A yer JSM was in Cordoba, but never was. Surrounded by poets, reckless situation. The road looked like a garland, and finally we just hoped the velvet night. Poets always want to spread the word to the end, Desiderio squeegee stone bridges. I was in Cordoba, in the memory of water in an elongated ridge muezzin. Everything went like that time, just below the rock, next to the source of cork.
Yesterday I was on the floor and friendship, because the word being built. And with just name, just to test the handle of a phoneme, can you feel sharp. With one word is enough, with a real word. ***
H ay too intrusive in writing and I doubt sometimes that I am not one of them. Too many outsiders who have forgotten that the word is located at the boundary. The limit is the natural territory of poetry and music. They embrace the qualities of being that are adjacent. For some, words are like loads ineffable never understand, like those constellations that hold the universe and to calibrate the eye at night. We, night night, but a reflection, we hope to put together a harmony that - despite being illegitimate, because it belongs to us, "at least stirs our ephemeral condition.
In Zweig's prose, for instance, there are real natural wonders. His speech seems a fluent route and streams that led to drunk. I read a few pages dedicated to Montaigne. In one of the most fascinating passages, I see that its attachment to the character lies in the separation of society to find itself as universal. That idea seems accurate. The more accurate to what's real in creation. Zweig writes
shocked about the comings and goings of Montaigne in his tower and worship which is his books. The books are not always the readers to be read, but because their presence ensures a dialogue and wait "has not been installed in the tower to be a scholar or a scholar." This statement leads the reader to an interpretation substantial: the books provide the necessary silence, dialogue only when the reader chooses only speak out when we are empty. This relationship is brewing in the need to respond to the readings, begins the entry in the margin reading and writing.
Montaigne spent an intrinsic knowledge of self-figuration, the writer. To be a writer had to set an aesthetic image in its pages, that is, the substance of his books, as noted at the outset. I wanted to show the properties of your being. ***
R eleyendo excerpts from Don Quixote , just one roll in those passages that go unnoticed and silent for the first reading. In those years, philological ecstatic, as he read a beam, only strictly adhered to certain narrative or linguistic characteristics. Truck that custom is to live, because I attend these days more with the statement that it expresante, worth the neologism, although he never said it best concept in better shape. So, to reread the story of Marcela and Chrysostom, I realize that Chrysostom decided it was just buried under the rock where the source of cork in which he saw for the first time, Marcela. The deceased had left other jobs for the abbots and Ambrose, his friend. This passage, lost in memory, rescued by rereading, retrieves the smile of old, that solemn sadness of the lyrics Cervantes, as anyone left in English letters.
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