Battery Opperayed Blanket

steppe

carol e

In this Kalmyk steppe which extends eastward to the estuary of the Volga and the edges Caspian Sea, where it turns into desert land and the sky were reflected in the other one for so long they look like husband and wife are alike when they have lived their entire lives together. And it is impossible to know if it's the gray of the grass that grows on the uncertain and faded blue of the sky or the steppe that has permeated the blue sky, and it becomes impossible to distinguish between heaven and earth They are based in the same age without dust. When you look thick and heavy water lakes and Dats Barmantsak we seem to see salt plates to the surface of the earth plates salt them, they imitate deceptively water lakes.

Perhaps this is why it are so many mirages? The boundaries between air and earth, between water and salt are gone. Momentum of thought, an impulse from the brain of a thirsty traveler is transformed into an elegant blue stone buildings and the land begins to trickle, and palm trees stretch to the horizon and the rays sun terrible and devastating, through clouds of dust, are transformed into golden domes of the palace ...

Man, one minute of collapse, creates itself from the sky and the earth, world of his desires.

Suddenly the desert steppe is showing off a any other day.

steppe! Nature without any garish color, without any roughness in the terrain, the sober melancholy shades of gray and blue can surpass the rich stream of colorful autumn forest in Russia, and the soft lines, barely rounded hills' s hold of it the soul more surely than the peaks of the Caucasus; lakes greedy, filled with water as the old world, say what water is better than all the seas and the oceans.

Everything passes, but the sun, huge and heavy sun, the sun melting in the fumes of the night, but this wind, this wind bitter, absinthe-soaked, we never can forget ... Rich is the steppe

... Here it is spring, a young, covered with tulips, ocean color ... The camel grass is green and his quills are still tender and sweet.

But still - the morning in summer or winter, dark nights of rain or moonlight - always and foremost, steppe speaks to man of freedom ... She reminds those who have lost.

Vasily Grossman, Life and Fate .

Wiring A Sensor To An Outside Light

The kitten

Later it was learned by Klimov, the scout, that the Germans were preparing to burn a child and an old gypsy woman, suspected of spying. The day before, Klimov had left the laundry to an old woman who lived with his grand-son and a goat in a cave and told him he would return the next day looking for the laundry done. He wanted to get the old information on Gypsies. Had they been killed by Soviet shells or had they had time to burn at the stake German? Klimov crawled through passages that only he knew but a Soviet bomber of night had dropped a bomb at the location of the shelter of the old and there was neither old nor grand-son, and neither boxer Klimov shirts. Among the debris of logs and rubble he found a kitten. The kitten was in poor condition, he asked nothing, expected nothing, he must believe that life on earth was this: the noise, fire, hunger.

Klimov could never understand why he had suddenly filled the kitten in his pocket.

Vasily Grossman, Life and Fate .

Hidden Sharking In Japan

Edda Moser

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Hebdomad XXI per annum

He cast a glance around him - no, nobody was watching - and drew from his pocket a notebook long and narrow. On the cover was written in high angular letters: SOTTISIER. He stopped his first look at the title, then he flipped the book which more than half the pages were written, he wrote down is all he wanted to forget. He began by insert date, time and place. Followed the story of the event, which was to be another example of human stupidity. A well-chosen quotation, always new, served as conclusion. He never read his book of nonsense, he had only take a glance at the cover. He thought that later published under the title Walk a sinologist .

Auto-Da-Fe , Elias Canetti.

Write down everything that you would forget me seems appropriate. I also wonder if this is not the 3 / 4 of the newspaper I am over 30 years. Perhaps it should be split in two: what I want to remember, what I want to forget, but it would be ultimately pointless, as I reread little and with disgust opening books of 1989, 1993, 1996, 2000, etc.. even disgusted grimace. What was I dumb! I'm committed to not even remember, I threw everything, everything that happened indifference to me, as long as it will not return. It's like the non-existent, or skin in which I would go back for anything, even my newspaper last year. Wishes do we go when we CE1 CE2 past? I have nothing, I have no treasure box, just the library and the newspaper of today.

Hallucinations And Withdrawals From Smoking

True love

Fragonard, 1773, New York

True love is always worried and creates new concerns even before the elders are gone. He had never loved, he felt the same feelings that a young boy who knows nothing yet, that will soon be front and feels the two things: knowing and not knowing the agony even obscure.

Auto-Da-Fe , Elias Canetti.

Knot After Heart Cath

Through the windows

Through the windows we could see the look of the sky, but more attenuated, it was quieter in reality. A soft blue signified the sun shines, but does not come up to me, a soft gray also, it will rain, but not me. A slight noise was the drops that fell. We welcomed them coming from afar and they do not touch. We only knew the sun is shining, the clouds pass, the rain falls. It was as if we had built a cabin away from any relationship exclusively material, all that was only contingencies land, a huge cabin, large enough to contain the few goods on land are more than the earth and the dust returns to that life, as if it had been closed sealed and filled with few possessions. In this journey through the unknown, it seemed that we were not traveling at all. It was enough to ensure, through the observation windows, the permanence of certain natural laws: the succession of day and night, the restless and fickle climate, the flow of time: we traveled on site .

Auto-da-fe , Elias Canetti.

Unused Ideas For A Fridge

The castaway

photo Mandret

Each year, tens of thousands of music students embark on the stultifying colleges of music and are destroyed by teachers without quality, I thought. Eventually become famous and have still not understood, I thought upon entering the hostel. Gulda or become Brendel and are still there. Gilels become and are still there.

* It did not fit any inaccuracy. His speech did not carry that thought. He hated people who talked without ever going after their thought, so he hated almost all of humanity.

*

Our sombreur is a fanatic, once said, Glenn, died almost continually pity he feels for himself.

* Basically, we want to be piano, he says, not man, but the piano, we run from the man we are to become fully piano, and yet it necessarily fails, and yet we do not want to believe he is speaking. The interpreter at the piano (he never said pianist!) Is the one who wants to be a piano, and I tell myself there every day, wake up, I want to be a Steinway, not the man who plays the Steinway is the Steinway itself that I want to be. Sometimes we are close to this ideal, he says, very close, especially when we believe we are already crazy, almost on the path of this madness that we feared more than anything else.

*

Wertheimer was always afraid to go beyond his strength, Glenn had never thought he could one day go beyond his strength; Wertheimer apologized to remain at any time in any something he had not reason to apologize even when Glenn had no idea what it was like to apologize.

Thomas Bernhard, The Castaway .

Dbz Doujin Trunks Bulma

Henryck Gorecki: Symphony No. 3 Op. 36.

Kajze I podzioł

synocek my dear?

probably go in the uprising

evil enemy killed.

You niedobrzy people

DLO holy God

cemuście killed

synocka mine?

Zodnej yo props

byda no longer had,

§ bych though my

OCY old cried.

Even with my tears gorkich

Measles was secondary,

to eat synocka

I do not revived.

it lies there in the grave,

yo I do not know a candidate,

though August opytuja

wsandy between people.

Maybe nieborocek

lies in dołecku kaj.

and could se lygać

on your Hearth.

Hey, ćwierkeycie him there,

ptosecki you god,

when mamulicka

can not find it.

And you, god flowers,

kwitnijze about,

let them synockowi

though lies cheerfully.

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Hebdomad XX per annum per annum

After reviewing the entire trilogy of Lord of the Rings , reviewed Babette's Feast. I still love this film, grace and salvation through the Cafe Anglais. Obviously, you'd better watch it on a full stomach.

Yugioh Gx Duel Academy Max Magic

Hebdomad XIX

A man who sleeps : I look at once, with interest.

I can not go to half of the first episode of Dexter , so it bothers me. It is true that from reviewing all Twin Peaks, it makes me hard.

yesterday tried to hang Fringe, the first episode. Not even held a half-hour. Anyway, it looks too much like X-Files that I liked in those early seasons.

I still wonder why it's always an effort for me watch a movie, even a video of a few minutes, why I do not yet support audio books, or television coverage. Probably because it's not going fast enough. The image is slow, too slow to tell a story. Once there is an "action", a "plot" and that the films bore me. When it does not tell anything like my movies from the Far East favorite, or that the stories get mixed up like soup eel Twin Peaks, then I can taste, image, taste. It is enough.

Hemorrhoids From Waxing

Canticle of Canticles Canticle vs.

Deception reading the Spiritual Canticle of St. John of the Cross, which is said yet so good. Sentimentality sweet and too sweet, sugary-sweet on this side, as the writings of St. Francis de Sales. What I dislike most is that it is a virtuous rewriting of the Song of Solomon, the love poem hot, wild and not at all "appropriate" or virtuous, a thug song, really. But so much more powerful and more beautiful. Perhaps it is that it comes from the translation, but when you compare:

Deign therefore do not despise me,

Because you have found the black complexion

You can watch me well now,

For since your eyes are fixed on me,

You left me grace and goodness.

and I am black, but I am beautiful, O daughters of Jerusalem,

like the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon.

Look not at my complexion black

is the sun that burned me.

At least it made me want to reread the original poem, without seeing a purely allegorical reading (Both Jewish and Christian) as convincing as that of the pious interpreters of Hafez, striving to persuade the wine drunk by the mystical poet, and the handsome boy she nailed the heart is the divine reflection. Not that it is not as appropriate. It also the case.

Respiration Of Reptile Vs Mammals

Need poetic Milady

It is true that we usually judge the world in a narrative from our world of reference and that we are rarely the reverse. But then what does say with Aristotle (Poetics, 1451b and 1542A) that poetry is more philosophical than history because in poetry things happen necessarily in history while they accidentally happen? That means recognizing, reading a novel, that what happens there is more "real" than what happens in real life? That means that the Napoleon shot by Peter Besuchov is truer than the one who died at St. Helena, the characters of a work of art are more "typical" and "universal" than their actual prototypes, more effective and more likely? It seems that the drama of Athos, which can never be abolished in no possible world, meeting with Milady, is a witness of truth and greatness of the work of art, beyond any metaphor, by force of structural matrices of worlds, which we glimpse what it means to "poetic necessity."

Umberto Eco, Lector in Fabula .

Paper Absorbtion Science Project

Hebdomad per XVIII annum

I continue Sophie's Choice, a novel that I read, which I love writing, while the story itself, a priori, nothing to get excited (I I also read all the summary on wikipedia). But I love the writing and the narrative.

*

I'm a fan of bento that I made for my birthday offer.

*

Two or three times this week dreamed of psychiatric consultations with one or two doctors, but of the soul. Dreams of lessons, though no major announcements Underworld, because I hardly remember. That night, a doctor or psychiatrist to gray hair. Had I speak of my moments of despair? He questioned me: "Do you really know despair? No pain black night, but the gray point, flat, where they remain motionless, where you write more?" I stopped in my cinoche net, and had to admit: "No." "So you never known / experienced despair? "" No. "And that's it. I do not know if it was a reproach, a tune or perhaps, too, at the same time, a way of saying I did not have to denigrate that much, that my case was not as "desperate", exactly.

I had forgotten that dream. suddenly I remembered reading the next day this passage:

And, likewise, can not write to have originated in the real despair, one that did not invite to anything and everything and away first withdraws his pen to the writer. This means that the two movements have nothing in common but their own uncertainty, have nothing in common but the interrogative mode in which one can only grasp them. Nobody can say to yourself: "I'm desperate," but "you're desperate?" and nobody can say: "I write," but only "you write" Yes "you write?" M. Blanchot, Kafka Kafka From .

*

This morning, unable to get their hands on my ipod. I must go. I tell myself it will be an opportunity to listen to something else, the sounds of summer and in the morning. In fact, I am struck by all its ugliness. The high-pitched chirps of brat, all busy making a crisis on my way, cars, electric gates roaring, or chatter, everything is loud, discordant, arduous, human sounds such as mechanical sounds. Certainly, apart from the non-silence of nature, I do hear the music.

Then the idea struck me that I bear the least, such piercing shrieks of the brats should be about the fact that I am the angels of the spheres whenever I start rage (domestic) or I growl, for a yes or a no, for example its paumer iPod at home, or put herself in a bad mood at the sight of an apartment in disarray: it is also jarring, unwanted and stupid, and I guess in the heights, we must also sigh and stopped their ears: "Seriously it grow a little!"

*

When things outside and inside bother me, I get an extreme physical clumsiness. I do all fall - or falls from my hands - I hit, I lose everything. At first I thought that was precisely the effect of my impatience and bad temper: it is more in harmony with the world, so he takes revenge, but in fact, I wonder if this is not his message, his wise advice: "Forget it, let go of everything!" I'll make my profit. Same for the Missing something (I always forget everything): "Exactly, forget everything, you crazy-everything, leave it behind you, it's not you, it does not belong to you more if you cowards. "

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Kafka and the requirement of the work of Kafka Plays

Someone started writing, determined by despair. But the despair I can not determine, "it has always and immediately surpassed its goal" (Kafka, Diary, 1910). And, similarly, writing can not have its origin in the "real" despair, the one issuing invitations to a turn away from anything and everything and at first withdrew his pen to the writer. This means that the two movements have nothing in common but their own uncertainty, have nothing in common but the interrogative mode in which one can only grasp them. Nobody can say to yourself: "I'm desperate," but "you're desperate?" and nobody can say: "I write," but only "you write" Yes "you write?"

H.-P.Haack

* There is no favorable circumstances. Even if we give "any time" to implement the requirement of "everything" is not enough, because it is not the time to devote to work, to spend his time writing but to move to another time when one enters the fascination and the solitude of the lack of time. When you have all the time, there was more time, and external circumstances "friendly" have become as a result - unfriendly - there's more circumstances.

* What is demanded of Abraham, not only to sacrifice his son, but God himself, the son is the future of God on earth, for it is time which is, in truth, The Promised Land, the real, the only residence of the chosen people of God and his people. However, Abraham sacrificing his only son to sacrifice time and time sacrificed him will certainly not be made in the eternity of the hereafter: the Hereafter is nothing other than future, the future of God in time. The afterlife is Isaac.

*

is impatience that makes the term inaccessible by substituting a figure close to the intermediary. That impatience destroys the approach in preventing recognition through the figure of the moment.

*

Impatience is the fault. It was she who would rush the story to its conclusion before it is has developed in all directions, has exhausted the time measurement is in it, the indefinite has a high all true inauthentic where every movement, every partially false picture may be transfigured into an unshakeable certainty.

Maurice Blanchot, Kafka Kafka From .

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This is a world of hope and a doomed world, a world never closed and an infinite universe, that of injustice and of the fault. That itself said of religious knowledge: "Knowledge is both the degree leading to eternal life and the obstacles put in this life." must be said of his work: everything is an obstacle, but also can become degree. Few texts are darker, and yet even those whose resolution is without hope, remain prepared to reverse an opportunity to express ultimate triumph ignored, the radiation of a claim inaccessible.

*

"After the death of a man," said Kafka, a silence especially beneficial acts for a short time on earth compared to the dead, a Land fever has ended, we no longer see a dying continue, an error seems ruled out, even for the living is an opportunity to draw breath, so does one opens the window of the death chamber - until that this relaxation appears illusory and that the pain and start wailing. "

*

If the night, suddenly, is in doubt, there is only one dim light, twilight, which is sometimes remember the day sometimes regret of the night, late late sun and sun. Life is endless, it is more indeterminate than we do not know if we are excluded (which is why we seek in vain to catch solids) or forever shut up (and we turn to the desperate out). This existence is an exile in the strongest sense: we are not there, we are elsewhere and we never cease to be.

Maurice Blanchot, Kafka Kafka From .

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death, the great castle that we can achieve

To speak, we must see death see behind us. When we speak, we rely on a tomb, the tomb empty and this is what makes the reality of language, but at the same time the vacuum is real and death is being. There be - that is to say, a logical truth and express - and there is a world, because we can destroy things and cease existence. This is where we can say that there is maybe because there's nothing: death is the possibility of man, she is his chance is through her that we have the The future of a finished world, death is the greatest hope of men, their only hope of men. It why existence is their only real anguish, as clearly shown Emmanuel Levinas, existence scares them, not because of death that could stop it, but because it excludes the death, because that 'below the death she is still there, presence at the bottom of the absence, the day on which inexorable rise and set every day. And die, without doubt, is our concern. But why? Which is that we die, we just leave and the world, and death. Such is the paradox of the last hour. Death works with us in the world power that humanizes nature, which raises existence to being, it is in us as us the most human death than it is in the world, man does not know that because he is man, and he is man only because he is death in the making. But dying is breaking the world is losing the man of being annihilated, so this is also death lose, lose what in it for me and made her death. As long as I live, I am a mortal man, I am no longer capable of dying and death looming horrifies me, because I see it as it is: not dead, but unable to die.

The impossibility of death, some religions have immortality. That is to say they have tried "Humanize" the fact which means: "I ceased to be a man." But only the opposite movement makes death impossible by the death, I lose the advantage of being mortal, because I lost the opportunity to be man be man beyond death can not have that strange sense: be, despite the death, still capable of dying, continue as usual with, as horizon and the same hope, the death would have no other outcome than a "continue as if nothing had happened" etc.. That is what other religions have called the curse of rebirth: we die but we die because we badly hurt lived, we are condemned to revive, and we saw that, until now quite human, it becomes, in dying, a man blessed a man really dead. Kafka, Kabbalah and Eastern traditions, inherited this topic. The man walked into the night, but at night led to the revival, and he is vermin. Or the man dies, but in reality he lives, he goes from town to town, carried by rivers, known by some, aided person, the error of the ancient death sneer at his bedside and a condition strange, he forgot to die. But another believes life is that he has forgotten he died, and another, knowing that death, struggle in vain to die, death is there, the great castle that can not be achieved, and life was there, the homeland that we left on a false call, now it only remains to deal to work to die completely, but fighting is still alive, and all that closer to the goal makes the goal unattainable.

Maurice Blanchot, Kafka Kafka From .