Today I finally finished Journey to the End of the night. many years I struggled to get started. 15 years maybe, to feel ready for the appointment postponed all the time I read the first page to sneak into a house or taking my time in bookstores, a strange house ... to convert it into one of those verses that I recorded in the heart, along with a phrase that one day I blew my sister - only the last words , first confessed that he remembered them, "or the Ver Sacrum Klimt-sometimes just a title" ... await Words on the side of a sheet or first page of Journey to the End of the night ... and it occurs to me now, perhaps, in places where perhaps never will happen. Perhaps have your closer than me, perhaps there are now back on the shelf, or at the table next door, two floors above your head stock, or perhaps it is I who have yours here, and maybe even have read, the waiting for you, move into my step ... or dull me to your strength.
Road East shelf stays with me, Dad, do not you think back, "I opened the book for any page, simply going through boxes of letters diagonal, savoring the strands of her whisper ... now that could well recognize. So I think it's one of the best written books in the world. And yet I have not read in French.
not know if it's a good book, or what the fuck wants to tell even me how much damage has been done, as Louis-Ferdinand Céline warned from the beginning . It is one of those books that you would not know very well explain how you go: The story of a miserable, bitter language counted as beautiful. Yes. Therefore greatly, hopelessly. Then I began to wash the dishes, enjoying the hot water run on the dirt from my hands and the bubbling inside, like the urge to mourn, to me the exposure to beautiful things.
Road East shelf stays with me, Dad, do not you think back, "I opened the book for any page, simply going through boxes of letters diagonal, savoring the strands of her whisper ... now that could well recognize. So I think it's one of the best written books in the world. And yet I have not read in French.
not know if it's a good book, or what the fuck wants to tell even me how much damage has been done, as Louis-Ferdinand Céline warned from the beginning . It is one of those books that you would not know very well explain how you go: The story of a miserable, bitter language counted as beautiful. Yes. Therefore greatly, hopelessly. Then I began to wash the dishes, enjoying the hot water run on the dirt from my hands and the bubbling inside, like the urge to mourn, to me the exposure to beautiful things.
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