Nabokov is right, everything is yawn and forget. Julian Barnes, more here, also has coined that when life is one damn thing after another . And when appointments are overwhelmingly real, one not even use quotes. In contrast, barricaded against the end of the year, I still accumulating evidence against all these bright and safe itself, clear, almost in relief against the twilight of life. There travel, a different sign. There was another City, another Caracas, and a decadent Cartagena, bound together by a 35C heat, but also to compensate Paris, and Madrid for averaging, two icy. In all these places, people were sure of their opinions, and I watched from the lobby of myself as doing to my soul that gesture Italic pile. But there was a defense against such uncertainty.
In a corner of Paris, opposite Notre-Dame is the Shakespeare & Co, a bookstore where Hemingway took refuge and where books were banned in the years 30. There, as elsewhere in Paris, the only certainty is the serene beauty of the shelves full of books, there is no proclamations, no high-sounding phrases, no need for moral superiority, business, face to face. From there I rescued a good Galactic Pot-Healer, of Philip Dick, another that he assumed it was a lot, which retells the story of the small and humble it be great. Another Keyser Soze, another Mule. The background in different branches of art are many.
What I mean is that one is already big to play the nihilist, and must accept that the world expects of a small uncertainties, and that perhaps, as in Dick's novel, what you do in various fields is more important than it seems. Although it can be to be rewritten this garbage, and throw me squarely in the procastinación and the fascination with my own insecurity.
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