What License Do You Need To Sell Popcorn/

Final Chapter Forty-five - Forty-six Forty-two Chapters


Image: Jonah and the whale, Pieter Brueghel .



Forty-five

was like a blow, a slap of wind that brought back the spirit, a large portion of oxygen that reached pure and only for him, nothing more than for him. But it came, was a wind coming pleasant, certainly, but this was not his decision. Julian was young and not so foolish as to ignore the happiness and suffering could be defined by external issues, could-and he knew it-imagine that such a situation which afforded him pleasure or displeasure such and such, and actually could feel them , but it was there, on the surface, were not the happiness or suffering itself, they could not decide, but simply accepted. But wanted to have control over the acts that established the beginning or the end of the apparent pleasure. I wanted to be the owner time to do with it as best it so desired, invent it if he wished, exchange it for better or worse, but being in control, knead it at will. No, it was foolish, but a young man, also knew or suspected that chance was justified in the inevitable fate ... If he could not invent a past (actually invent, to be true, not merely a disguise, a lie) and define the future, at least have liked the product would now be his decision. Julian was traveling in third class of Mary Fioravanti, was in the hot night, waiting for the storm, watching the dead did not even know your name, fueling the dreams of his father, back in Italy, which saw him become a man of importance in Argentina, in Rosario, or any place determined by the uncle Francisco. Julian Julian was because his mother bore him and baptized his father, Julian lived this that decided his uncle and gave hope to his father. Julian was not himself, but a reflection of what others expected him to and from. Suddenly he was struck by the absurd notion that, at least, if he had no control over life, I had it on its end, death.

And in this I, Julian, was beginning to be very foolish. ***




There was a violent flash and immediately heard the roar of lightning, miraculously, the sea and chose the mast of the ship to explode. Lugo had a second, more distant, and a third, this time it fell full on the arrester Maria Fioravanti. It started to rain. The deck was soon empty. Giovanni Lucio and went to thirty; Francisco warned that followed. Liberato was already in his bunk, Giovanni's Bible in his hands, reading in the dim light of a candle and almost no oil. Antonio returned to thirty-five, Francisco saw him close the door, he believed that Julian also be there.

- We smoke? "Suggested Lucio.

Francisco agreed, invited. Giovanni

Liberato approached and, without saying so in words, but so clear in his eyes, sat on the edge of the bed to wait for the boy read aloud what kept him so far, so absent, so happy. Liberato understood, and as the ship began to shake violently in the storm at last free of all the ropes that kept the hint, started reading, arranging the book in the light whimsical, raising his voice so that the water on the walls , the wind slipping between the cracks of the door and thunder ever closer, it will blind the words:

- "... And they said every one to another, Come, and let us cast lots, to find out who has been this bad. They cast lots and the lot fell on Jonah. Then he told them: Explain to us why it has been this bad. What is your occupation and where are you? What is your land and how people are you? And he answered: I am a Hebrew and I fear the Lord God of heaven, who made the sea and land ...

In Spain I thought Francisco, and only men fear, ignorance of peers who have been unable, Moreover, I think as I think, to that fear, I automatically imprentero, a free man at heart, just that and, on second thought, nor even that it is not fear, is boredom. They love to be slaves, it is so easy to be a slave and not fighting to be free ...

- "... He replied," Take me and cast me forth into the sea and the sea will quiet you, because I know that for my sake this great tempest is upon you ...

Suddenly, with the same timelessness that he showed at the start, the wind dropped. The rain persisted

powerful, yet so little without the drive stormy vengeful Poseidon.

I was not, after of everything I thought it was not Francisco. He lit his pipe, smiled, and passed the snuff to Lucio. Lucio accepted, rolled a cigarette fat, full and looking down towards the bottom of the cabin as he exhaled the first puff, the walls he wanted the stomach of a whale. Suggestion, he thought pure suggestion, made a crack to the cheeks and the smoke cleared without forms, absurd, very white. No matter, he thought.

And really did not matter.


Forty-six


took up Jonah, and cast into the sea, and the sea ceased from her raging ... As his mouth came words automata, Liberato thought it could write most fascinating stories and fantastic than those dwellers of the holy book ... But the Lord had prepared a great fish to swallow Jonah in the belly of the fish three days and three nights ... Without writing a single word, I knew I could spend a lifetime writing, yet he feared pass writing life ... The waters surrounded me to the soul, the abyss rodeóme ... Life could not be the boat, travel, immobility, Antonio indescribable, Giovanni anti-hero, himself, a reader of empty phrases, voice repeating meaningless phonemes without managing to understand the meanings, and without meaning, it is clear that there was nothing ... They that observe lying vanities forsake their own mercy ... The words were noise, vibration covering the reborn serenity in the soul of migrants ... Note what I promised. Salvation belongs to Jehovah ... Each thought of something, someone, everyone on our stuff, and nobody but Giovanni could be listening to the reading, not him, who just guessed the act of speaking in the tickle in her throat ... And the Lord commanded the fish, and land vomited out Jonah ... You may speak and, in extension, telling, was not to describe events, environments, attitudes, but what He then warned as the top of that, the thought. It is thought that was where everything was saying, where things were reasonable explanations, sublime, almost divine, and then trying to take them outside sounds absurd finished form, no less poignant stories, like this, these, the Holy Book everybody admired it, why, why, why ...

... And the word of the Lord Jonah the second time, saying, Arise, go Nineveh, that great city, and in it the preaching that I bid thee ...

... For some lie, "said Francis is probably because someone inconceivable in the stock frame was responsible for the dogmatic literalism of the Bible, even though she had to find other things, other posts, valid, of course, but they were less than those of the Thousand and One night ... Nineveh was an exceeding great city of three days' journey. And Jonah began to enter the city, a day's journey, and proclaimed saying ... The magic was so subdued ... Nineveh shall be overthrown ... Magic, silly hope that the suffering of mankind based anxiety of existence, could change in a blink of an eye, in a meeting with a burning bush, in a word heard coming summer; Nobody heard the words of his soul? Did no one knew he had a soul and that soul was part of ...?... And God saw what they did, they turned from their evil way, God repented of the evil which he said that they had to do, and did not ... No, not that he was willing to admit Francisco, at least not for now, but that was what he admired about the Christ, the Messiah misrepresented: he knew that God lived in his soul, as in the soul of anyone, God was all over and the world was God, he accepted it and so wanted to teach, so he died, so did not mind dying, he did believe he, a man, the condition most commendable attitude. But Francis does not think much, but would have needed a protective father, Francisco, the only thing that could occur abruptly, was the destruction ... But it displeased Jonah exceedingly, and he was angry ...

... Life was somewhere else, his life was to write, do not stay in town working the clay with his father ... now, O Lord, I pray thee, kill me, because death is better for me than life ... His life was elsewhere, and searching delayed the start of the history and life was slipping around the edges ... E there made him a hut, and sat under it in the shade to see what the city would ... is that life was elsewhere. Nobody told you what to do or say, no one ran away, much less of God, perhaps inertia ... And the Lord God prepared a gourd ... He wanted life, writing style, the substance of his words, the reason for his thoughts he wanted to find the origin of life without realizing that in itself was life, origin, and the seed that would give continuity of the species, men seekers of life, ideas, words with any sense in any language but with respect, why not in the universal language, which was willing to take ... But God prepared a worm when the morning ... I wanted to live: in America, in Nineveh, in Atlantis, where necessary to arrive, I wanted to live ... thou well to be angry about the vine? ... Liberato wanted to live, and was willing to do anything to live, because only by living could write and write only I could live ... Much me angry, even unto death ... I felt the strength, the will and did not realize I was living and was already writing ... T uviste you pity on the gourd, in which no work .... The Maria Fioravanti was the whale's belly, its lifeline. Everyone's. The

all.

To the poor Don Guido, with two bronzes for the eyes.

... "And I will not have mercy on Nineveh I ...?

The violence of the storm was over, but the front had not been withdrawn, and still remained some lightning, distant thunder, judging by the slow and weak. When Antonio entered, Liberato stopped reading, closed his eyes ... And he began to think about it one of the substances.

Francisco Antonio moved and let sit, then he too closed his eyes and thought, thought, thought in the words of the book, he was also, in its way, a prophet, a propagandist for an idea, the materialization of an idea that he recanted the ideas he was the voice guidance of leaders rejecting dogma and guides, as he was the other, the man was still there somewhere else, thinking that their words were also like those prophecies, and that they might not be met. I hated this fear and so I refused. Knew and refused, because he was a prophet, and prophets can not guess or invent or directed, or misrepresented or speculated, the true prophets said of an inevitable future. Jonah was not a prophet, was a poor fool, a liar who invented God to conceal his error. Nineveh was not destroyed Nineveh was not destroyed Nineveh was not destroyed, and please, nobody asked you to believe in the bellies of whales, or ...

- And your nephew? - Antonio distracted him.

- was not with you in the hood?

-No.

- Julian!

Francisco ran out of the cabin. Antonio, now leaning back, looked at Lucius as asking his fellow "and that, what bug bit him?" Lucio opened her eyes and deepened his gesture of nothing, which implied, "What should I know? Liberato, equally puzzled, hesitated between staying or leaving lying on deck shrugged his shoulders and stood, returned the book to Giovanni. Giovanni received the Bible, still enthralled with the story just heard. No, not with history but with the voice I had imagined reading it, the story itself, for he had no more sense than a man to whom God entrusted with a task and, sooner or later, by hook or by crook, will comply, but later results are inconsistent with the reasonable to the task, and end up facing the unknowable God ... For him, it made more sense ... and it was absurd, coming from him, a layman. Preferred to evoke the other voice but think in history, think of Mary more than God. Mary was, after all, the motive of his life, his moment of that trip he undertook to fulfill a dream itself, it is true, but a dream to be met if he wanted Maria to be happy. How happy could make his own if he was not happy before? How can I tell you that life was wonderful, if he was not sorry, if so many nights as Jonah prayed to God to send him death? Giovanni Maria was behind, and behind Mary, the promise of happiness. That was all. Thought so. And coming from him, it seemed absurd.

Giovanni opened the book at random and imagined in each word the voice of Mary. Liberato wondered if it could teach him to read, if you still would be time to learn. He wondered if his voice, whether the direction of his voice, if the story you narrate his voice and sense, it would be narrating voice and the meaning of Mary. Liberato "could teach him to read with the same spirit in which it was Mary? Perhaps it would have been desirable to be patient and learn from it, but it was impossible to admit their laziness, or, conversely, pretend not to see their laziness to inexperience. Mary insisted many times, and many times refused Giovanni. The same with all which inevitably had to happen, everything, absolutely everything in his life, always delayed, coming after what had had to be before, not a whim of God, but a fool rejection of Giovanni, by doubt, fear, that forced him to divert course to minor issues, or misleading, or simply circumlocution to reach the same fate that had been obtained to take the shortcut or the appropriate path, even. Always the same with everything, with every decision, delaying, denying when he had had to accept, when it should have been required to accept more. It was always, and the destination is responsible for returning it by hook or by crook, with whales or docile boats but always prosecute the work to be finished, so, like Jonah.

"The nonsense I think," he said, and kept the book at the bottom of the trunk. Lucio


lit a cigarette, this time too conscious of the words she thought as to warn that he had almost no snuff. In the darkness broken only by a faint glow of the moon, appearing shy in a gap between gray lumps, Lucio could see those words. It was not the case, but its sound, its meaning would be wrong to say he heard a voice, then, as has been said, Lucio saw that voice, and the vision was stark and disconcerting. There were pictures people, perhaps their parents, or Pietro or some other friend, but certainly that of Alma, and had the words, the vision of words, of which one was Love And from there arose the confusion. Lucio was trying to say is that he loved his wife, and said it seemed to say, and saw the voice saying it, and saw the object of words, but not sorry. He was just an observer of what is represented, moreover, so as corny and trite. Was stunned by the effort made to prove that indeed he loved, but mostly for the obvious futility of the effort. Knowing that he loved but not feel it was a slap so powerful that even the good smoke would able cushion. Such was the submission of Lucio to that day when I was at the end of the evening, during this period that was to end with a dream, a limit to the new day, unconsciously, with the cheeks, he formed a perfect circle of smoke .. . and knew no warning. The ring amounted to half of the cabin and stayed there, turning, involving a Saturn invisible, lying on the dim moonlight, oblivious to the wishes of Lucio for being an equal to it. Knowing that you love and not feel, he said, and immediately revived the image of Alma and the momentum he felt that day to meet her, and talk, to get closer, momentum, with the same momentum, disappeared behind the smoke. Was that love? If something remembered feeling was that by Alma, a feeling isolated in time and space. Perhaps the problem was there, in time and space, for a few days ago but not seen, and the real distance between them even inconceivable, Alma seemed like a dream, a mockery of their desires, their longings to marry, raise a family and procreate, Lucio felt (this I felt) it was still a boy of fifteen years of life on the edge of the road. So subtle was the love? So ethereal reason? However, Lucio knew I loved ...

The breaststroke cigarette burned his fingers; released him stifling a scream, fell just a foot, even shoes, and with the heel turned it off. It said it would be best to sleep and not think. Do not think of anything, neither in life nor in death, or the love that reason. ***



There you are, smiling, and here I am, unable to bear your anguish. Maybe not me, maybe not you. There is the way, here I am, in the middle of a path very well known, a goal that extends infinitely, as the goals must be extended, but even with all my desire, even with all my desire to reach you, I know my wings are no longer useful, that I have wasted, that I wasted forces on the ground walking. Look at my wings, are as gray as the sky, are my wings of a dove vulgar, instead you are radiant ... but cold, almost ... almost ... no, I dare say the word. I dare not, Luna.

Do you think of me? Do you expect my comfort? What to do with you, Hope? What should I do with my wings?

47 - Final

Use Microwave Without Wave Guard

- Forty-three - Forty-four

Photo




Forty-two


"No traces, no staining; not seem to have anything contagious.

- So?

"Guess who died because he had to die.

"Yesterday a toothache.

- Regina, please!

"Before nightfall we'll have to come ...

I do not understand.

-... And keep insulation at least two more days as a precaution ...

-Pa.

- What does proceed?

"That's all, ladies, my condolences, the captain informed them.

"Doctor, doctor, what it means to proceed.

"I can not tell you more.

"You will say or not let out, am I clear?

-is threatening to an authority, sir.

"I do not think anyone has authority over me, nor do I believe that a warning is a threat. The ladies asked for an explanation and will need to provide is the ... For his sake, and this itself is a threat.

"Well, yeah well, he wants it. At dusk, the body will be thrown into the sea. Sorry.

- How?

"Ma'am, you understand, a lot to go ashore. We can not keep it.

- You're a ...!

"No, please, Mr Francisco captain and had warned us.

Hope, why not ...

"It's true, Aunt Regina, and it is most appropriate. We can not carry a body that begins to rot.

"Good, you understand, miss.

-only ask to give us until tomorrow, at dawn, my father would have liked that.

"Well, I'll see what I can do for you.




Forty-three


Now the clock shows that it is the night, though the lights off and missing persist as gray afternoon, as at the start declining. Lucio feels restlessness, anxiety every night, but this time is less sharp, there is the extreme difference of day and night. It's dense and perpetual gray, warm color and vomiting, which gives the subtle lull in the unrest. At least now there is a breeze, at least revived the lightning cracking the sky, at least now the gray is justified, and the clouds look like clouds, there are lumps and shadows of the clumps in each centellazo. Now, in the fall, the day seems to have regained the will. The day, night, whatever it was that moment, the clocks said it was night.

have already heard the cries stopped, women may have fallen asleep, or simply have run out of tears, or desire to mourn. Lucio looks intermittent darkness and discover other shadows in the shadows, darker than the first, as forms of a continent, a forest, no, not a forest, a jungle better to say yes, the forms that Lucio is now are those of a jungle, a jungle contour that extends endlessly in this now, at this moment, in the present. Smoke released with apathy, it's almost a reflex, an exhale necessary to allow the new inhalation, and continue, breathing, and smoking, knowing that in the act of smoking is recognized to live life and knowing now that the well is so deep, that the darkness has those strange shapes of forest in the middle of nowhere, or middle of the ocean (so obviously thought a desert of waters, so obvious to associate the whole, the majority with nothing), knowing death flees vivo. Back to inhale and then exhale, it becomes conscious, studied the movement and now, as a child, there on the edge of town, with Pietro, when smoke and snuff were not yet part of the universe, is bothered by feeling breathing. No, no sensation, but the consciousness of the act of breathing. Remember that as a child, the discovery of breathing, feeling that his chest was expanding and then resume forms, rhythmically, accompanying the movement of the lungs and the tingling air and out through your nose, thought that breathing was a job that required a huge responsibility, and how much responsibility, being nothing less than life! Is that if you miss the air and then release to allow the entry of a new breath, he would die, like his grandfather. Why grandfather died, I asked his mother. Because he forgot to breathe, "replied the woman. And Lucio understood the importance of this operation, was conscious of the burden that life and he brought with him that it was just a child. It was not fair, it was proposed that life just as arduous work for children, so these were no greater responsibility than to sit on the edge of the road, within the limits the world, with best friend, to feel the sun on your face, to imagine stories of heroes and dragons, or fairies, or elves, or anything else they could trust each other provided they do not forget to breathe. Do it without conscience, without knowing they breathed, it was not unpleasant, but now that it was the burden, the obligation to observe life, the thought of his chest inflating and deflating in a number of times that exceeded the amount of numbers knew (just up to ten and not in the correct order), so tired, as now, who smokes to downplay the fact of breathing, which releases the smoke of vice to give life to understand that things are not as important as she believes that one can invent many more serious concerns and human, more real, this time on a ship in the third class at the Maria Fioravanti gray in a night of stagnation, smoking can make fun of life, of colors of this, smoking is known to live there, where a man lies dead without reason, without signs of disease, a man who seemed so alive, so carefree, a man who probably has forgotten to breathe. A Lucio never befalls an oversight, for the messages is attached wires to the fingers, for birthdays red mark on the calendars, for life, brings the snuff ... The tears, the few tears that it is impossible heal, are responsible to bring their girls, Alma, the girl, her girls. Now, at the moment, at present, in the gray, intermittent lumps in the sky that portion in half whimsical, in the jungle far from ghostly shapes in all, the increasingly strong breeze coming from the East, all in the acrid smoke exhaled reluctantly, almost as a joke, all in all in all: his girls. Her girls. Theirs, only those of anyone else.

Theirs.

His girls.


Forty-four


Liberato The word I needed, but which surely know, was synecdoche. With her could have framed the idea that he was cornered. A trade, only part of the person, perhaps the least desirable for it but to occupy your day, your life, it was defined. But Antonio had no identification other than her name. So when he repeated it in his mind many times until the word loses its meaning, rationality, and become a noise in the flight of a bee onomatopoeic, it was believed lost. The person Anthony was there, with arms and legs, torso and face (though it said nothing), with the clothes that you knew, they were those of Antonio, juniper smoke pipe, the pipe Liberato Antonio knew, but word Antonio had no effect, had disappeared from her consciousness and she had managed to capture little of Antonio. Liberato panicked, he said that everything was wrong to think too, that everything has a limit, an amount not to accept abuse. Believed he had given so many laps around the idea Antonio had been exhausted and exhausted, had disappeared and could never regain consciousness Antonio, much less write about it, it was Giovanni, and the rest of humanity, it is true But Liberato had censored every level of thinking that could lead to exhaustion, which disorder, which prevented him empty and start writing about cows, at least, or pipes. Liberato not want to think, but I thought, I thought of the possibility of having no other words, that all disappeared along with the words, because it was clear that the world was because there was the word world, as the boat with the word boat. God, Holy God! What would happen to run out the words ship, and then any of the synonyms that, moreover, Liberato know? God, Holy God! What would happen to run out the word God? What if someone already knows the name of God, and naming it, or think of her name, is exhausted? Liberato

thought both in his fear that little by little exhausted, he disappeared. And thank heaven Antonio recovered his name or the name Antonio recovered ... if any, at last, was liable for recovery.



*** I'm not here, I know I'm not here, I always knew. I am the one who crosses the road, who is traveling, always traveling and never arrives. You do not want to reach. I know, I always knew, although my mind to think otherwise, even if I think I just hope the goal. If only I had enough wisdom to recognize, with or without these words, but recognize traveler, timeless valleys and mountain walking in the footsteps or making mine, but walking, always walking, no real desire to reach. The road is the one who teaches, educates the senses, if at least my attention was applied to a single league the way, and not always there on the moon, my moon, then it would not otherwise, because he would know that happiness is here, to be who I am and how I am, not spend my spirit to reach the Moon, Moon was my goal (goal would not only ride the momentum of it, for you the earth is round and circular existence ), and just invite her to walk with me, because his company would be the perfection of this trip, but it would be my goal, my life does not depend on his, or any other than mine; life is for those willing to live, and the paths for those with desire to walk, moon, how I wish to be aware of all this, how glad I know you'd be willing to walk with me ... you would see on the road, in the consciousness of the way, your tears would be impossible, your pain would not make sense, because the path is impossible to die, without goals we enslave, death, and was defeated.

Chapters Forty-five - forty-six

Weaknesses Of Object Relational Database

Chapter Thirty-nine - Forty - Forty-one thirty-sixth chapter


Thirty-nine

Darkness had come to a standstill. Not only the wind had disappeared, but that he also seemed to have succumbed oxygen. This was out on deck, and conceivably the torpor of the interior, but the gate was closed after thirty-five who chose to leave the men, so that Don Guido, or in other words, the body that was occupied gift Guido, now it was accompanied only by women, the latter, after all, his only relatives.

third on the deck, and Lucio Giovanni took refuge in the snuff, like Antonio, somewhat isolated, as isolated even from the rest of the passage of the crowd that only now, in stifling heat, was notable , real, really there. Antonio juniper lit his pipe, his little treasure, and smoked quietly, but not as if seeking a refuge in the smoke or the act of smoking, but just to be granted a respite, a restorative respite and then continue their struggle. But what kind of fighting men as Antonio undertook? What identified and distinguished from other men like Antonio?

A few steps were Francis and Julian, the first, also surrounded by a curtain of smoke, seemed to blend in vain through the crowd and Julian gave the impression of a man on the run as well, standing still as it was, it seemed a point away rapidly toward the horizon for a plain way, but hesitated, stopped and returned before I even scratched the vicinity where the road parallel deceptively joined at one point, fake degree, false target juxtaposed. Is that even in they had a difference that could be attributed, the most obvious, which reluciría up to the spirit rather lazy: Francis and Julian, were stateless in that cover foreign, English surrounded by Italians, exiles and foreigners. Liberato

looked at them all and just seemed to vanish Antonio the idea that uneasy. Until the walrus could say that was a dead, dead man: classification. Lucio had earned the title of sacamuelas and even if it were a lie, there was to represent a rumor began to spread to the rest of the passage, for better and for worse. It was Antonio, was Lucio who finally won the title and the angry suspicion that he would die on the brink of starting. Giovanni was his hero, or antihero, depending on how the story would end someday write. It was his muse, it was clear, simply a man who had introduced himself to flesh out the stories but neither he nor the stories were the protagonists, not only their own ideas, as suspected, would not be different from many others, not be misinterpreted as he would tell a universal language ... But Antonio ... Antonio was beyond any classification, Antonio was like the days that it could appear dark, as it now, or with a large sun, like that of yesterday, or even that in its first hours, the days would never clouds and sun day would be cloudy or sunny days, without losing its essential condition, which is to be just days, in contrast to men, in view of other men, each one was what he did or what he had, or what appeared, not just man. Was the doctor, the military, potter, farmer, taxidermist and even the vague and bon vivant, all of whom were named according to their specialties, leaving the essence of man, human being, on a level of understatement in which, of course, was expendable semantic explanation that a potter was a man because was inadmissible to think about shaping the clay ox. Liberato was forming the idea that the words had nullified the true essence, that every interpretation supposed differences, but the essence underlying all denied, the denial of his language was more even than the English, that included the prefix man (taxman, postman ...) in the identification, in English could lead to a hypocrisy that between theirs was not, although this did not seem any better or worse. In Antonio was impossible to discern anything about this, what was Antonio, there, smoking his pipe, looking without seeing, resting? It was not even a convalescent. What was Antonio? How could write to Antonio the day finally put to write? The men of the crew descended the stairs of the hall he could identify, were seafarers, in general, and one of them, in particular, just younger than Antonio, was official. An officer who is now thirty-five hit the door and appeared as a doctor. The situations were clearly identifiable: the repeated explanations, the crying of women, the eviction of the cabin to be only those men in sailor uniforms. All could understand, and if not, I suspect. But Antonio, there just watching and seeing now, looking in the direction of women, of women, did not allow it framed in anything except the essentials. And this is what he set out to write Liberato the day finally put to writing. Forty





was missing the sun, gasping for air, missing the sky under a compact gray clouds were no longer, nor storm, but just one color of absences. Now, everything was missing, Francisco noticed that before there was something or someone, and that behind of that curtain no apparent underlying presence. The moment was as a fall. The sea looked like a gray carpet full of white peaks, dirty and blackened foam, the ship was moving with the water ways, however seemed tight, it seemed the same time. There was no wind, and many far to assume a movement permit, immobility and lack were there, but to know and warn absences and stagnation, it was necessary to know the action before the company, to know that someone was alone in the universe that the universe was only that someone, Francisco alone and like the rest of the lonely, but different in isolated tower was necessary to have had an accompanying awareness of interaction, individuals unifying frame for the whole to be shown to the lonely. Poor Francisco, no longer know which of the ideas he had been better, but what it had been less miserable, poor Francisco, especially now, seeking a sense obliged to skepticism.

stifling Gray, absence, was the clearest proof of the withdrawal of God might be like had read in German that also questioned for his own, spouting death of God, but here also, to provide for certain death, before life would have to accept that there was a god who lived and created and left his inheritance matters. There was Don Guido, being reviewed by physicians Fioravanti, the body of Don Guido was not an invention of his loneliness, was not represented by any imagination, Don Guido was alive and spoke to him and he was part of his life, time, and even when I thought about it. Even the most absurd moments in the life of Don Guido had been necessary so that one day boarded the boat, and a day crossed with Francisco in the cabin of the third of thirty-five Fioravanti. And as were the moments of Don Guido, also parents and grandparents, and grandparents Don Guido, and all his predecessors since the first day. What day? Does the creation of a dead god? If God did not exist had to invent it, someone said, and his men took this message as a way to discredit the believers, even as a believer who spoke, said of them preferred to believe in an illusion rather than admit nothing (and others said they preferred to be wrong to believe that beyond the world there was nothing.) Francis is also needed to be any reason for life (although he denied it), something the man gave him all these years, he was offered some insight and science, the apple of the forbidden tree for something, something could be and not be just to enjoy the sun, or to deny that sun. It could not only this, if only this. For something Francis had left his Spain, the people dry, gray house deeper than this sky stagnated for some reason was heading to America, a mandate that transcended his wisdom guided him up the steps to work in a territory where printing, and the ideas that underpin the existence of God. For one thing, to be a God, even if it was invented, allowing Francisco denied it, and talk of denial, the reasons of the blue. For some men would hear some clinging to their beliefs, the glass bead rosary, words he had heard in the soulful, pious and calm, full of Dona Carmela Faith No wonder so many believe him, but among them, as well as he had those in the discernment of nothing, deny their need to invent a god.

And is that life had those things, the ironic turns that always subjected. The city that awaited him, the Villa del Santo Rosario, would be the haven from which to announce the freedom and the absence of God. His friend had written: "Francisco, brother, if you saw these lands, and this river, this is paradise." Life had those things. Had these out of nowhere and no, the wait without foundation, the immobility of compact gray.

Absence, stagnant, nothing that foreshadowed the idea of \u200b\u200bbecoming. But the hours were accumulated, as the days, the passing of Fioravanti was incessant. Francisco, with your feet flat on the deck of the third, a foreigner among their own, different from the same, with an eye itself, just saw a motionless man, fixed between similar gray top and bottom.

But the passage of Fioravanti was incessant.

And he knew it, and denied it.

Forty-one



It was OK so, without thinking about anything. It was right in believing that the evaporation of ideas, that the good feeling of knowing they live, without thinking, without saying so, and even under gray skies that formless and sky, the sun had managed to subdue. He was one who was humiliated, at last, the eternal. It was the one who had retired with his tail between his legs, afraid, bewildered, because Giovanni did not need nor would ever need to feel good. Giovanni was still there and it was fine. The boat was still there and everything was so, so good. One man had died, a man who was not him, so that everything was, and still good. And if things had been with him, if then death would have been a fact for him too, then did the same thing, because Giovanni was not thinking and did not want to think more since he had discovered that this was always so good.

I do not think anymore, he thought. And he felt that it felt so good.

Death is not for me, it was said, because he did not want or accept that the death was real, even with a dead man, still under the compact, gray sky, is that there was so, so good.

There was Mary, because she thought. There was no time looking back because he was not afraid because neither wanted to spy on the future. America and Argentina were empty words, mere noise, onomatopoeia of species confined in the third class of an ark like the story I read Mary, that did not exist. This was so good at the moment unbearable, the protective insulation. This was so good, like a dead man saved from death.

This was so, so good.

I fell so well not be.

thought he did not think he liked so well not be.

thought.

thought.

thought.

- In anything?

"Nothing.

- How is it possible?

"I can not explain it, but it is very good, very good as well. Lucio

looked almost with pity, perhaps with some envy, and rolled a cigarette very fine, not thinking that the days passed, the sea was always there, but snuff is consumed and the clothes smelled increasingly . Cover all stank, whence had come so many people? So much dirty smelling people? It was the same smell of the lobby of the hotel, cold nights warm flesh clinging to the Alma, the pregnancy of rapid heartbeat, was a smell he knew and hated the smell of poverty. Why poverty smelled like that? But not all poverty, only the material, the cities, because the people, despite all, it was possible to enjoy the olive groves, dry powder scratching time and space throwing away the filth that stank. The village smelled of smoke on the edge of the road and had the ring and forms a sound that created the cheeks. Nothing smelled so bad. He was the one who smelled bad, he could lock and unlock the cheeks with a sound creepy, but unable to make, to create, to build the circular forms of smoke, there, on the cover of Maria Fioravanti.

looked forward and tried to unfurl a hole in the line dividing the gray water compact gear. Looked the front with all the senses, as if to hear and touch the future, smell the holes if that could get rid of lingering stench. Where did he come so many people? So much dirty smelling people? In America there would be no people, nor aromas of whom deny. In America land could only snuff, and promises to return in this or another ship, but at first, including perfumes and good snuff, with America in the pockets, with substantial rings formed of carrillo blows with a path of water, edge, no stones or Pietros, only water and Lucio. And Soul. And the girl who saw him smoking a snuff to reach the best choice would not admit that always always, always, even when wrong, even when he foresaw the possibility of error, even though the idea that time is on their side would tasted like a silly excuse, even with all that ahead, always, always, always , had been right. Always. That

morning. And now?

Chapters Forty-two - Forty-three - Forty-four

Brown Discharge Clitoris

- Thirty and seven - Thirty-eight


Thirty-six

Liberato hated cynicism of fate, one that maimed writers, closed the hearing of musicians who breathed or blinded by his readings. I hated it without knowing it, because somehow I suspected. Whenever I had a chance, life stress was responsible for his theatrical virtues, killing, for example, the only person who seemed to desire life, here in the Maria Fioravanti. Or deposited in the hands of an illiterate the only book available, and that book is nothing less than the Bible, the Holy Bible that his mother read to him every night as if it were a fairy tale. Not blame or reproached him for anything in particular because of the simplicity of that hardly would have allowed women to think that some of those stories will unquestionably wise steal the peace and sleep, it is true that enthusiastic Samson's strength and courage of David, like Solomon's wisdom and wealth of the town of Ophir, but nothing disturbed him more than the plight of the poor Job, haunted by the God who said just and devout, or the days of Jonah in the belly of the whale, or the trumpets of Judgement Day, or the promise of hell for sinners, or what was even worse, indifference to divine who would be called to the kingdom and would not be admitted. The anguish felt by imagining Liberato at the door of the great Heavenly Palace, waiting in vain that the doors were opened for mercy, for neglect of punishment, or whatever, it caused the horrific nightmares that still harassed him. It was the worst punishment: to be called but not admitted, have been selected but then discarded, having received the majestic promise only to discover that there had been as you had thought worthy, who did not deserve the sky, or even a site on the threshold of the kingdom. Don Guido could imagine knocking on heaven's door, doors opening, the light of God encompasses all, Don Guido entering with a knowing smile, washing their sins in a small friendly gesture of devil, and God accessing, distended by deleting the dour expression, offering his kingdom, that pearly paradise without fronts, and inherent wisdom. But as he knew not to smile as did the nice little devils, and how well I was young, too much to die, not only would not be admitted, but did not feel called, and the strange anxiety also acted in a contradictory manner in the spirit of boy. He was anxious, it was clear, and I knew I had to take a pen and a piece of paper to start writing at once, it was his life demanded it, an impulse sublime, the extreme need to write words, or meaningless for it was to read them, but with all the sense to him, who wrote and needed to learn to read, and read to recognize, the meaning of his words would be, nothing least rescue the living, acknowledge the call and fight for admission.

was afraid, very afraid, afraid that the destination, with it, play to be cynical and will leave no hands before he could write, that led him to madness before they reasoned, that left him without eyes when I had not read or ten-millionth of what I needed to read, he snatched his life when he still remained to live ... to take him to the kingdom without being called.
or having been called to let him out.

Looking toward the horizon, where gusts reached more and more violent, coupling strength to the black screen and choppy for lights of the approaching storm, seeking a sign of the whale, the leviathan that swallowed Jonah and probably would avoid it, Liberato B., youngest son of a potter, a native of Naples, Italy. He was not a prophet, he fled from the words of God, the Lord's orders, he had not been mandated to urge repentance Liberato did nothing but obey, dig into his soul the words you say; studied in itself to meet the other, all that was Liberato without God had nothing to do with their affairs, but there was a storm, there wore the black patch and flashing to the boat where had already installed the idea of \u200b\u200bdeath, where the dead had to hold the idea, and soon the wind blow, and he could not sleep, the storm would soon capsize the boat, and he fled not from anybody would Dona Carmela praying and no one would ask him to do so also, soon the fear of God would force him to wait for the sailors came over him and thrown into the sea to calm his anger soon realized that nothing that happened, except storm , nothing, nor have whales waiting, nothing, and the days would remain unchanged, with him in the third, thinking that I should live without noticing that he was alive, saying I should write without realizing that it did, dreaming that someday he would die without accepting that his death had begun the day he was born, knowing that would be called, lest she be admitted, not knowing that ... without knowing whether ... without knowing ...


Thirty-seven


It was fine and, in the heat of the candles and the people, forgetting that the running time, or just thinking about that time itself was running when in fact he was, Giovanni, who steadily progressed from candles and people.
was strange that faint glow of the candles, now that the sky was covered and the wind, strangely, had regained the calm of the night before. The feeble flame denounced the lack of oxygen in the cabin, closed to the curious and the air. However, it was fine, so sleepy, almost rambling with candles and people rushed Giovanni still and evaporate into the race. It was good, very good, although the lightning without thunder seemed to mock those who watched the dead to say that life and the flashing lights and blaring were far, far or near but not there in the Maria Fioravanti, in Three of Mary Fioravanti, thirty-five in the cabin of the third of Mary Fioravanti.

Will Don Guido able to read? Why worry about that now? Why, suddenly, he believed he had the world and life ahead of learning to read, write, and to teach another, later, if desired? Why such confidence was recognized broker, one more, from candles and people, knowing watched for a while still? It's funny, but it happened. Perhaps it was because in the thirty-five short of breath. Maybe. Who knows. The truth is that he felt the rush hours, you need not look for excuses to avoid asking Liberato lessons because lessons did not really want, now could be expected, and preferred to stay there, where it was so good, very good. No thought of Mary, or America, or even notice the mourners, only accepted the moment, and I enjoyed it, and takes delight in the colors and aromas rising from the assimilation.
He was happy. It was so great, thinking that he preferred to live on his way to arrive alive and die in (with) the target.

The lights were dim, perfect, but he felt that his feet were loosened and his eyelids fell.

-Giovanni, are you OK?

- Huh? Yes, yes, I'm fine.

"Come, let's get some air before it starts raining, I have the urge to smoke.

"Oh, yes, let's go.
Lucio
invited his snuff to Giovanni and rolled a cigarette for himself with the black snuff Francisco had given him. While offering fire to his companion, looking thin and closed tip of the needle paltry paper, he thought it was leaving little autonomy to the provision. Buenos Aires thought that soon could buy the best snuff and the amount I wanted and allowed him to repeat that idea away from Giovanni and enjoy your own cigarette, that of Giovanni, helped by the wet, salty wind that was reborn under the overcast sky was consumed quickly and after the last puff, the young T. returned in silence to the thick atmosphere of the cabin thirty-five. Lucio remained in the hallway, with more than half a cigarette, fumándolo slowly, holding in his mouth the acrid taste of black snuff, chewing teeth air with smoke that entered the lungs and spread his blood itchy, colors, the ideas insignificant points, like drops of salt, spread before his eyes along with the slight buzz noise was just a dizzy, a way of feeling rather than hearing or seeing, a sense of smoke instead of meat under the skin of cigarette paper that was consumed by the fire of expectation and sudden sadness of the evening, the agonies, the return to old faces, old guilt, to recognize lucidly in their words excuses were needed to confirm his life and now were just that, mere excuses, stupid reasons subject of beards by phrases or felt dull. It was an excuse the word America, was invented as a reason for your lips to the ears of soul and little hands of the girl.

The girl, Lucio remembered well: the girl. In the memory of afternoons excuses, preferred to get it back without a name, almost as a unit, she was with him, no matter who they were two epic or vulgar names ... the girl was just the girl, his daughter, himself. I could not think of it as individual existence, separate from yours, for that fell in these sentences evening, so forget the momentum of the morning, the fire of the sun, the wonderful view I had of the existence, an existence in which life was just life for those who were willing to live. And Lucio knew that every morning recovered the provision, therefore, in the evenings, when the urge to jump into the sea was so intense, clinging to the promise of hours, and allowed to wait a little longer, a little more, a little more, with smoke instead of meat under the skin of cigarette paper.

And so, with a slight hope regained, omitted to give effect to the questions facing the body of a walrus, what sense had their lives? Why, what the cares if the end of the day must die? It was in the evenings, when fainted, which was the same questions. In the mornings, when it was possible answer, Lucio did not think about them, because I was dealing with life.


Thirty-eight


was not for the tears of Regina, nor by the cries of Mary. The notion of what was actually occurring was when he heard the strange voice that Carmela used to recite the rosary, is that there was in the daily ritual monotony of repetition without meaning, there was a rumor of words that numb , any day as any day, Esperanza had the image of his mother praying so imprinted in her mind, so assimilated, that neither changes of place, nor the obvious signs that a life of poverty he had left in the older woman, managed to give a hint that the difference in the time, but now was different, now the words rang as if they were spoken thinking of the value of those words, knowing who was speaking, the meaning of the phrase. Hail Mary ... greeting, the doxology, not a mere formality, was repeated at the beginning of ten and ten more and ten plus a real desire to be heard, Carmela applied not only a religious meaning to the patient of the living and the fate of the dead and we're going to die, all sinners, but exuded a genuine compassion for the soul of man lying with two copper coins on the eyelids and cold. Blessed art thou among women, repeated Carmela, and seemed to give herself to the divine will, it seemed to want the huge capacity of the Holy Mother, but not as an act of vanity, but of mercy, mercy again; Carmela wished to have a thousandth of the grace of Mary, with her, to comfort Hope, especially Hope, to hear the real prayer of his mother, took real awareness of what had happened, and then began to mourn. And her tears were not selfish, but they were afraid. Hope dad had died and left alone in the world, alone in that big box was the world and that anyone ever opened to flee and be scattered all evil, all passions beyond the world, beyond the ocean, America and dreams, to leave her alone. Sola Esperanza. Nothing, no more than the poor in the cabin Hope thirty-five of Maria Fioravanti. No one, and only continued to cry. Sola. Sola Esperanza. Dad had died, their origin, reason, one that cared and protected in their loneliness. Hope was alone, now and forever, listening to the pious prayer, fleeing the pious prayer, finding mercy in prayer ... And mourn, keep crying.

Here I see, I'm alone, searching, trying to find out if you let me approach, if you want to find you. Why insist on stepping on land, if I know that there are no certainties, the only truth is the unexpected, you're like me and reject me for loving you might as well tomorrow, or maybe want me at this moment, and forget about me for the rest of the time we left, you have left, that is me, finally after all that hurts me. I'm afraid because I know, your decision haunts me because I know I will not stand and never are mine; I know you grieve, that you repent, you cry but after having laughed. Or you laugh without ever wept, or live, just live, as I live and live the moon and the deep desire to live life that carries with it the wind and fertilizes the sun in the morning. I know you live your life and repeats the steps of all the lives that go to the same place, to the recommencement of the cycle, new cycle with words, without words, with sweat on the forehead or free of the pitfalls of this suffering . All I know, all I know, and yet I persist in my error, my fears that we are just the same I fear I provoke, the fear of being wrong, not to be firm, not knowing how to give substance to my desires, that having found a way, because I do not care, or no time left for me at last I care. I know I'm here in the cabin of a ship that seems so strong and solid but it's nothing compared to the sea that rages outside, the wind roars, lights that break the sky and threaten to fall on the mast of the boat I know that prefigures the floating anxiety but at the same time the danger of the abyss of darkness and wet salted rid us of the penalties, time, questions, to think about anything, to insist with the fear of whether such such thing or another, whether tomorrow or now, if you or whom. Everything, everything I know, but since when I know. How do I know. Well I want to be aware of this wisdom, words that explain it but he could never pronounce. Well I want to be aware of the roaring sea, the sky dark and the lights they leave, but I have only aware of you, Esperanza, in your face and my doubts in your hands, and your skin, your shape in your tears, your pain, your parties are able to perceive everything, not just your tears me because without them you would not be now, not worry me your pain, or trouble me your thoughts, none of it yours now is more or wrong, nothing I mortified because all it is necessary for you to be you, for me to be me. Everything is here to confirm you and confirm, we are what we are, Hope, and that's okay. I know, all I know, I would be aware of this I know from when, how, why. I know, I know, and yet I am so ignorant.

Their eyes meet, it seems to look, but it is he who looks, she is absent. Their eyes meet and there are no sparks or friction, it is because a party lacks substance, perhaps two, perhaps it is not only absence, but also fear. Their eyes meet, it seems to be watching. Lucio notices and not interested. Liberato notices and although he thinks he is not interested, inadvertently taking notes, and still think in life you should live. Francisco notices and found differences in the repeated act where a man and a woman appear to enlist the costumes for the dance of seduction, even there, in the living dead, but ... Julian notices, and agrees not to think, not to look, not to crumble as you would the fact his uncle, Regina notices, Mary noted, but look the other way and pretend nothing has happened, that what is there does not exist. Carmela notice it, even with your eyes closed and his mind still rumble words that join the Creator's will, so do not mind, so it's all good. Giovanni notice it, perhaps note, but actually seems asleep, stupefied with the soft light of candles and almost half. Their eyes meet, we all noticed, seems to be watching, but only Anthony who looks, and not to Esperanza. Look beyond it, almost no momentum, no desire to watch. Look at the consequences, good and bad, you see America, or we might think of it, look and go back to the moon paths, false paths of the moonless nights. Look and see whatever show you memories and projections, but where is Hope is now painfully absent, is just the waiting room of things to come, the fourth of rest to recover from what happened, or worse, to analyze and wallow in the mud, not to find forces him out of the swamp, all that goes through the mind of Antonio when it seems that the sight. Hope is just not it has been able to silence their ideas, has censored his words, maybe it's life lasted a second, but from the outside looks a lot more, but that no one notices, even she, even Antonio who did not is because it is, much less her, which, thank God, for one second left to think.

Chapter Thirty-nine - Forty - Forty-one

What Woods Are Safe To Rabbits

Chapters Thirty-three - Thirty-Four - Thirty-five Thirty-one chapters


Thirty-three

Life had those things, the obvious need, as in the dialogues, to be confirmed as a life, truth of platitude: for someone to warn you that so that was right under his nose was of a mountain as before should have seen a mountain, or at least hearing a description of the object mountain, but at this point, the certainty would lead to confusion; the subjectivity of the reporter could easily get lost in the listener ... and why not then think that what seemed life because someone had said that this was life, not a subjective perception of that false story wrong turn and so the first man, hanging from this tree same unknown yet there, forward to everyone's confused. Liberato B. fled Naples believing in the words of someone who told him about life, heard and read sentences that spoke of troubled trips and returns no less problematic and frustrating, life was not in Naples, and was also in Naples, repeated and absurd, full of truisms and platitudes whose function was to confirm it, confirm the error. To write about life, had to live, and there was the Fiorenza nothing different, nothing was paid to the revelation, or perhaps all she served.

There were his characters, their dialogues, their stories, but it was so obvious, so based on that life could not help but wonder if it would take more words, theirs, and if anyone may be interested in subjective and false description of what was there in front of their noses, mingling with the inertia of a meaningless existence.

Fioravanti In life, in Naples in the world, in any imaginable limits, the circumstances would give him, for example, situations in which he met a woman named Hope in a place where all the invented world. Was it the obvious need? Even its name it was more than obvious. B. Poor, ragged sigh in the cabin thirty-five, losing the thread of his sentences in pain selfish and unaware of the ladies who were crying for a senseless death.


In the corridor opposite the third, now closed by a makeshift fence and a sailor boring people, mostly English, wondered out loud why the death. There was no reason, no deaths have it more than life, but the concern was somewhat justified. Imagine a plague, an invasion of rats, or any known or feared ghosts. The indifference was not the best remedy, but the same fear of those forced idleness of these. And nobody, absolutely nobody, repaired in the heat in the day across the tropics, in the strong leadership of Fioravanti, things happened now, the terror was muted This, and death was already the past.
An officer and two sailors fell from the control room with candles that settled in the thirty-five, at the edges of the berth of Don Guido. Liberato

watched the candles and thought that deaths at sea would be common. It promised to keep this detail for the book that one day write.


Preparations were made in silence. Hope wore his father's clothes on Sunday, before he had to stir the trunk and rescue the fund, because we know that on Sunday the boats had not perhaps had no differences between days. Doña Carmela toilet as best he could, while Regina and Mary lit the candles. While the action was the center, the world revolved as usual, imperceptible, without laughter or tears, looks like stones, people such as water or wind, just items, but when the scene was ready, when women, united by grief , watched the makeshift chapel, the spontaneous cry was unanimous, except Carmela, that even with a wet sheen skirting the eyes, kept going over the false coherence of her rosary beads.
was a fact, Mr. Guido was dead, and repeated circumstances, the necessary rites, such as life dialogues and subjective, were there to confirm.


Thirty-four


Things happen and should happen, I always knew. The good, the bad, the wishes denied, unexpected shocks, everything. Is that there are no good or bad, just personal opinions. There denied desires, just fear of seeing them fulfilled. There are no unexpected shocks, only the denial of the signs that advertised. I always knew I had to fly and preferred to walk on roads at times impenetrable, but some pleasant and even submissive. I always knew that behind my desire to conquer the moon, was the fear of arriving and finding that it was as I had imagined. I always knew it would be John and not me who could tell if my course had been good destination or bad, when it simply was.

And now you're with me, that I feel in my arms, crying tears your pain away and fall still pointless on the shoulder that I offer, my hands just rub your warm hands and my fingers feel the subtle harshness of your clothes, I again wonder if you're the moon I want, if I reach you in flight or perhaps a path, if I reach you ... if you let me catch you.

I feel your pain, be me who suffers for you, but just albergo place for this question was formerly a joy. You're with me, I have chosen to download your disbelief, and that I do not know if it's good, though I know it is.

Moon my moon, are this moment on tables and wind crunch hinted, we are that sky dark clouds began to draw away, so far, which seems to end the world, a world of water, where they say is the land, and beyond America : the land, America, Earth, and you turning your orbit differently.

Things happen and should happen, I always knew. Wishes are granted to those willing to face them, those who did not even complain, even cry, even blaspheme for a destination that was unfair screaming in the background you know, they also know, we all know that receiving having inertia is desired, we must be willing to be courage to confront the cravings.

I know, I always knew.

Thirty-five


A strong breeze, that she could be violent, prevented him from lighting the pipe. Beyond guessed the brownish lump foreshadowing the storm. Anyone who had watched the same scene would have thought in a fire in the ocean, on a train that left their mark of smoke spreading enslaved by the wind, would have allowed even fantasizing about the huge breath of a giant god blowing across the water any child could do it over a bowl of hot soup, this was within the possibilities, there, in abstraction of Mary Fioravanti, except the reality of an approaching storm front still silent and dull, without the shrill sound and visual rays, without vanity flashing storms. The wind, even arriving after hours, maybe days of absolute quiet, it was imperceptible shaking her hair, like the folds of his clothes, his hands were unable to prevent the match went out, however denied it, knew it and refused. Now, forced to the limit imposed by a man who was his equal but nevertheless dominated, now, before a dead body of someone who was his equal and that now seemed so different now, contemplating the face of pain that was unknown, was wondering when he had taken real self-consciousness of their equality despite all the differences that exist. It was not in town, under the wing of his mother, his father died. It was even the basis, in the classrooms of a school that taught ancient times books like the present, nor was the church where the priest forced him to guilt in the blood of Christ crucified, was not to know his guide, who pointed the way to freedom, much less the day he began to explain that explanation to admire in the Christ who had previously murdered, most human that Christ began to have a sense precisely because human, perhaps the only true sense, allowing acceptance for the words of one man is not opposed to freedom. No, he could not say at what point said that it was not the son or father or even uncle, or friend, or any other title that appears justified in society could not give a date at the moment he realized that he was who he was individually, that time was his living, he was a representative of his generation, the generation of the same full of differences, no one could live their lives and that he could live much less those of others, when was that he understood everything? Even could imagine that consciousness that seemed absolute and eternal, without beginning (and probably endless) days beyond that limited him to Maria Fioravanti. It may well be an idea that harbored since childhood, it is true, even before the candles off and the gray walls, but was not expressed or had not allowed her birth, because his trip was needed to justify to others their ideas needed to justify the acceptance of others, would ensure continuity in the opening of the youth, the Julianes and Liberato, including pike, the Antonios and Giovannis, all of which must hear and accept it, but for him, Francisco, for which Francis felt Francisco, necessitated only by Francisco, the mind of Francis, and pipe that finally consented to go on, smoking, awareness of smoking. And he saw clouds, there, like dark lumps, like a fire, or as traces of a train. There, where a powerful god and giant blow to warm the spirits, or trying to push the sails of an unknown ocean.

pleasant smoke made him forget the death of the essence that he was carrying in that consciousness out of time. There were tears on their faces, tears that were now gone tomorrow but, perhaps, with the memory, reappear furtive and comforting, but disappeared again, and with it death, Don Guido, the influence of the old Italian on any act of life, the death of Don Guido would not be like that man coherent sentences about who relapsed two thousand years later. Or maybe yes, maybe yes ... Who could tell.

The first break of light on the dark clump, which neglected in a forked branch, returned the tag consciousness, consciousness of man piensacuestionarechazaoacepta, and wondered: What am I doing here, obedient to men?


Chapters Thirty-six - thirty-seven - thirty-eight