefully designed to face comedian. Rained the first insults: - Shame! Thief! Cheater!
He was not listening, the girls were on his side on the benches as lookouts and ponponneggiavano Nantucket. Unless I motioned to the corner to get close and I suggested not to overdo it. Barick absolutely did not want to pass from the holy life with a martyr's death.
- I want him alive and well, you just tingle like a bell being stoned. Unless
smiled and nodded made. The crowd was in delirio. E anch’io ero su di giri.
- Scatenagli una demenza vascolare.
- Che minchia dici?
Proprio a quel punto Barick partì col suo attacco, ma Salvo si scostò lesto e fece finire il suo avversario con la faccia spiaccicata sul palo dell’angolo, steso a terra di fronte a me. Gli sputai in un occhio, potevo forse resistere? Lui con l’occhio acciaccato mi disse: - Sigurd, che tu sia il più maledetto tra i barbari.
Citati si rassicurò sulle sue condizioni e fece riprendere l’incontro. Salvo gli teneva testa. Barick chiese dell’acqua. Sudava da tutti i pori come mai in vita sua. Salvo da vero poliziotto gli stava appresso come un segugio. E continuava a ballare attorno senza menar colpi. Barick si difendeva bene, e non si lasciava penetrare. Ad un certo punto si avvicinò al mio uomo cercando di spingerlo contro le corde e di sfiancarlo con mosse e mossettine. Quando colpì Salvo al fegato, dalla tribuna dei Camilleriani si alzò un grido di dolore. Camillerozzo stesso in persona scese giù e si avvicinò al ring. Venne da me e mi disse: - Sgrud, chiamami quel frocio!
Lo chiamai e lui si avvicinò all’angolo, si girò e vide suo nonno: - Nonno!
- Scimunito, che minchia facesti? Mi son giocato cento stecche di MS per te! Più sciolto come un gabbiano devi essere, non un cane di terracotta!
E qui si fermò per scatarrare.
Danny Lemon dalla astronave cambiò registro. Niente more Chopin, was the time of the Mephisto Waltz.
Save those words and the music went down as a blessing. In the third round a right hook Barick reduced to a vegetable and Livia, which hitherto had been quietly put her hand to her mouth. I did the wink and said, with the lip: PREPARATIONS You Take My Breath Away.
the beginning of the fourth round, only a handful of Salvo moved the air but it was enough to bring down miserably Barick the carpet. The aNobiani had tears in their eyes, after all had at least one of his books. Unless he too seemed to repent and collapsed after Cited had solemnly declared the winner. It was time to act. I motioned to Livia that deft like a cat jumped on the ship. I was the behind. As soon as we were inside, Livia took a fake and she shut the oar at the head of Danny, who fell unconscious. I sat at the piano and began to play as the legendary Freddie, the first notes of We are the champions. The whole audience was silent when Livia flicked a lever and the ship is lifted. We flew away. I could see from the square of the ring and Camillerozzo approving. Only at that point unless you notice the scam.
And then, with his last strength he had left, he stood up and shouted with all my heart
- Sigurd! You know who you are tuuuuuuuuuu son? Are you a figlioooooo grandissimaaaaa puttaaaaaa ara ra pa pa pa pa ... paaaaa ara ra pa pa pa pa ... paaaaaaa

END

Give Peace a Chance

Lactose Intolerance Bubbly Stomach

UN CONFRONTO

My Dear visitors, I want this space to reflect with you on an analogy.

Read here:

Maybe one morning going into an air-glass,
dry, turning, I see the miracle:
nothing behind me, the emptiness behind
of me, a drunkard's terror. Then, as if one be
screen, and pitched Gitte
trees hills homes for the usual deception.
But it will be too late, and I shut up I go
among men who do not look back, with my secret.

Now, if I ask you too, also read here:

If any rider emaciated and consumptive was hounded relentlessly for months around the unsteady riding on a horse in front of an audience tireless, reinforced by a ruthless director of the whip, while she continues to throw kisses, hissing and moving his hips on the horse, and if this performance to continue over an hour until the gray of a future that promises endless, from the incessant noise of 'orchestra and fans, accompanied dallo smorzarsi e dal riaccendersi dell’applauso, dello scrosciar di mani che in verità sono tanti magli a vapore…allora forse un giovane spettatore della galleria si slancerebbe giù rapido per la lunga scalinata, farebbe irruzione nella pista e urlerebbe – Basta! – tra le fanfare dell’orchestre sempre pronte ad adeguarsi alle esigenze dell’istante.
Siccome però le cose non vanno così; siccome una bella signora vestita di bianco e di rosso fa leggera il suo ingresso fra le tende che i superbi valletti le schiudono dinanzi; e il direttore , cercando devotamente i suoi occhi, le alita in viso come un cagnolino fedele; premuroso la solleva fin sul leardo bianco pomellato, come si trattasse della nipotina amatissima che sta per intraprendere un viaggio rischioso; non riesce a dar il segnale con la frusta; infine vincendosi, lo dà con uno schiocco; prende a correre a bocca aperta accanto al cavallo; segue i balzi della cavallerizza con occhio vigile; trova quasi inconcepibile la sua abilità tecnica; (…) ingiunge, furente, agli stallieri che reggono i cerchi di star ben attenti; prima del grande salto mortale, scongiura alzando le mani l’orchestra di tacere; alla fine solleva la piccola dal cavallo tremante, la bacia prima su una gota e poi sull’altra e ritiene inadeguata qualsiasi ovazione del pubblico; mentre lei stessa, da lui sorretta, sollevandosi sulla punta entro un alone di polvere, con le braccia distese and pours her head back, wants to extend his own happiness as the whole circus ... well things are going well, here the viewer of the gallery and put her face on the balcony, getting lost in the march as if in a dream painful cries of a cried unconscious.

The poem is a 'cuttlebone', but so different from the rest of the book by Montale that what is in this poem is almost absent in the other is redundant: the element of nature. There's abstractness, the unreality, the languor of the dream and nightmare. The camera has a memory Foscolo, like all of you have heard and remembered.
L’altro è un breve racconto (riportato per intero) di Franz Kafka. Uno dei racconti più belli e, invero, più tristi del pianeta (chi l’ha detto, infatti, che la bellezza abbia come attributo esclusivo la felicità?).
Io ho sentito una somiglianza e una differenza tra i due. Sono due componimenti che si affacciano sull’orlo dell’abisso, del vuoto, facendolo splendidamente. Lettori non possiamo non provare una leggera vertigine, come un ‘anello che non tiene’, mentre vediamo (o meglio, intravediamo) l’inganno consueto, le case i colli gli alberi che si ricompongono per ‘il niente di nuovo sotto il sole’; mentre sentiamo l’irrealtà, the atrocities of the deception circus - the rider who plays the part of happy riding, the director who uses his whip to silence the orchestra for the great leap, or call the grooms to pay attention to the sweet girl. Everything is muffled, fake and tragically we have left is to lay his face on the railing and cried tears of that terrible unconscious. Alone. Among men who do not look back (why? Cowardice? Or ignorance?).
The difference, perhaps subtle, perhaps nonexistent, and that makes Kafka's story, a story without hope, as opposed to "Maybe one morning going into an air-glass", is the inability to find a flaw, a mistake, however, the miracle Montale, leading to a redemption of slight, albeit ineffective. The intolerance of being as never before had been highlighted, Kafka has taken to extremes.
How would Benjamin, Kafka thinks for ages. Ere the whole man must move in the act of distemper, in the act of making even the slightest gesture. It 'a terrible endless. His cry is not a cosmic tears, inconsolable crying is because the world of Kafka's world is a cruel and solidarity.
Montale tells us his secret, the revelation of the deception, which can not share with men who do not hanno visto; Kafka non ce lo dice, perché non lo ha visto nemmeno lui, e quel che è peggio, è che però continua a sentirlo, intimamente, intollerabile, infinito, colpevole.

Give Peace a Chance

Frshman Initiation Ideas

DISTURBI DI PERSONALITA'













E' da un po’ di giorni che Bruni cerca di introdurre il discorso dei disturbi di personalità ovunque. Si fa la spesa, e scappa lo Schizotipico. Si va in the post (there is a line, uh, what a surprise!) and presents the Paranoid. We eat at the table, lots of eggplant stinging my esophagus I hope not finger, and slips stealthily an actor. The Borderline check like mushrooms from a shop window looking in the new summer shoes and a Scratch & Win that says you do not win, but you have deceived me a lot and buy new ones. The fact of abuse Scratch & Win and BDZ (benzodiazepine please, do not be confused with benzoTiazepine, which are calcium channel blockers and risk of collapse. Some things have to be categorical) are the rule in these cases. And narcissism? (A mirror llo) Cabbages, hair that looks perfect to me come today. I had cheekbones higher, I would recommend to Dolce Gabbana.
Obviously, a man lying on the couch on Sunday night, watching tv, football matches and holding an ice cold Bud, has the Antisocial lurking behind him. Only a fool will not notice it.
When can I avoid like the plague.
Last night there was no mention at all of these things. It was a pleasant evening. There was also a slight breeze on the terrace. I wanted to see me Citizen Kane. That famous "yellow metaphysical," as Borges.
- But it's great, great idea. I have to find out what personality disorder haunted magnate.
I told her that not all men are plagued by problems of personality. That there are tempers.
I looked at her with his gaze. His own eh! Lightning. The idea is leaked. It must have been at times so that Napoleon has matured and took out the march in Russia. And I said something that apparently was preparing for days:
- You, for example ...
Mmm.
- Have you ever heard of Cluster C?
- my guess is the Cluster - I said.
- Of course, while we belong to some cluster. Avoidant personality disorder. Fits you perfectly.
Read: a personality disorder characterized by a pervasive pattern of behavior of social inhibition, feelings of inadequacy, extreme sensitivity to negative judgments against it and the tendency to avoid social interactions.
- Do you know what you see?
- No.
- Do you prefer to go to big shopping malls to try on shirts and jeans. Suffer orders. And their opinion. You are clearly an APD, avoidant Personality Disorder.
- But even if I've got a blog!
- Exactly. Legitimate my thesis.
- Of course.

Since yesterday, therefore, as a burden I carry this diagnosis in the body.
So be lenient. And do not judge.
Now you know what I suffer.
And you do not hope to escape the old cluster, we are in it up neck.

Word of Bruni.

Give Peace a Chance

Wedding Dance Mount And Blade History

CIAO MIMMO

and then one morning you're not smarter,
I wanted to tell you that I'd left
face a fierce row,
me that you would have paid
again.
hair pulled them to us we really
remember?
and did not fall alone.

I know, not my pain that counts, the soup
rummage the living who remain
and you know the saying.

But what if you leave only one hand close
is telling me a heart attack?
left for me?


This was your last fragility
prima di dirci ciao
con tre dita

non abbiam saputo più nulla
di quello che pensavi
persino la porta chiudevi
se parlavi col prete.
Ci ha detto che
attendevi l’imbarco
coi sospesi.

E ora non una scusa, fratello
non un biglietto messo sotto
gli occhi di tutti. Solo i cerotti
di morfina sono rimasti
appesi al chiodo. Erano
gli ultimi guantoni
con cui hai picchiato
la vita.

Give Peace a Chance

Tattoo Anklet What Do They Mean

L'INCONTRO - CAPITOLO SECONDO DELLA TRILOGIA DELLA COSTIERA

Cara Madame,
Rive sfiorate dal vento del nord. Sabbia a perdifiato. Pallide ninfette riparate dal sole dei tropici da ombrelli a flowers. Air fried sensitivity. Here is a disease that infects everyone, even the critics starched.
And everything is as you left, Madame. Only quell'orsacchiotto father died Pluche, eating too many croissants. Did you know everyone. Plasson instead continues to break the bales. Bartleboom we always try, with every woman who stops here. They have wasted nothing, thousands of visitors.
I write to you, Madame, from where you are healed and always come back.
to heal.
Adultery.
But it cures your illness? I wonder. A
if firefly, firefly remains. Do not you think?
was walking the other day with Alex. I know, I know. You may ask how I did it to meet Holden Caulfield?
Long story, Madame. Suffice it to this: Alex and I walked on the sand. A barefoot. Without leaving footprints. Is not it a miracle? He pointed, with slow gestures, a hill, the horizon line, jaunty wave. Then his fingers went up a path right up to the chapel of Saint Amand.
- There are frescoes made with sea water in the chapel - he tells me. - Do you want to see them?
I pretended not to hear and I pointed out a dark spot in the middle of thick trees - what is there?
Madame, you had to see it. The face was illuminated.
I said - Oh Mr Mr! You can not imagine how proud I am of that bright spot there. I had not told
bright. Oh well.
- That is my greatest creation together with the raft of the Medusa: (triumphant) is the Locanda Almayer!
All names borrowed, I think to myself, inevitably.
- Names borrowed,
Mr Mr Here, in fact.
- So much frikkettoni.
I can only ask: - Do you feel frikkettone, Mr. Holden?
eyes wide, stick my arm, madame. He too began to cry. E 'prisoner of himself. He says: - It 's my destiny. And 'because of that evil woman. She made her so.
- Who?
- My mother. I
close to the heart. She, the bariccolessa.
Vorrei aiutarlo.
Un mucchio di anatre starnazzanti ci passa affianco, gli si fermano davanti. Sembrano sorridergli, almeno loro. E’ sempre il giovane Holden, cazzo.
Aiutarlo sì, ma dopo aver messo giù un boccone.
Gli dico: - Non faccia così! Si dia un contegno. Che cucinano di buono alla Locanda?
Gli si riapre lo sguardo. Inizia a balbettare per l’emozione.
- Un po’ di tutto signor Sig. Un po’ di tutto.
Che al paese mio vuor di’: tutto e niente. Vabbè.
Ci avviamo.
Alex ha insistito. Vuole camminare sul bagnasciuga. Ok. Siamo a casa sua.
Gli domando, indicando l’acqua: - Sa che non ho ancora capito?
- Cosa?, - mi he says.
- What is this exactly? Ocean or Sea?

arrived at the inn.
of it I was surprised by the yielding walls. But the mole. The plant has an octagon and vaguely tetragon from afar. I was going to say "... reminds me of an abbey."
- Everything is borrowed here. Remember.
I'll remember, and you too. I hope.
Despite the gloomy tone, the inn was the sound of jazz orchestra. He put in a good mood. The pianist then we could do.
- Oh I know he's thinking about Mr. Sig!, - He tells me. - He's wondering who plays the piano so well! True?
I had read his mind. I said yes.
- E ' Danny damn stingy. Danny Lemon. Eventually we convinced him to fucking get off that ship. We had not ever done!
- Why?
- People just want him! and threatens us ... We can not do run away, you understand me. The fact is that it takes a lot of money, the bastard!
- Azz.
- Contrabazz, I say. There is also the contrabazzo, that is. The result? Salaries of 350 Holden. Burned. For a bunch of crooks.
Things not to believe. He had my full support.
Shortly after we entered the inn. God, that clouds of smoke that noise, that foul language. You could not understand a shit. But I had the eye long, I do. I recognized one by one. It was the band Upon completion of the Pickwick Club.
How wonderful!
shook hands with everyone. How are you, Mr. Pickwick? And you Mr. Winkle? What Goduria. I did drag in to the sound of revelry whistles and began to feel a lot of different ladies buttocks that night. And you understand, Madame, I was under the influence of the band of Mr. Dickens. I was among friends.
Mr. Holden motioned me to join him at the table. With deep sadness I separated from my friends and I joined him.
I said - like something I guess!
Yeah, I had come here on purpose. I forgot.
I was too excited. I needed a dish that I ammosciasse adrenaline.
I said: - Of course Mr. Holden, I'd like a plate of Sardinian warbler.
The music stopped. Everyone looked at me in the eye.
Mr. Holden Alex raised his eyebrow, rage.
I said a mistake?
Yes, I said just fucked up.
- What do you think? To stay in Vigata? No one here has ever talked about Sardinian warbler. And now: OUT! That fat
of Bartleboom held me from behind. It pushed me toward the door. My friends, paid them well, they pretended not to see me. In less than no time I was out the door of the dismal Locanda Almayer. Everything for a plate of sardines warbler. Such is life.

Night had fallen. The band had begun to play a melancholy swing. The party continued.
Later, under a small bridge, I noticed a figure from his broad shoulders. I approached, and in light of the moon recognized the Master. The Master! Joseph Conrad! And dressed in rags.
I told him: - Master, here you are!
- Nobody is a prophet in his homeland - he repeated.
recognized in his voice majestic tone of the written word.
- Who are you? Almayer's you, my son?
Now I understood. The Master had been abandoned, rejected by his own son, the 'administrator Inn (Mr. Holden was the president). Put out the door as a raft of parking.
not heard me to deny him a smile. After all, how many I had given him with his words? How much happiness?
Dissi:- Sì, padre. Sono io Almayer.
Ci abbracciammo, lui commosso per aver trovato suo figlio, io commosso per aver trovato il mio Maestro. La luna era incantevole sul mare.
In lontananza, vedemmo i fuochi di artificio sparati in aria da una nave all’orizzonte.
Mi godevo lo spettacolo, tanto più che mi sentivo così leggero. A pensarci bene, era stata una grande idea mandarmi via dalla Locanda.
Senza quelle sarde a beccafico sullo stomaco, potevo dormire sonni tranquilli accanto al mio capitano.

Give Peace a Chance

How To Make Ballet Tutus

ILIADE, OMERO. ALEX BARICCO - UN REGALO - CAPITOLO PRIMO DELLA TRILOGIA DELLA COSTIERA

Ieri pomeriggio ero stravaccato sul divano, in preda al torpore.
Mi ero scolato già la terza lattina di coca-cola zero and therefore had nothing to repent.
While napping, however, I had nightmares. Appeared in the dream my daughter, I recognized by the slowness of movement, a family brand. He must have eight or nine years. She was holding an autographed copy of the Ocean Sea, and asked me to read the steps.
The nightmare did not end here. Insisted he wanted to hear the piece of the painter. What paints the sea with sea water. Deus meus!
I had eaten a sandwich with mortadella. He must have helped a lot. A coalition of saturated fat sapped my mental stability.
So I was between sleeping and waking when the phone rang. I feel it, ergo I'm alive, I thought. You imagine a paradise in the form of angels that are crying out for readings bariccoliane? Ok, I did not distress yourself. So to speak. I rose with difficulty from the couch. Here comes my sister gave me the cordless phone and tells me: - It 's for you, a call from Torino.
From Turin?
I mind the local part and be familiar with all these years with the cast of Centovetrine not know anyone in Turin enough to receive a phone call.
I prepare, should be a matter of work. Of polyps on his vocal chords give me the right touch of hoarseness for making brilliant. In these cases it is essential to phone and I I've always played the card baritone. I settle metaphorically tie, two little cough, and then respond with all possible figaggine: - Ready.
- Sigurd, finally.
woman's voice. Anzianotta. Breast sagging.
In one fell swoop I clear the sex, age and status.
- Who speaks?
let a few seconds, you wait, play with the times, makes smart. Then suddenly beats solemnly
- I, the Bariccolessa.
Porca Executioner!
me through well thought of her: - The mother or bariccolessa bariccolessa wife?
had not said!
- Do not get smart with me, young man! The son can also cheat, but I do not fool me! I, the grandmother of Danny DDT Dabadan Dabadan Bim Bum Bam Gatorade Lemon Plus, better known as ...
- Novecento.
- Exactly.
- Exactly.
- Do you know why I called you?
- No, sir.
- I knew it, I do not even know Alex.
Alex must be the homunculus.
- I'm all ears, - I say.
- My son is struggling with his work final.
- Hey, I can not but rejoice with her for this decision. Final final?
- There is little to rejoice Mr.
- Do not deny it.
- I revealed some background. The plot is bad.
- I had no doubts.
- Talk of a bitch.
- Original - I say. It looks seriously worried. The Trojan intrigues me.
- I would have a minor role. I should be the second wife of a prime. In short, a war breaks out for a whore.
- I understand. It must be very sad.
- Mr Mr Mr sad (crying). But the fact is not that. You know what?
No, I would say. But I have a hunch: I do not know what it is, then ... I stopped.
- E 'cocks that are bitter. The image of women do not come out beautifully, Mr. So our focus was all about the youngster. I do not want to ruin everything he has done for a provincial mignottella. And send them to hell all Boodmann, and Baldabiou Bartleboom (so original) of this world. Above all, I would not begin to rain mud on fandango.
What bariccolismi. I was thrilled. She was nice lady BacoDaSeta.
also began to cry with the sound of wailing bariccoli the world. It was recognized, it was her mother. The moment was of maximum tension. And was caught on the fly. Like mother, like ...
then I let soften.
- And I then? What should I do?
- Sir, it strikes me that your tardezza. But it's obvious is not it?
was obvious, of course.
A harsh criticism in the bud. This brought me.
- Alex takes it to heart your comments. Publishes avoid that stuff.
I said yes. But I asked him something in return. What he wanted. As a souvenir. To my daughter at least.
I said - I have something for you, now that I think we do.
The emotion was a thousand.
- Should I see in the basement of Holden ... ah yes, of course. How about a painting of a painter who paints the sea with sea water? We are giving half the price. Do you like?
- makes me a very happy man, ma'am.
- And then go to the canvas! Greetings my dear Mr. And please!
- Greetings to you and the family. I'll keep this, do not worry. My greetings also the son. And tell him to relax '.
closed, almost with tears in his eyes.
believe me?

After all were good people.

Give Peace a Chance