The Handmaid's Taleworksheet

- Thirty-two Twenty-nine and Thirty

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Thirty-one


bounced, came and went, did not care, did not concern them, the tears were more noise, like water under the edge of the bow, or the reverberating rats in the shadows of the tanks. I cry, cry, Giovanni was concerned nothing more than fulfill their role, to say the words I should say, and noise would also be lost in the moment, and then sit quietly in his consciousness chameleon, adapting to time, to circumstances that required his name and his words, They completed it with the forms of that pathetic tears.

tears.

Ocean of tears: repeated words, sounds similar. How many times will have to suffer this expression? Tears. And yet there it was again, in his conscience, mimicking the reaction of similar circumstances, rotating in place, oiled, a more complex system of gears that, had he thought, would have imagined a watch, a clock of endless needles (or at least figure inconceivable) that roamed the area a thousand times, multiplying by a thousand and a thousand, and thousand. And the noise, the ticking rhythm to be invented measuring the immeasurable. It was fine and agreeing to the noise, thinking of them as mere noise, needed, as well as his shoulder and his words, and tears on her shoulders. It was fine as well, recalling (and this was a sound, a thought without consciousness of it, think for a mere reflection, or custom, or because the gear would spin and spin and spin ...) morning that he wanted to have second, every second, one by one, without thinking about the past, if not in those who remained to come, start now and wonder if the numbers I knew the names of the numbers who knew no ways, I reach for all the latter would have to tell. Up he tired, until he knew that not to count their numbers reach infinity, suspected, knew, at that age was impossible to assimilate the bearded God the beginning and the end of all things, including himself, was not possible to think of death, because her four years no one died, but would travel or be moved to heaven, a child could not think of death, although in time and in haste and in fear that time was not enough to contain, or numbers to tell, and the words to explain, to their determination (but that is, adult, male child) always come late, yet postponed, was delayed.

and did not realize.

As one listens to the rain, so he spent his life. ***





The consistency Liberato Carmela admired Giovanni was a counterpoint. And also was admirable, there was some glimmer of acceptance did not come to be under a wise look, an assimilation of the life lived without question, without question, an animal paradise, virgin forbidden fruit. This is what was in the successful Liberato movements Giovanni, appropriate to time, place, both to be without anyone noticing, like a window in a front window full of needed in the whole, but unnoticed by the individuality was a soldier, Giovanni was undoubtedly the hero without a name, the character that any complainant needed to build a story without which the hero was the story. Never mind the names, Giovanni was a trifle, but why, of all names, just would be called Giovanni? What other name is Giovanni? How many lives, how many days had passed before emptying into Giovanni? Dad B., Potter tradition, ever interested in his lineage of potters and came to a great, great grandfather who was not B, but another surname not know or wanted to pursue, named Liberato, and there died of known history, that of Giovanni, how far would you go? To what extent could get there ... Giovanni's story would die on him, because he was an unsung hero and thus consist in its history, Liberato someday write, if not previously seduced by the cow left abandoned and the almond root pipes. Giovanni

would not name, and yet unnamed fight with life (not life, to existence) to find one to know why they call it that and not like that, why Giovanni, though not called so. Marco Antonio, Julio Cesar, they all knew who and why, but Giovanni is so common, as simple as Luis Alberto, Jorge Luis, Jorge Alberto, etc. to repeated ad nauseam in this combination (and in tribute to whom, to whom? What Jorge Luis in the story might deserve a similar tribute? When Liberato had children, none of them call it that ... And he thought was right) .

Entranced by the movements, expressions, reactions, dialogue on issues dealing with familiar words with obvious answers that definitely known but necessary for all to continue, Liberato wondered if all that was life, just in case was witness to his future novel, or if I was actually wasting time, yours and the others, because he does not want to do anything served by women who cried hypocrisy and guilt, or by men acting on their obligation to act, in the meantime, life went on in other site, perhaps on deck, among the curious of the third, or perhaps on the upper floors, where the wealthier classes did not even suspect that the Mary Fioravanti had killed a man her family was crying, or the existence of a young man who wanted to live life and write. Well, they said, will be played there in the third, and try to take everything that could: the expression in gentle Giovanni absent, probably his hero, the smells that lived in the cabins of the exiles and now beginning to associate with death (not knowing, perhaps, that his reaction was successful, so successful, and yet a profound mistake, because death does not stank, were not the dead man or the future miasma, because she died, also in the act of dying, but the flavor was there, as more than a memory, perhaps a sign of passage, a pennant of claim or a mark that is left for everyone remember and learn, remember and live, remember and acknowledge that nothing lasts forever and now is the time.) What he needed most were dialogues Liberato, words, phrases the real exchange that, unlike the few books (so few) that I had read in the underground home, never dealt with important topics or lexicons used grand, if life is about important issues, almost always the case sideways, hiding the truth behind metieran of words not afraid. The dialogues of life were repeated clichés, seeking only to cover the silence, life was boring, mediocre, and it may well happen without words, because the insinuations were always valued more than the verbal statements, though these inevitably led to disputes; however there were the words, necessary, fair, almost a shield, a barrier against the dying death itself, a spell to zoom out to show that now, only now there was life.


Thirty-two


America!, Shouted at the exit. America!, Led them to cry. America, with a forced smile, almost carved in wood, a grin that could not be deceived only if looked at his eyes. The eyes were not smiling. They were seeing now, and mind were drawn images of people, the path of smoke rings Pietro, Alma feeding the child, but there was no place for the future. The future could tell, could scream, and could forward them scream but I could not see. What he believed the future, they were only the shapes of their desires, and even with the help of the will would have anticipated a body, a real existence, which really felt Lucio was a terrible fear, would rather feel like a donkey or, worse, a carrot. The future and America were concepts that were lost in fear itself, synonymous with fear. Best snuff and return at first, the happiness that spending on account in the morning and claimed that life in the evenings, there were more than fear, fear and more fear. America, the diffuse target, the unreality behind the sea, had been also for walrus and the walrus was dead.

was day, clear morning, calm and warm sun, anticipating a storm perfect harmony, but harmony in the end, why, then, was allowed early fall, why is immersed in the desired change without trying, why was the third of Mary Fioravanti and not sitting on the edge of their village, where starting (or concluding?) the gravel road and dry powder, together with Pietro smoking, trying in vain to form rings on the cheek shots, in the village had had a woman who might well have called Alma, although it was not, and have fathered a child, or just have stayed forever sitting on the roadside imagining that beyond the hills there were other peoples and other nations, and a future that haunt him because it would be theirs, because they would be struggling with the risk of losing. Interestingly

have thought of a battle, not war, it is curious that, unconsciously, had accepted that each confrontation with life, with the moment, there was only one of many struggles of the Great War. It's funny because Lucio refused to vegetate would have preferred a war was played in wars all die or win, die or lose, win and die, or lose and live, no gray, the result was final, the end of day, in bloody field, each knew what the picture of the situation, and that would be one that would persist until the end, but the battles never was all that. In battles could escape alive, with a defeat on his shoulders, but with the obligation to return for the next skirmish, which perhaps will come out victorious, although this was not definitive. Interestingly

have thought of a battle when it had happened in the cabin of Mary Fioravanti thirty-five was the outcome of a war, Don Guido. With him and everything was said. Interestingly

so sad and heavy as it was, despite the great morning, has agreed to continue fighting even if you tremble legs.

wanted to smoke, but Francisco was asleep.

Finally she said, and rolled a cigarette with his snuff. He breathed in, hit the cheeks and spread smoke report.

smiled.


Chapters Thirty-three - Thirty-Four - Thirty-five

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Veintinueve

-Name of the deceased.

-Del died, say.

"You said.

-Guido, Guido G.

-date of birth, place of origin. Four

-April 1876, Genoa.

-Reasons leading to death.

- Life?

"Death, of course.

-life, I suggest.

"Well, well, what suffering an illness?

"Not that we know.

"Yesterday a toothache, but it took the boy Lucius, here.

"Hey, I, well ...

"Quiet, please, respond only when asked.

"Yes, but I ...

"Where is the wheel of the deceased. "Not

.

- What's Not?

-La into the sea.

"Well, well, the doctor and will review.

- Is the sea?

"No, sir, the mouth of the deceased. Are all familiar?

"Just us, Captain.

- And the gentlemen?

"They are our neighbors on the road, we met here.

"Yeah, well, well

Write a sailor:

-ve-ci ... Ce or neighbors "with that?

"With that, I think.

-Vee-sss-si-no.

"Well, that's all, thank you my most sincere condolences, ladies.

- When will asearlo?

"Right now, if they wish.

- Can we watch over him? If only I had flowers.

"Yeah, sure, but what of the flowers is difficult ...

- And then? Where do you keep?

- Save it? No, ladies, I regret to inform you that the body will be thrown into the sea.

"Hey, Captain, you say, have some consideration for the ladies, how will you say to throw the body of Mr. Guido, a little touch ...

"Please, gentlemen, if you do not belong to the family, I beg you to stay away from fulfillment.

"What say the ladies.

"Okay, guys, okay.

- Is it what?

Sir Don Guido very reluctant to sea water, can not do this.

- Madonna Santa, Regina!

- What! What!

"Captain, can not throw it into the sea, Mr. Guido is ours as well, he would have liked to come to America, we would bury him there.

"Sorry, ladies, health and hygiene reasons we can not keep the body in the ship. I understand your situation, but that is what we call the laws and common sense. We can not risk the health of other passengers ...

"From the first, say.

-... The other passengers, who like you and I have the right to maintain your health.

"But, sir, please.

"Sorry, ladies.

"At least let us watch over him as God intended.

"Two days is a long time.

"Please.

-...

-...

-Le grant clock. The doctor will review the body. To be sure there are no signs of any contagious disease, this sector will remain under quarantine.

"But Captain, our cabin is across the deck.

"Sorry, you and the boy should stay here. Send a sailor with mattresses and bedding.

-can stay in our cabin.

"Thank you, thank you.

"As for you, sir ...

-R., Lucio R. R. Lord -...

, do you have permission to practice medicine?

- Me? uh, yeah, sure, sure ...

"Aha ... Well ... Well. Ladies, Miss, I'm sorry what happened.

Thanks.

"Yes, thanks.

"You're welcome.



Thirty


remembered and chipped gray walls, with traces of lime refusing to neglect; resembled a wasteland and gray, so gray and leafless branches, remembering a pale blue winter sky, but with a hot sun, too warm for any January. Resembled a fountain filled with almonds and an empty wine that smelled. He remembered the glasses, circular marks on the table the shapes of the feet on the ground floor: the traces. He remembered the candles and smoke free, and the first silence was when everyone was gone. He remembered that roamed the streets, as always, your friends, but quiet, pushing only when one rose the voice of what is appropriate, throwing small stones that bounced near and raised a warning fugitive dust. He remembered the braying of Serafin, uncomfortable with the thirst and flies. He remembered the taste of water, the thin cracks of dirty dishes, the amount of invisible lines of the webs of spiders that were reborn every week in the corners of the house, the smell of the barn, the sounds that distinguish the turning wheel of the floats the people, the words, the last words of his mother, but could not remember the pain. Francisco asked if she had cried that afternoon, he wondered if he had allowed a tear or had remained unchanged as there was in fact his father, lying in the shade in the afternoon, east of the house, overlooking the town, or Beyond the village, where the gray rocks and trees stretching to the end of the world. Not remember, nor remember when or why he decided that the moor was not the world that his father was not the law, and that life was nothing but an absurdity, a whim of something or someone other than God, because that day, angry with him, decided to there was no God, he denied it, but neither remembered this and offered the advantage of having its own mysteries unveiled the guide told him and taught him and he pointed beyond the gray villages and moorland existential.

Why worry, then, why this strange death hurt him, why he thought that if the pain was after all not remember ever having felt pain, just a heaviness, a sting in the center of the stomach, or a lacerated hands along the edge of a pipe, but that was not pain, but blood flowing. It was red, a foreign substance, an absurdity that nothing was changed by being there or not. Like Don Guido, death, there was a body, and surely was no pain, but the world would walk, and countries would know nothing of Don Guido died, even beyond the limits of the third of the people is Maria Fioravanti worry about the sudden absence of pain perhaps caused. Maybe it was pain, but why it hurt, and how he knew that it was pain. Francisco committed the fundamental error: the words gave more importance than they really were, the words were nothing more than a copy, a reflection of a substance or a feeling, perhaps of an action, but those words were neither the substance nor the sentiment or action, should have been stripped of his words, meanings and subjective wrong, forget that what we felt could be named as arbitrary as pain or sorrow or distress, or even satisfaction, or would be called in the language that was , had to abandon the signs and go with the feeling anonymous, stop worrying about the anonymity, and smoking calmly, without thinking about the concept of smoking, and probably would have felt that something for which no words and proper names.

"Uncle.

"What do you, Julian.

- Why are you crying?

- Me? Nothing, Julian nothing is the smoke of his pipe. Come, let's see how we accommodate this evening.

"Yes, come on.

"Yes, come on. Yes, come on. That's right dude, come on. Sure man, you're right, not to follow your directions if you are my uncle and you're older. If man, go. " Why, he asked Julian why he could not contradict, at least once in life and say no excuses, best was on the cover, who preferred not to know, who would like nothing better that not seeing how they would accommodate that night, he had never wanted to go to America, and America would never accept to be together with him. Why, Julian, why think of the old, back in Spain if the old man had left behind, or beside, or below, or elsewhere depending on where you looked, it was him, Julian Á. who moved, and not his father. It was he who advanced or retreated (obedient, always obedient), and not his father. Why not do what your heart is required, why not refocus itself and begin to interpret the clear messages that sent her heart. Why do not obey himself, if someone owed obedience, and not the other, the old man, his uncle, the ship that had imprisoned and where he wanted, but let him choose the path, or warning that his election would irreversibly lose life. Why do not prefer the north when the boat always southwest, why not jump into the ocean, or why not steal a boat and row to the north, always north, forward, because the north was on, carry where you take, because it was he who moved, not the boat, he provided it, but back now, slipped, dragged him, a force that took the shoulder and inability to move, and the rebel effort was how stripped of soul, leaving her helpless, at the discretion of the boats and all the forces that would dispute it, would pull it until it shreds, then abandon trample and destroyed, because a soul in parts not used for slave. Why could not tell you (first to admit) I did not want to go to the cabin to see how they would accommodate that night, damn the fucking time it was dead walrus, as if the walrus had something to do with their indecision. Damn the fucking time you came to Fioravanti, fucking each whores hours in which the events had happened without him decide. Damn whores unrequited life, damn the fucking smell of sweat, damn the cover of this fucking bitch emigrant ship, damn the fucking America, damn the first because they will always be first, and cursed by boluda last there in the background, hoping for the mere fact of being past, damn, damn all.

Chapters Thirty-one - Thirty-two

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Chapters Twenty and Twenty-eight Chapters Twenty and Twenty

Twenty

Vas barefoot, and feet quiet. Going barefoot and go with me, or go with you, or we just go. You can not assimilate, I can not feel your pain, but I, I swear I want. But your tears are not mine, I just I feel it coming, or I, or we, mixed or isolated, but visible, complete, and aware of one another, at least I am the one and I the other, although I prefer to imagine that, too, like me, conscious of the way , your condition Luna.

Luck finally made me a wink, life, finally gave me the signs, you're here, next to or ahead, sometimes behind, but you're here, more than a Unit lackluster in the vast blue. I rejoice your tears unseen, I can not help it, because I know you've slipped, your shaft is no longer the same, and your face repeated the other is infected, the occult, the inextricable to everyone but me, I am the beholder of the world beyond Earth, in this way the wood is damp and salt fog and pain for premature death. I would also accompany the pain, but I can not, I can not, I can not even want.

Today I know that death is a fact that sooner or later, that this or that, for me or anyone. Today I know that death is and so does not affect me. Gone is the future, death is why the disappearance of the future, and who is your father has died, Esperanza; your home, your cause, your right, and yet you're here me.

And so I'm happy.

selfish and happy.

***

Nobody wants it, but everyone is invited to look around when it comes to the next; Death leaves a trail, signs that the living recognize and pursue, follow them because they know That already won what I wanted, believing themselves to be saved, knowing that maybe they have turn to the next minute will therefore, to avoid thinking about the way that a persons called both . Walrus is dead Lucio -think and the world goes on, yesterday suffered and was happy, cried and celebrated, and sleep thinking about the future, tomorrow, perhaps with fear, or desire to begin a good fuck , start, and now no more than an empty shell, today is the bunch of meat in hours start to stink, and will swell and will withstand the rigor that was sagging when breathed and smiled.

not know them, do not know their names, are a lot of people traveling in the third of Mary Fioravanti and only now repairs on their faces, in their colors, aromas, and recently there were now he sees, and knows senses alive and behind them the same shadow that projects no longer Don Guido. The same shade is charging Lucio, but this morning was not particularly inclined to allow an existence he sees in others and that is all, and that's okay, so he's fine. Someone comes over and asks him, he responds with vague data: name, the province of origin, nothing more, and even if he wanted to be more friendly to the requirements, do not really know anything more about him, except that it is the father of a girl named Esperanza and yesterday he had escaped from a wheel, but rather silence that fact, believing that it is not important, or perhaps because it loads like a stone embedded in the shoe, slightly uncomfortable, a suspect would be better to banish, Lucio, why, why ... What is irrelevant in any case, and therefore also silent, is responding to the others.

Ajenos -think ... for some reason, Lucio feel the pain. Even when some clueless gave believing condolences to the family, accepted it without comment ...

...

... Lucio felt hand and could not understand why. Don Guido meant nothing to him, nothing since the impulse I had felt for Hope, the game, now it was gone, now it was still morning and noticed a subtle change in the routine of his life. From the hall you could hear the cries of women, the circle of onlookers raised their demonstration of compassion every time a voice broke into the cabin, thirty-five. He thought it might be desirable in and cooperate with Giovanni and Liberato, but the sun was too intense and too the vital impulse that, without him noticing, and remained elevated him and took him to the American mind, and the future. So, a background image, almost blurred, shy, but that image, that momentum, were the stars of tomorrow, like every morning, and prevented him from plunging into the pain and the face of death.

Poor Don Guido, felt almost obliged to pity, but just wanted to smoke, and only hoped that Francis promised to return to snuff, then a cigarette, fat, good fat, turn it on, and let the smoke invading the veins, the blood arise charge of tingling and slight dizziness in the first breath, let the smoke stung in the throat, which invade the lungs and then expelled slowly through your mouth first, then nose, and if there was a rest, returning to the lungs, obedient to the rhythm of breath, and expel it with force upward guided by the lips ...

... With the second breath, taking advantage of the weak sea breeze that came -very calm, very calm, rain-soon would form halos perfect legs bl; the drive out with a short breath, or perhaps prove the technique taught to him by Pietro, in the village knew Pietro expel smoke rings with just unlock the cheeks, was his favorite grace, sitting on a rock at the edge of the slope where he opened the way to die in the village, the repeated again and again; Lucio may prove, perhaps, knowing useless, because never before achieved and indeed content with the slightest encouragement, and even was always best to avoid halos, because the rings were an achievement Lucio half and also the duty of memory, Lucio feel the triumph only if he could lock and unlock the cheeks, and accompany the white wheel, almost substantial, with the crash of bones, like Peter, back in the village on the slope, in the limit in the way that Lucio himself dared to walk, because if something wanted Lucio was smoking and smoke halos with better snuff.

First was to leave the town without looking back, but sensing that his friend had spent the last farewell hug and halos like, then it was the port and Alma, and she with them, smoking in the room, trying in vain to the loops that only were possible with the aid of a slight breath, swallowing smoke to fool the mind, ideas, to claim his blood drunk by snuff, sitting on the edge of a window that showed the docks and boats and the clatter of people walking away as he tried to lock the cheeks, over and over again, promising better luck with the next cigarette, and was immediately next to deceive the time, this time to time, and reality, to the claims of Alma and the cries of the child, and on the streets of packages stacked on the edge of the plates, and white handkerchiefs, and the sirens and steam, fog, wet pavement and covered the steps of arriving and departing voices and tears in silence, broken sighs, undecided between the hopeful pain and joy, and he was Pietro, Pietro trying to be on the edge of the road, anchored, tied to the neck by the invisible chain that only preconceived limits allowed, but at least let him the time and courage to demonstrate their skill with the smoke and cheeks, and he was Pietro, aware that his network had been more extensive, but string to the end, leaving in the fourth and Alma, in love and the girl, but very far from each other, Lucio, who was not able to form rings or patient enough to endure, still, the image of a road waiting for him, hence the boat, not looking back, with a good supply of snuff in his pockets to sit and smoke, sit and wait, sit and watch the sea and try to avoid rings with the technique of Pietro; such some time ago, where possible support the distance, the absence of Peter and the people of Alma and girls, because in the afternoon .... Evening ... and at night ...

The night was forget that there was a shadow in which everything is nothing, either, as Don Guido, could die, or even decide his death. The night was losing the arguments of the morning was to look back and see Pietro and the people, but especially to Alma, and most of all to the girl. The night your child, and love, and pain, pain of love. The night was looking desperate cries drown, stir the conscience to that of the morning we serve, by God, it would be useful. Lucio ready to jump the boundaries, to lose, to recognize their guilt, they said, he shouted: "Better still with you, do you care if you're alive, do you care for them if As you all will be dead or alive. What you care about life and guilt, guilty life, as long as you snuff to smoking. "

then palpated his bag at the edge of dawn, and pledged that America would buy the best.

Twenty-eight

had been a premonition, the pain was present in the night had been nothing more than an echo of the now the silent anguish of the incredible reality I said loudly that his father had died. I could not believe, felt the pain, but pain that stemmed from the combination of the words death and father of the ideas represented separately, interspersed substance concepts, but not the pain that I had imagined (if it ever had been allowed to think) for the time after the death of his father, this was unrealistic, insensitive, as if the absence is not more than passing, and that at night he would return and kiss her, and would leave the room after dinner.

had read in novels, scenes ripped tears of pity, desire flowing into the pages and embrace the orphan child, because somehow, as she read, she was the child as the father was, in life and in agony, Esperanza, in the books, it was everything and was all and felt like they, was the words that explained the pain, the pain felt dumb, suggested, but he was also one that was the sum of all the pains, that history and the above, adding their own, never as deep as those who lived in the books, the old pains reborn with death and pity and the desire to be there to embrace the hero, to embrace herself, although she seemed pains as futile.

This pain was different from that which was cured with tears and forget, with a new book, with laughter, or adventures. This pain was not caused unfading and tears. The idea was father to one side, the killing of the other idea, and under his bare feet burning the opening that opened to swallow not to show deep and dangerous, and ultimately comforting, but leaving it there on the edge, open your feet . That pain could not cry, could not be drained. And it was impossible, a pain impossible for an impossible reality. Death and father. Father and death, the concepts near caused him distress. Death and father, father and death, but refused to bind and forming dead father, dead father, his father is dead, dead dad. Impossible, impossible, impossible, so I could not mourn, so was the pain, sadistic imagination, for their unwanted thoughts, fear. It was a lie, it was a truth lies, what would you tell the captain? What had killed his father? Hope

not know how to lie.

Hit Antonio. There was no response. Expected. How much should be expected to return to knock on the door of a captain? What would you say?

If it was Anthony who speak, say he has killed a man, Guido G., thirty-five passenger cabin of Mary Fioravanti, and those words would be true. But if hope should say that he was his father died, and would not be true, were the words, concepts, and language to form sentences, but lacked the substance and facts, because nothing that Esperanza say may sound true. Hope not know how to lie, had wanted to close the book, that everything had been a history of others, their own but others, and embrace and mourn, along with her, mourn.

I cheated, I know I cheated, because I think me and you're not, because I give the forms of my moon. I know I cheated and yet I persist, I return to the path and look up and see you but not you. Yes, yes you, you should be, Esperanza. Now I could mourn and you would see my tears and I should not, I should not, because yours are invisible and the time corresponding to your pain, not mine, not I, not I, not I think, Hope, I should not challenge or question you, not is a lie, you are, you hope, my moon, which never comes, and he always is. Which I viewed from the edges, from a distance that extends as attempt the advance and I wait, wait, wait for me because that way you know, I'm going to you, aware of the deception ... no, no, no, no cheating on me, I do not. You, Hope, my Moon, my new moon, the moon that shines at night in America, and that sometimes comes during the day, as a unit, Luna comes to say goodbye to the sun. Luna Luna arrives and is invented because he knows that in heaven there is no name or conscience, or freedom. Luna always broken and always will rotate, slave of time and forms, anonymous, with your face, knowing that you moon but not your name is Luna, my Hope. I come to you, my road leads to heaven, I know, but many times I've climbed and I climbed, I climbed to the top and I've realized that I was still on the ground that it is always possible to go higher. I thought at the highest peaks is only possible look up and check distance, or look forward and discover a higher cost, or look down to find the path that leads me towards it I cheated, I know I cheating when I search the top and not you, it's you who should seek for the paths are not ends but means to reach, the summit should not be my goal, you must be, and when I finally can say, when he finally accepts it, then I can fly. But I cheated, I still cheating, and I give the forms of my moon of the moon I see from the top without realizing that your forms are not given more than for you, not me who is, I just discover you. Hope, Hope, when they finally accept my mistake, then I will raise and fly and you catch up on the top, and you'll be mine, moon nights of my America, you will be mine also in the days, blue skies days those in which the Moon comes to say goodbye to the sun. No lie, I am not mistaken, you're my moon but you are not mine. You're mine, Esperanza. No, I am not mistaken, I know I do, so I return to the road and slopes; your name drives me, and soon you'll be mine.

Chapters Twenty-nine and Thirty

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Twenty words, voices, faces and intentions were those of America, Argentina, but the familiarity was more than exaggerated; had flags and shields that were Argentineans were from Italy and spoke Italian men, like women, even boys. As he was Italian, speak Italian, and did so with enough verve, he thought he would have no problem, that anything he had imagined would be such insurmountable barriers. It was daylight, a beautiful day of low clouds and grayish colors, some cold but not both, the sun appeared intermittently and when he did, remarked the green and yellow of dead leaves and pine somewhat darker. The floor was wet, the trees too, and houses, and men, but there was no reason to suspect that it had rained. Could be seen clearly, moreover, that it did not rain for months. But everything was so wet and gray, sometimes yellow and then gray again. And awed contemplation of the environment had been lost forever without necessarily repent, but he was interrupted by high mountains and turned his attention to them. Interestingly, the peaks also appeared moist; was no snow, no, that was beyond dispute, because it was the white peak that seemed attacked by water. That was the America, it was Argentina and was looked looked to where new images which wonder and love them. So different all together, so new and promising futures varied and variable. Where was the flat course of which he had heard? Where were the gauchos on horseback, a poncho, rounder and mate? Here in America everything was fantastic and real, because fantasy and beauty that surrounds it, that great unknown, was the land of his past, was what he already knew, but better, simply better. And there was even a sea, and a great river, and ships, of which more and more people descended from all countries but speaking a common language, his, who used always and always used to say that and say, to count and recount, to tell the world that spoke and saw the world as we had and saw him. Who could lie and say, hey, I do not understand what you say! Who would be able to issue such expletive language that united them, did not modulate the same words, did not conform to the same life, they were not thinking people, and was not a life? How could that try to annoy someone with such nonsense? Of course I understand! Everyone would! Because the words used would be those that had given life, the life that everyone saw and lived. And in that live their lives, who would be responsible for interpreting the string, or a drum, and who would be responsible for reflecting it in a wood or stone, and even on a cloth and clothing, one potter would shape their art pottery by applying to the language of life, the same thing the fisherman to cast their nets and the stable boy to renew the waste hay and clean, even the lady, kneeling on the river, fregaría their white robes with words of life, and the old, in her rocking chair with your amplifier hear brass music that others executed with the language of life, that was the language he used and used to talk and talk, for count and recount, to explain and ask. No, no, impossible to tell someone not to understand his words, his intentions, that place would not allow such nonsense, everything was perfect, and, who knows why, wet. There was dullness and repetition, and endless space in which mad with boredom. There was all new and all beautiful and all that remains to do, where everyone knew what life was like and what was the language used to express themselves, should not be afraid to speak, of course not, talk about those mountains, the city at the foot of the mountain, moor sudden would no less perfect and beautiful at the same site which had been the mountain of the incredible absence of animals, except those he wanted, those that appeared as soon as the names and went when he did not care, when he had said and told, seen and sentenced. Ah, perfect America, Argentina perfect men and women like him, Argentines of their language, and his soul and his desire, like that girl who was born without name or face (or if it was but did not see or did not remember, but this was a face) that woman was a sense, was more than a body and aroma, was a rapture in the soul, itself a joy, joy of joys, happiness archetypal promised last, all this was that girl who now disappeared behind a bush yellow suddenly the moment he touched the sun. The girl was gone and yet he was not afraid, because I was sure, deeply secure that simply articulating his words and she would never again would leave, and would monitor any other approach him because the words and the reporter matched his words, and Author consent to such appropriation. I was so sure that he preferred to postpone the meeting until they had seen or heard or interpreted or understood all the words recited life, and the variations which he held, and the subtext that is allowed, and the silences that would also say. All I wanted to see, and all wanted to live, because there in America, in this land of metallic name, deserved lived and heard everything. What pleasure, what a tremendous sense of peace was to step aside and watch the lights that were born and died, days passed while he was an instant, anonymous faces and voices as soon approaching as they went towards their lives and thoughts, that would not be different from yours, not in essence or in words that could explain the essence. Blessed land, blessed and unfading joy, how much was there to take root and how much its boundless promise to avoid the roots. There was life, and spoke, and smiled, and allowed the time to live, a time eternal, because that was what was needed, the eternity of paradise, where else but there was the heavenly kingdom. Blessed land, land around the world, men of all the earth, they hear his voice, he would hear his voice and words their ideas and thoughts, allegories, dreams, your world enclosed in stories of cows or pipes or existential wars, all of them would hear the great Liberato B., B. South now finally sat up, opened his mouth y. ..

- Liberato, Liberato!

"Hey, why, what, what happens, who ... Giovanni, what happens.

-dressed, died walrus.

- What, Who?

-dressed, you see, died Don Guido, the father of Hope.



Twenty


Lucio preferred to stay in door, smoking snuff Francisco Francisco. Julian Giovanni and comfort dealing with women. Liberato, with bleary eyes and half closed, her hair swirling, volunteered to go get the doctor or the captain, but Anthony stopped him, said he would, that was the best, Hope wanted to accompany him and Antonio, a bit dazed, decided it was fine. Liberato remained in the cabin, in silence, perhaps offended, but more likely is that he still had his head somewhere else, somewhere that was not the cabin thirty-five of Maria Fioravanti, and undoubtedly smell better, it took several minutes move just one foot. Then he sat Giovanni, and tried to hear the words he said to Mrs. Regina. And tried to understand why he preferred to talk to Regina that seemed the most complete, and not Mary, given to crying as a midwife wake people pay. Carmela prayed a rosary in a silent stranger, without even moving his lips, without allowing an opening in his eyes, which disclosed an intrusion destroyed or indifferent. Giovanni murmured in a tone incomprehensible and the few words that came to correspond to a dialect Liberato improper, were not words in the language of life, that was clear, but it should have been the case, or did the death was also part of life? Were they looking for words to comfort a life before death? Were they? Perhaps the problem was that he consoled himself no longer a fear or pious feelings, but a sign of selfishness and vanity, because he was crying he did for himself, for the pain felt by the sudden awareness of his helpless solitude of being truly and hopelessly alone in an existence where the other is always disturbed and impeded and stood and held back and was shunned and unwanted until death do you believe his wishes, until the crying was evidence of the guilt and remorse. Those were the tears in front of the dead and maybe that's why she had no words of encouragement and consolation was simply because they did not, and was this the reason why I did not feel the need to come to Regina and at least offer condolences, support a hand on his shoulder, to convey the warmth of companionship and solidarity, as it did with Carmela, which read without tears and without gestures, without reason to suspect that someone cared a suffering or death of don catzo Guido, Carmela was the only living death of the old without egotism; was she the only coherent and the other, which believers say God and Christ, heaven and immortality, and cried inconsolably for death for no reason, however Carmela prayed in silence, without opening their eyes to demonstrate if he was or if he cared a catzo, prayed for God to receive him in his bosom, and perhaps made him happy that way, even she would be happy, happy for the old, because he was now with God, the only Will and free from all evil, she did believe, really believe it, but who would have allowed a smile, a demonstration by the husband being now dead? Doña Carmela was the only consistent person in the cabin, perhaps of humanity, so Liberato came and put his hand on his shoulder, and waited until she looked, Liberato Carmela's eyes looked, then bent and He kissed her forehead, it was not for sympathy but admiration. Carmela continued its relentless and impassive prayer, without being a victim, because he felt guilty.



Lucio ***

smoked and waited. Francisco smoked and, without noticing it, clung to the pipe as if it were the only boat on the wreck of the Maria Fioravanti.

"We're not nothing," said Lucio.

"And to say it.

"Today we are ...

- Eh!

"It was a good man. "Like all

. Did you know him well?

"No, just here, the ship.

"Oh, I thought ... as you said it was a good man.

-is that God takes only the best, right?

"So they say, is an unjust God.

"Do not think, it seems that the sky is better than here.

- How can you say?

"I know of no one who has fallen sorry.

- Do not you fear death?

"Not now, I am not such a good man still ... God takes the best.

- And what about the worst? Why do you think that God determines the death of the wicked?

- esgunfien Why not?

- How?

"I can not get mad, but you do not seem very Christian.

"I'm not angry, I'm not.

-Ah ... In short, we are nothing.

"And you say it.

"Today we are ...

- Tomorrow?

, also ... That is bad.

"Now that seems a skeptic you are.

"I told you, I'm not good ...

-... And that's not afraid to die, what would kill?

"But ... but ... look at things happen, if I barely pulled out a tooth!

- A tooth? And what does the tooth with my question?

"Look, buddy, do not know what questions have to do with the death of a walrus.

- Who?

-Stop, stop, do not you have a little snuff at hand? mine, you know, I left it in the thirties.


Stupid, stupid thousand times, how intended, Francisco, gathering followers to the cause if handled so badly? The anxiety drove him, mother him out and he allowed such a thing happened, as if he had never gone through the same experience. Francisco was cursed by the same error, trouble, going out with the mallet hand as the missionaries of the conquest, when he should go sideways, insinuate, let smile were them, their peers, I climbed the pedestal that held it up there, so alone. No, Francis, you really was too certain as to pretend that they believe, so with silliness, with distress, with words that had no North or destination port. So no, Francisco, and no. They should open their minds and not he to them, because otherwise, otherwise ...

"Hey, Don Francisco, are you okay?

"Yes, yes, of course, why you ask me.

"But, do not you see? Largue that pipe, it's bleeding hand.


Things did not invite to your snuff, looking for excuses not to open the bag and give it some of his good cigar, they said generous fellow, and that could be seen resorting to flogging by a pipe for not give his snuff. That brought himself where he would fit better. He should, Lucio, a thousand bags of snuff with which invite the need of a good smoke.

"We're not nothing," said Lucio.

"And you say ...

"And some, less than less.


Chapters Twenty and Twenty-eight

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How To Get Pvc Primer Off Floor

Chapters Twenty and Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty





Twenty s

because I was alone, where would drag him his life and his loneliness, he left the cabin and went to the starboard deck, avoiding abrupt steps, through the rooms and the dark with the lightness of air filling the lungs, looking for something (someone) to himself, perhaps, because who could intercept it, but he was alone, and was the only equally among all similar.

Francisco sensed loneliness, no one else was walking at that hour, secretive, almost like a spy (Although he was not a spy). To anyone but Francis might have happened out of the cabin and walk in the dark cover that night too absent, too lackluster. Maybe if the haze, still high, would have allowed a glimpse of heaven, then ... Would he have accepted a company suspected? But it was blue black, darkness, silence, too restricted to one alone and helpless on the cover of Maria Fioravanti. That solitude, silence, were not human, or even acceptable to a human, but were certain doubts; Francisco doubt even now, even his being a human, a man needed the other, the company the enemy, fear, and Francis, though he feared the loneliness and fear that founded the absence of God, preferring to feel that way, unique, equal and just. Do you prefer? Which of the possible answers was the lie? It is clear that God could not exist, it was impossible to exist because otherwise never allow Francisco suffer anguish that will not allow him even to light his pipe and human knowing, and lonely, and anxious. God was a being obnoxious, but if there was, why it took them with him? Do Francisco have doubts about God, or simply was angry with God? I was angry that there was no doubt, and anger lasted years But against whom was this anger, against whom, if God was, God was an absurdity, it was nothing, was absent, as he was for the rest of the men who did not see and did not know, for the rest of the humanity that he knew nothing of a man alone and distressed, named Francisco, who was smoking on the cover of Marie Fioravanti night. But he was, he was Francis., The only man on that ship. Existed.

Francisco "exist?

would have liked to have the strength of one boy who believe absurdities called God had wanted to record their convictions to fire in the soul, so that nobody could wrest even he, Francisco, the existing.

Francisco was willing to die and kill for the cause, the idea that there was no idea but nevertheless it was. Well he was, and thinking it felt better, even superior to others like it, but it was angry that absence, that pale voice now and then resurfaced and pushed him into the abyss, into the mist that now down on the deck and could not see beyond their own nose, and for seeing that he saw nothing, because beyond his nose was a cover and a path to the cabins but not see it, because solitude and silence were only demonstrating that he knew to know about the noise and the company then his spirit until it dwarfed the size of a walnut. And he felt bad, felt the worst of all others, the last of the scale, a wasted man, not even a draft man, and that smallness, like greatness, was proportional to the nothingness of their Faith Each time, as now, that Francis suspected a tear that would be impossible to heal, he remembered the poor and impoverished states and lying repeatedly and took over the doctrine of men, doctrines, ideas scratched denial ideas, founded his skepticism as he had taught his guidance, using the words of the enemy to justify own, and lit his pipe catechumen ...

And there, amid smoke and loneliness, simulating blindness, he resorted to his soul with the hope of seeing.

And then he felt better, in the end it felt better.

be why, when leaning on the railing of the deck, imagining, knowing that beyond the fog and the night still was the sea, the same as during the morning saw was gray or blue, imitating the sky determining the existence of a color in the sky ... knowing this, he began to mourn.

and silently wept the first tear, the irrestañable, and remained silent for the rest ...


... Who cries, he asked Hope. Who cries the pain, the worst pain? She felt that torture alien and unseen, felt and acknowledged, was equal to him, the silence was not a shield, because there were tears on the wet winding wooden deck invisible, reaching his bare feet, tingling in your skin in the buildup to his soul, and there in the soul, the center of his chest, bounced and made a serious eco, vibrant, durable. Who cries? It was a pain like yours, so I felt him and, without knowing it confused with yours. It was she who was crying, she was the one with his eyes still dry poured the tears for no reason. Why she was crying, why a woman would have liked Esperanza mourn. He would not ask more, would not let his words for fear of an answer, and returned in silence, as he arrived, the cabin thirty-five, which would lie down and sleep, believing that she had cried.

would accept the error, and then you would be wrong.

Perhaps there never was

even when Hope had no reason to mourn, she was where he belonged, with people who wanted, went to a land that promised everything, and America was great, was new, immaculate, rich ... and unknown. Why

cried, who wept, no one had reason to mourn in the Maria Fioravanti.

Nobody.

But she cried, somebody cried.

looked into the night, into the mist, and closed the door ...

... noise was a little dry, and yet heard Francisco.



Twenty

If it were possible to hear a voice approved, or a sign, a colored image, foreknowledge, which indicates that the road is this and no other, that there is none, that should not be afraid to climb those hills, and came across the stones, as were placed there so that the path is a path and not an ideal of plain overwhelming invention of easy slopes and without challenges. If only we could answer no awkward questions and limits to the maxim that between two points is the shortest distance which covers a straight line herds depleted, they take our time, we steal forces. Rodeos ... if at least there is someone to tell us that they are also necessary, because otherwise we lose the possibility of absorbing the different perspectives. If there is that someone or that something is better than us, so as to leave no doubt of his word ... if we could warn that someone or something that pushes us and harangue us and makes us the lines ... Looking back, I look at the path traveled, watch the point where I'm stuck and everything conspires against my safety. Here, contained by the limits that I bought for this space that draws me forward, I can only walk in circles to avoid reinventing the goals exhausting march. I am a needle in abject quadrant, repeating forms, times, words, thoughts, I am who looks at you and walks away, who insists on walking for the mere pleasure of walking, while elsewhere, or in this same, but in other self, my voice keeps me running to the facts, accomplishments, to the ways I want to observe and soñarlas away, fearing that, once in them, no longer satisfy me or encourage me to seek a new port. Moon, my moon, it rejects me, Luna, I'll follow, I look and I lose. Luna, Luna, Luna.





*** Only the creaking of the wood. Just that, nothing else was. Lucio hoped the silence, immobility, retained the unperturbed black with their eyes open. Lucio thought of tomorrow, what would you do tomorrow, so now, today, could not sleep. Tomorrow would be like today, as today was yesterday, and detesting the continuity, tormented by the question what tomorrow. Tomorrow would be the same, and Alma would lack that equality and girls. They would not, but the penalty would be similar. Because they, too, with them under one roof, he looked at his hands, feeling young, watching their time differently, that yesterday that the recall was today, that dream today that yesterday was different and now kept his memories nonchalance. Same, same, same everything, tomorrow would be the same, beginning with force, whistling, perhaps hoping for a glance of hope, but with the later fall in the hole, and you would not mind the girl, not even the future or Alma, or tomorrow or the girl he would not mind anything because he would know that everything would go well, and by the afternoon accept the infinite similarity. What do tomorrow to change the world, his world, its limits barely bought a port now distant, now promise that maybe someday, maybe, just maybe, with pockets full of snuff best return for them, by the past, to recreate that equality was heavy and made him happy. And it was unhappy about the consciousness of the gulf he had opened behind him. Lucio

thought today morning and could not sleep. Smoking would not have cared if the next day, when smoking, it would snuff, then Lucio, thinking about tomorrow, the desire to stand and kept thinking about how to break the fucking routine. Lucio thought

morning as limited by the forms and at the same time as something abstract, tomorrow would be the time of day, early, morning would, in his mind, the sun of the East going up the hill, his mind refused time beyond, not thinking of America, on the morning of America, the possibility to engage in trade of tooth-puller, for example, or going to the countryside to cultivate Argentina. I thought of throwing tomorrow afternoon, assuming that the afternoons and evenings despair exist forever, or directly negating existing, but denying them to believe that by not seeing them would no longer be there, always late and heavy, always to the west and falling. Tone thought tomorrow, how to change tomorrow, confining itself to the times powerful, to promotion, the only good time of day, one which recognized in him the strength to change. Thought and could not sleep. Yet there was light behind the fog when he heard the screams and cries.

"What, what happens asked Antonio.

"Who cries," said Lucio.

- Huh? "Woke Giovanni. Liberato

still asleep. And dreaming. And smiled.


Twenty Twenty and

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, Twenty Twenty and

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- Who catzo be?

-Guido, please swallow your rudeness.

"It must be a crew member.

- Do you think, at this hour?

- I open, Dad?
-MA
your father knows nothing, let me open.

"Good morning.

- Francisco, buddy!

-How are you, Antonio.

"Well, well, Don Guido, the man here, a English top, is a good friend of mine.

-One of the best.

-No more, what happens. What brings you here, man?

"I heard the conversation lively and dared me to hit.

-did well, did well in our house are always welcome friends of my friends, but man, how well you speak Italian.

"Well, there are many friends I made at home.

-Madonna santa, Guido, beware of the shirt, you've poured half a cup of coffee.

"No, do not worry, I'm standing here well.

- Do you serve coffee?

"Francisco is a very cultured man, read books as our friend Liberato. And smoke

good snuff.

's going to install a printer.

He said that America is doing well these types of businesses.

And he gets the best snuff.

-Regina, Achieve a cookie to the Lord.

"No, ma'am, no bother.

"It's annoying, do not mind.

-Virgin Mary, how hot you are doing.

"Because we are in the area of \u200b\u200bthe tropics.

"This guy has taken me a great burden.

-A big wheel, you mean.

-Haha, yeah, that's it, is a large tooth-puller and certainly will do very well in America.

Hope, why not go out on a moment while ...

"Mamma, mamma, when I go out I stay, I want to stay where I go ... "Let

Dona Carmela.

- Sure, let, as in this cabin on the space!

"Well, in that case ...

"But no, my friend, Carmela did not say it for you ...

- What do you do in America, Don Guido, if I may ask?

"Boy, you let him anything, I owe my life.

"Last night I heard footsteps as rats.

-Regina, Regina.

- And what to spend?

- How do I say your name was, you, boy?

-Francisco.

-Á, Á, I am familiar.

-smoke a good snuff.

-ago, if you have to smoke, you must do it the best way she is able. So a printer?

"Yes, actually, and poorly functioning, has installed one of my partners.

"If God and the Virgin want, probably will do very well.

"I think so, ma'am, but I doubt that God or the Virgin have some interference in my decision and my actions.

- Any what?

-Mom, Carmela, do not stop the young man where did you know?

"Oh, a long history, Don Guido. Here Francis is a very generous man.

And smoke the best snuff, you must be age, I note toddler.

"But it's very handsome.

- Regina!

Carmela, Carmela.

"Yes, I believe that a press should give his good dividends.

- Eh! And what I say ... but you did not go to the saga with the job so well played.

-We thank, thanks, how about you, Mr. Guido, what they spend in America?

-Don Guido, beware of the shirt, for the love of God.

"Let God quiet on the subject, woman.

"We ought to leave it alone on several issues ...

(Silence)

-Haha, these English, these English.

-hahahaha.

Hope, have you seen the sky? It is daytime and you see the moon.

- Oh, yes? Well, Don Lucio, do you serve more coffee?

"Do not call me Don, Hope, I do not deserve.

"Boy, you deserve everything. Tell me, Don Francisco, would you ...? Carmela, what you do with that now!

"It's time the Holy Rosary.

"But let this woman, we have visitors and we are celebrating.

"God is the one who should be celebrating.

"I was going to ask you something, Mr. Guido.

"Yes, I ... well, I forgot.

- Do not like the moon, Hope?

"Yes, it is round. "But

now is fading.

"Sounds like a unit, right?

"Yes, it seems a Unit.

-do want to smoke a good snuff.

- I can offer mine?

-Of course.

"Anyway, accept it, I feel flattered.

"If so, just come.

-Hail Mary, full of ...

- How much you think you take?

- will be hot, like here?

"We're in December, midwinter. Ta

-... Mary, Mother of God, pray ...

- Need a light?

"No, thanks.

work -... death, Amen. Hail Mary ...

- So tell me, Mr. Guido, you do intend to do in America?

"I have planned a ... eh, Carmela, prays in a low voice that I interrupt your thoughts.

-... And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus ...

-Bah, go to hell. -...

pray for us sinners ...

- What he told me, boy?

"Dad, do not look like a United?

"Mom, what, Esperanza.

"The moon, Don Guido.

I have enough self-moons and raving ...

-... IN THE HOUR OF OUR DEATH, AMEN. HAIL ...

-La found Antonio.

"Very good, very good this snuff. "When

like.

-Of course.

-... THE LORD IS WITH YOU ...

, Mom, right now? -...

AMONG ALL WOMEN AND BLESSED ...

"You better pray that we do well.

- And what do you think engage, Don Guido?

- Do you like it, Hope?

-Y ... now I look ...
quiet
"Look, look no escape ...

-rich, very rich, is that usually the imprenteros good snuff. -...

AMEN. OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN ...

"I do not generalize, Lucio, each person lives as best you think it should be like always ...

"I agree, Don Francisco, is not it, boy?

"And saying so, Mr. Guido. -...

ASI ON EARTH AS IN HEAVEN ...

"It's a pity that people do not understand well.

"I understand, I understand. -...

Forgive us our debts, as we ...

-Submitted to foreign wills ... each must act as you think best, everyone knows what to do or not do ...

"Sure, that's what the laws ...

-... And lead us not into ...

"No, no law, I mean ... -...

DELIVER U.S. FROM EVIL, AMEN. OUR FATHER WHO ...

- Why will the whole night, Antonio?

"If you ask me, I will make it look like you want.

- Hope, come here!

-I, Aunt, I go.

-laws only serve to ...

- "Where the press works?

"I told him to ...

"Here the young man could do some good leaflets ... "Lucio and Antonio, dentists, tooth-pullers."

"Yes, of course, pamphlets ... -...

THY WILL BE DONE ON EARTH AS WELL ...

- Finishela, Carmela!



Twenty


Air, at last! Not be easy, will not be easy. Francisco shook the remaining ashes of his pipe and trying to comfort himself, was said not everyone would be so, there would be some willing minds, or at least in need of someone to give them a certainty: yes or no hope or absurd, but certainly the end. Francis was wasting his time, no, could not always be the case, a world of people too simple or too complicated, too rooted in their routines wrong, too identical to one another, but so different from Francisco, the only true all the same The Fioravanti. In a glimmer of the ship, and if not on the boat at some point in Buenos Aires or Rosario, or wherever, Francisco find men who want equality, true equality, men should be brave, also because it would not be as easy separated from God, much less of the Nazarene, that boy so consistent ... Perhaps he had achieved? He liked to believe that yes, he liked to think that the years he had dedicated to his company had not been in vain, that dreams, their own, still has some meaning, that of all peers would find a different understand to be equal . He liked to draw strength and feel a free man oblivious to the idea saying, God, and he liked to taste the pride he felt when vain by gestures, subtext and innuendo, life has given him permission to be a man, a man like all individuals ... but only, only; clear that to reach this permission was not needed, in fact, not an order, just as he turned away from God because he wanted to, because he said he could do, and explained how, and told by what, and left him at his discretion but without any options: however, had decided it and then look at the sky like a rebellious son who defies the authority of the father. Was that: a challenge? No, it could be a challenge because God was nothing, nobody, and a challenge is made to someone, a person, a something along ...

loaded the pipe and lit it. Took a deep breath ... If indeed there was a God would not have allowed to happen all that hurt, God was merciful and their word could be love. A God who demands love himself above all things, even above the individual and the like of that individual, could not be a good God, good God. That he had told his guide, and he believed. And read what the guide gave him, and read that book that someone had said that if God did not exist would have to invent ... was clear God was an invention ... Francisco looked at his pipe and thought his pipe was because someone had made, and in turn someone else far away in time the pipe was invented and the concept of smoking, someone came a cigar someone who had discovered that could snuff could burn and smoke, because someone had created a plant after someone called snuff y. .. To all those someone unknown, but could nevertheless form an ontological idea of \u200b\u200balmost all of them, although there was one, the first in the chain ... That someone is losing ... It was absurd, of course, life was absurd, so it was necessary to invent the concept of pipe and pipe, and the concept of smoking.
And the pipe was, like the snuff, smoke, and the concept of smoking.
And that, in Francisco, basically made him happy. Twenty





could say, I could scream, but when I thought of Alma and the girl, when I saw in his mind the image you tried to avoid addressing the Maria Fioravanti, reliability is going to hell and there was no promise of better snuff or smoke curtain deliver him you could not see beyond. Beyond forward and backward beyond. The future fell in the middle of the ocean, and the past was stalled in the image of Alma and the girl repeated infinitely. It was an incomprehensible image and oppressive, distressing, just like the sea, looked just like freedom. Did you know where he went? America would, of course. But did you know? Would she? Perhaps it would have been better stay and die but stay hungry and sad, because now I was sad and it would be with guts full or empty, with or without snuff.

Every evening was the same, every evening of his life were exactly alike. Just disappeared the toss of the morning and when it appeared that night and nothing would have changed, the soul was going to sea or land, or mountain, or wherever he was. Wake up with anxiety that lasted from the night before, but with the first sun did not know what was a strength and faith that drove him to his feet and whistle as he would wash, and began life, routine, and arrived at noon with mood still intact, but as evening fell, when the declining sun warned that more would soon that night and would be there, where it had been yesterday, then to the floor, the devil, the chest was closed and I could not breathe. It was not even at night, was not even death itself, was the fear, the closeness, frustration, and guilt. Because there were also guilty, or is that maybe the fault was all there was. That was Alma and girls, unapproachable image of the sea. It was screaming America! and making them scream America! You could say it and I could scream, but ...

may have been better to stay and die there lifeless, but still there, would have been better, because now died and was in some unknown place from which the name, is that the world was so great ... To get to America had to cross the ocean, and even boarded the ship knowing it would take time, now it seemed that this trip would never end. It was like going to the next village, so far, ten kilometers. And it was so far, so tiring to walk there! Liberato was a young man, for he was well distances, but Lucius was past thirty, and when thirty was passed too late to start to travel, to hope that a day that starts not going to end well.

And yet the next day wake up, and whistle while would wash. And America could scream! And it could snuff smoking wishes for a better, knowing that America could find supplies. And do not worry about the late, because as usual, just that every day, believe that the forces would accompany him to the end. And so until death, and so crying and thinking of Alma, and the girl, or if any left wanting in Italy when he finally be with him. And so, Lucius, till the end. ***





The cabin was cool despite the sultry day. Giovanni turned the pages of his book without understanding a word, perhaps suspicious, or remembering badly assertions fast and commitment of the priest Calogero, back in the village where the drowsiness of siesta removed any mood to answer questions from kids. So Giovanni was satisfied, confused but happy that God of the mass of the books he read, the sun on the rocky and dry moors, but this he did not know, or suspect. The thin pages, one after another, yellow, unreadable, enigmatic left piled on the edges spit, flap, flap, echoed in the silence, waiting for the sound Liberato reached translated as Giovanni wanted. Why not dare to stand, why did not dare to say they started at once. Why Liberato expected to understand for yourself what Giovanni had never understood anything. Flap, flap, waiting a few seconds with a focus on the boy and finding settled indifference, repeated the operation, flap, flap, pages fell increasingly thicker portions, a flock of scattered pages contemptuously, insignificant, sound, very sound, a new pause again as before, and each replication, Giovanni Liberato left alone, just like him, and got into pages of mystery, his tongue and ignored in graphics, black spots on paper musty sepia and Mary, and Genoa home of Mary and the priest Calogero and Mary, and their memories and Mary. And as the smell of dust anthology, the presence of Mary wanders past and disintegrate in the same indifference that before the boy gave him, so he also forgot and gave him his moment, now, the signs, the stains were those signs, letters, letters that had seen them many times on posters, in other roles in the passage, in the bow of this ship called Mary Fioravanti and therefore these Five brands had mean Mary, as his Maria, and tested in the air like a translucent page five brands was remembered and drawing by hand with a finger, with the mind, with the intention, and one by one, overlapping and clumsy, gave way to Mary and the signs that he knew meant Mary, and then to understand that the first three gave sea, because the first was the "mm", the second "a" and the third the "rr", was nothing more than a step, a giant step, a joy that tickled my stomach and energy moved through the veins, the left in the hands, legs, chest and minds, and mouths an immense desire to cry "Mar, I can write and I can read Mar Mar", without knowing, or wanting to forget that if I learned what I learned was because he previously had the intention, the will , then the action and well read and wrote Mary of Genoa, the expected and now surely cried and cried, and cried for him. ***





Antonio was speechless, Liberato was silent, the silence was absolute. But Liberato Antonio thought and thought, each in its north, in his carrots, in their desires. Without awareness, perhaps, thought that the words and images they saw should they hold their own stock as a center, involving the other, and chained and solidarity invented, without even knowing it, but helping each other, complementing each other, to each other in this apparent isolation. And so the greatest of T., as he fixed his eyes on the piece of nail embedded in the blue sky in the afternoon, and later becoming increasingly blue, was remembered at the age of Liberato, so innocent, so gullible, so childish back in Italy, and this guy here on the boat, carried by the same adventure, but he sixteen and T. with thirty-three. Liberato was ahead seventeen years before his death, however he was already in limit, had come to Calvary and at the time of his crucifixion. Thirty-three wasted lives, where nothing of what had happened to him to suppose that the following thirty-three would open the gates of heaven would have had to accept the temptations of the devil, there, in his Lenten fast, but chose the path that led him to the moon, and found only grass, dirt and stones, but no moon, no grace silver and round, perfect, nothing ... Now I sensed a new moon, and at times and wished and believed him, so I was ready to get back on track, but when he looked at his hands pierced by nails, he fell in realize that the time had passed and the calvary had arrived, and that Pilate and washed his hands, then felt an urge to mourn, because the cross was heavy and he did fall. Instead Liberato was young, I had another life before death. Liberato, sixteen, seventeen, alone in a boat, only in America, poor boy, poor boy, at least Anthony had his cross. At least that, and sang and was good. That was OK because there was the nail growing white in the night sky growing increasingly heaven.


The war might be a good topic for a first story. Wars were always a good topic for stories initials. Liberato may write about that instead of writing about pipes, or cows. The cow and it seemed a bad idea, and the pipe is not convinced, could not find the right words that would serve to write a story about pipes. Wars instead gave an amplitude or cows or pipes, in war as in love all worth, and for some reason I could not understand fully, Liberato supposed to write about war and love would be more or same thing. Anyway still knew nothing of love, although it had some wars reference (too many for their taste), then it would be a war and that war would fight Antonio. No, Antonio not because it was indefinable, so no special features that stand up to the pile of uniformity. Giovanni was instead perfectly with the profile of a soldier, were needed for the history and ideas of the story the protagonists, rather than the character and action. Giovanni was the right one, was in itself the figure of a soldier not a general, not even a sergeant, the main character would be a soldier, one of the bunch, with slight differences necessary to establish equality, the archetype unknown enemy in a war which would be beyond the uniformed troops with clothes of different color: the enemy would be life. No, life, life was too beautiful to impute an enmity, Giovanni wage a war against the existence itself, against the existence would be the thing. And what could be said of this war? The general good, I had read, should be covered by a credible doctrine for full acceptance of the pendulum of time keeping, a knowledge of the terrain, for her leadership, and discipline of his troops. But Giovanni was not a general, even came out, he could not explain the tactical details of a war, Giovanni was a soldier, the soldier would be their first pages and fight against the existence of obedience and not by choice; yes, he was with the profile of the man who required his story, but still did not know if you write victor or vanquished.
And no one dared to ask.



*** So, little by little, lost in the thoughts rumbling, it was night, and everyone seemed to be sleeping there, in the Maria Fioravanti, where existence was limited by a floating ropes and a rusty iron bars. Over and over here, the ocean beyond the promised and desired life promised by the wishes and desired because of the promises, and now it was, pretending to sleep, nor desired nor accepted, but it was life and was now, he weighed who would weigh, and that no one thinks to ask who was heavy, because there would be no Christ would not lift his hand.

Chapters Twenty and Twenty-Four

Françoise Hecquard Pessiot

Chapters Eighteen and Nineteen Chapters sixteen and seventeen

Photo



What was all the more surreal absurd? "One extreme silence preceding the storm (storm undoubtedly would)? Or the noise I put the Italians in the thirty-five? Francisco, back to the door but through it with care, I wanted to be clear, once again, another day, as all day, the ideas that then have to explain, not the prophets of slavery with the Bible in his hand lashed minds to force the idiocy, but with the wisdom of the subtext and innuendo, he must rely on human intelligence in the human inclination towards science, to the tree of sin that condemned him to exile incarnate God that territory of boring, I needed the god of fools for their existence miserable. God was cruel and if there had to be eliminated: that he had said and this is what he said. Do you believe? Sure, I believed that someone more gifted than he had said he I thought because I had to believe, and that were not possible unless certain beliefs in a world where the explanation was in sight, not the ideas, so that he believed, because that was the idea. All men were equal, and none should be granted greater value: that was what he said that so wise, so enlightened, so for the rest of mankind. The ideas were nothing without the art. The matter was the beginning ... well, he believed, but knew and denied that any material act had been possible before without an idea behind it, any act or any idea, because what else was, after all, the good news that he carrying: an idea, a fact perfect idea, so perfect as men, equal to each other, independent groups would be unable to accept it, because men were imperfect perfect, perfect men were not equal had to match them with the example, had to show that was not just an idea that had a material fact and that fact materialized, if not her mind, with a well placed shot or a bomb (safer). But he could not attack anyone, had to be careful to select those who deserve it, but all were equal and probably all or none were liable to get shot: they had to target those who said they were different based on equality of rights proclaimed from the ideas and ideals, to those who believe and did believe different, those were to be selected and not others, equal and human, humanly equal. In these and other to fuck off.

Was violence necessary? The wise man said yes, but did not say it openly, but sideways, as if allowed to come but it takes the idea, hiding in some excuse; materializing in any idea, you might say. It was necessary to noise, and should be as powerful as the other, as the silent cry of the Cross, because today could be heard, and as it now, that of thirty-five, men and women relying on the Cross.
Why was forced to turn away, if you kept some respect to that bloody boy who suffered there, yet the nails? For while it did not believe a God, was, yes, the living image of God would have liked, the example of the will, the coherence of a life marked by the rebellion of the senses, spiritual preponderance insurance claims over terrestrial, though he was wrong, so confident as to hold his word until the moment of his death, faith, belief in their beliefs ... That Christ bearded, blond hair and blue eyes, this man other men of his people but the only really well, that image emblazoned on a poster on a cross, bloodied and scourged, that image was that of a man, a saint, but ... Was it for ...? Why

admired him even when he was forced to give his back? Maybe because he saw it suffering the same pain that he wished to avoid ... avoided. That man, the Christ of the Christians was like him and like yours, someone willing to die for your ideas ... his problem and his error was not meant to kill, people looking for something rather than words, people are fearful he had proclaimed king, and he understood before anyone else that the people did not need a new king, but a reborn awareness of people, humanity, respect ... Some respect I kept that poor crucified Christ, but I could not forget his resignation, abandonment, surrender to error. In the end, Francisco loved him and thought, but I thought wrong ...

... and this I think almost two thousand years later ...

... noise, noise powerful ....

... As it's thirty-five.

called. Nineteen





He looks, he knows he looks, turns and looks at him steadily. There's the moon, again on Antonio, but not the old Moon, it has a different face, the hidden, more beautiful perhaps. Or is that again looks better? Esperanza opens a hole, you can glimpse the path that is reborn. There is the moon, and the way the moon in the sky, the road on Earth. Antonio has traveled similar paths, has traveled to aspire to the top, and has arrived, and fell at the feet of a new path. Learn about the causes and suffered the consequences so many times, but the forgotten, or wanted to forget and is now ready to resume the march, almost like a child, almost untouched, almost stripped of bad experiences. Hope looks at him, he knows he looks, and the spoils, so excited, I harangue with his eyes, it is no longer flying, because under his feet the trail has been formed and is ready to go, sure that target awaits the new moon. The boat sways imperceptibly, the sound of the sea leg opening at the bow caresses the senses, numb, wrapped in his breath as coffee, biscuits hard as rocks, snuff bitter. Hope looks at him, he knows he looks, but his eyes seem entertaining in his right hand operation Lucio, who with one hand movement extends the role, place the strands and bundle the second cigarette. Cares little cigarette Lucio, Lucio smoke thrown on the table so that the curtain divide and highlight the absence, his absence, not Anthony, I would like to run downhill, or uphill, or flat, or any land on which to extend this new way, because he knows it, without doubt, this time it is the one leading to the Moon. Luna still, witness, moody, who arrives and leaves little by little, and nothing is allowed, the black, unlike the Sun, which must be reborn daily, he is the sun, Antonio felt blood in his veins yellow radiant light, he is the sun, it needs the moon to shine, the road crosses the Earth, ungrateful planet ridiculous name, should not be called water? Yes, Water, and should be called ... He is the Sun, is the fire from the air, and she is the moon, overlooking the sea, the Earth is deception, the wrong item, it extends way, a repeated error, it lies in Antonio, ready to gnaw distances without fear of being wrong ...


knocking at the door.



Chapters Twenty, Twenty Twenty and

Feminists Against Waxing

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The conversation was lively, Don Guido looked happy, but Carmela Regina bufara and accuses it of their way to eat. Mary was as absent in the task of warm coffee. Hope remained silent, just as Antonio, who nodded every word of the walrus looking into my eyes, although attention was commissioning peripheral perception, figure surely smiling unfocused and Hope ... Lucio

noticed a smell of snuff, good snuff, suggested coming back with the aroma of coffee, felt the urge to smoke, but he stopped thinking that if I started now, for night would have ended much of the provision. He wanted to remember how many days of travel left, but failed to flesh out the vague idea now. Why is the calculation that eluded him until two days was logical and perfect? "Two days, maybe three? In short, more or less ... Missing ... Antonio would have to ask for greater security. Now was not appropriate, thing not to believe that she was failing the brain. Then yes, when they were in the cabin or on deck, or better wait for the cabin, in the afternoon, some time they were alone y. .. Thirteen Days! At last! Thirteen days yeta damn damn shtick. Thirteen days of travel and snuff not reach it for three more, at most four, and that if he smoked very, very little. However, that aroma tempted him, he suspected that the desire was playing another trick, but could not be, because it was a real flavor of snuff, snuff good, and although he almost diluted between good coffee and assimilated the sweat, there was no doubt that was true. It was like the smell of snuff smoking Don Costanzo, back in town. Mr. Constanzo was a good man, and worth his weight, or even more, but the old man was pretty big and in recent years could hardly walk or even get out of a bank, a thousand kilos weigh Mr. Constanzo, but worth every kilo gold, the man himself that he deserved call him Don, was a great friend of the father of Lucio, who made him happy to be with him, drink with him, spend time together but not to tell a single word he knew his father Lucio when he was with Mr. Constanzo, forgot everything and allowed to rest, not so much the muscles and mind. Why remembered his old and Constanzo? Why the snuff? Did he have any connection with its report that intense idea of \u200b\u200brolling a cigarette with the best snuff? Or fill a pipe and turn it on now that so badly wanted to smoke, not morning in America. What was tomorrow? What was America? Today was important, and today I was in the cabin of Mary Fioravanti thirty-five eager to snuff smoking and that he was ending as it was over land, and the past, and his father happy, drinking in the Dry afternoon, in silence, along with Mr. Constanzo. Hope

offered more coffee, he refused.
wanted
smoking, but smoking snuff invading the air timidly thirty-five, the now of life. A cigarette, a pipe of good snuff, the best snuff. God, he thought, if there are miracles, then that right now my snuff multiply like the loaves and fishes in the mountains of bliss. Now it was snuff, snuff only, the present was what mattered and this should occur is when the miracles improbable morning was a time in an unfamiliar place, yesterday was a reminder, perhaps the memory of a dream, perhaps Alma and girls were not more than that, a dream or a nightmare that had woken up today, now, third cabin of a ship which mysteriously knew the name (but what other mysteries can fit in a dream, the origin of the mysteries?), and a smell of snuff smoking fed his rule, that no was a dream, this was life, reality, only in reality, not dreams, are possible aromas of snuff and the urge to smoke. God, a miracle, a miracle now, now living ... And do not dare to smoke.


knocked on the door. Seventeen





The sun really hurt, but had no desire or intention to move into the shade, why do so after all, why it had to be him, Giovanni, who agreed to change its place, and not the damn sun that was there, motionless, King, stabbing, on the Maria Fioravanti, also motionless, stabbing and interim owner destinations . No, not move, do not change your site until the sun deigns not to bother, not to insult him with that fire and vitality of millennia, with the wisdom of that has nothing to object to look and learn, learn and know, if both knew, if I had such vitality, it was he who was humiliated at least once in life, Giovanni remain there, strong, rebellious, young and everlasting, as perennial like the sun, no doubt, but his more immediate, more predictable, but neither one nor the other was possible to conceive, Giovanni did not think about death but as a distant event and impossible immortal known hurt, would have preferred taste the urgency of the hours, minutes of the countdown approached zero fatal, had not wanted to watch your pockets full of time and thought that they had no more than a breath, a nothing, he wanted to hurry to live, but Giovanni does not thought in life but as a right that demands embedded without intervention, came as well as each day comes the sun and fun runs and even behind the clouds or the moon eclipsed. Life Giovanni was an asset in perpetuity, so he stayed there, the sun and the rebel life, because death was indifferent, distant, nameless and without form, nor the moon was, or any planet in the universe None of them had names, none of them was Mary. Julian
offered the pipe. Giovanni did not respond, did not like it.

He slept, the sun is going to hurt the skin, "he heard Julian said.

"No more than us," he heard Liberato said.

No more than them, and they were there, along with Giovanni, as motionless as the Fioravanti, as sun, like life, like the universe, no one thought to move, and so was fine, the boys were allies even if they did not know nor think the same words I thought Giovanni. That moved the sun, or they crush the skin, mood, life. Why, there, mired in despair, suddenly felt the strength to curse and spit at the sun for so long had sought a god? Suddenly he felt forces, desires, desires for change that reality still looks the real tedium of false immobility, because in reality the advanced Fioravanti breaking the calm of an ocean extremely quiet, the world turned, the sun itself was moving in the galaxy and Galaxy defeated at infinity, the motion was steady but assimilated, so as to believe that he had not ... Why, suddenly, under the sun that they revile and spit before, now felt the rocking deck, and the wind hitting his face flushed a breeze was not idle, but was there to show movement? Reborn again a shy confidence, and fear to the god who had previously insulted, suddenly knew that one day wake up one day like that day still, motionless under the sun, and it is located on the shores of the America, with the boats ready and loaded, waiting for him to transport ground, the Earth seemed impossible but that there was and headed toward it, and knew that once on land, would have to employ all their forces to meet new circumstances, and beasts unknown circumstances they would miss the days calm and peaceful in the sunshine of Maria Fioravanti.

Knowing all this, so why not dare to relax and enjoy, now that I could, why not take the time to learn to read, for example, Liberato and told him that it was possible to try. Why not jump up and gave a more realistic movement imperceptible to that road map, why not shout with outstretched arms, why not yawned like a bear after hibernation and began to give way he wanted to ride the Maria Fioravanti, why the sun still now who was determined to be as delicious as to make him stay there on deck, his face flushed, pretending to be asleep, as before, but now happy to accept and be accepted in that happy moment ...


This was fine, still absent. This was fine, self-control. This was perfectly fine, bent heat bearable, moderate hunger, thirst quenched. This was more than good, believing that behind and Mary not weighing on his conscience because they were beyond their control, their actions, their responsibility. This was fine, diluting every second the cluster of words before suffocating him, arising in an impersonal. This was good, as if invested in a nirvana, where was the body that was incorporated and moved away from the soul, leaving behind the silver light and raw to enjoy the sun and life. In itself it was fine, ignoring who was Giovanni, if the body looked rushed or anxious to close the gap toward America and to death, or the quiet soul that she intended merely to some water and some minerals, and maybe some other nutrients that allow the creation of chlorophyll, and then pluck and flourish. So, really, vegging, it was fine.
no longer thought of the sun, nor in mobility, no longer stung him in the veins of impatience or jealousy toward the sun or the God who knew everything. And thought of nothing, perhaps only to open his eyes, and if an excuse could accept the pipe had offered Julian. Julian


renewed and allowed snuff was Giovanni who lit his pipe. Liberato still had the itch resecting the tongue surface, the white pasty saliva had dried on the corner of his mouth and salty taste of sweat barely came to insinuate in the prevalence of snuff and aromatic black recently. He wondered if that same taste that he suffered and enjoyed what they felt those who wrote the books he had read in hiding from their parents in the library that his father bought at auction and installed in a room, covering all four walls with books like if they were murals and tapestries, for there, in the home of B., had been purchased with the sole purpose decorative, each volume taking smuggling and hiding in her room, then not only would open a door to the fascination of a thousand different and better world to which he limited life, but also in the very act of its procurement secretly, read them in the silence of the night, and break it down mentally to himself, was the instinct of independent thinking and lonely that had allowed him to leave the house chasing a dream or destiny ... and perhaps both were the same. Why forbade read Hugo, or the Greeks, or the many other Germans of unpronounceable names that populated the shelves of flaps and uniform colors? ... If something had delayed the game would have been for the library, but decided to leave and left behind volumes foolish virgins and feeling that they would not look as if a book was unique not only literary, but also literally. Such time missed as much or more to books than their parents, knowing that this sentence was unfair and stupid, because his parents were unique, but the books ... Even in America, even in the mysterious end of the world might find the same volume that had left .... Hugo read someday, someday read Homer, one day he would also have a black pipe and snuff to fill one day he too go on a road in front of immaculate and hold with teeth while wet with ink pen, and forces expelled the smoke before drawing the watermarks of the first capital letter in the first word. Write smoking and his handwriting would be as perfect as the shapes of the pipe, an almond tree root, and his words would be as hot and pleasurable as his snuff, and narrate stories that would be so versatile and amazing as the wisps of smoke rising in the room with no breeze. So grow its history, and amount, slow, no blizzards that disperse and diluted in the air, so his words would be born white and compact and contained smoke, and know God as his snuff. What would be your first word? Perhaps an item, must necessarily be an item. Or a pronoun, which in the case graph would be different if it were third person singular and masculine, as should be the protagonists of literary stories worthy of the name ... But was unsure who would narrate, who narrated, who would speak and at what time would you? "Past, present? The future was unthinkable, he was not a Nostradamus .... "First person, second or third? Either, since all they needed someone more than Liberato writing and smoking and dipping his pen in the indelible blue ink. Always have at least two: the writing and I read, if not third, which is the reference, or referral, as given. Perhaps the first word was a no accent, an article in anticipation of the subject, leading to a verb ending in a predicate, because if something was sure to write Liberato is following the basic rules, the only known properly. It could be a he or perhaps a line, why not a line, why not pipe quietly could keep this moment and write on a pipe. Start saying the pipe, evidently sounded much better than beef, was even more original. What could write about the pipe, did not know it still did not know, even if the first word to write the article that would anticipate a pipe, or ornaments dedicated to the capitalization of a name, for example that of Giovanni, or imagine another, much like Giovanni, because now he imagined writing about Giovanni smoking a pipe after failing in an attempt to get a glass of fresh milk. Result: great idea to discard the cow to fall back into the master pipe, a pipe to smoke, environment, body, or naked, because the smoke, you know, always with the ghosts ... but also milk if not the cow. O clouds, which are like smoke, but water, so covering the high mountains where you can admire the castle of the counts evil ... Liberato looked to the sea to the front, toward America, confident that there would be a great writer, and write in English, the language of America. Be a writer of stories of pipes, cows and sinister ghosts in the mountains and invaded by bats. And read Dante, and Hugo, and buy the Odyssey with the first profits that offer their books.



Chapters Eighteen and Nineteen