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