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
0 comments:
Post a Comment