Best 80's Exercise Costume

Death / Thomas Mann

Death
Thomas Mann


September 10 has finally come autumn, summer will not return. I'll never see ...
The sea is gray and quiet, and light rain falls, sad. When I saw this morning, I waved goodbye to the summer and autumn, the number forty of my fall, that has finally arrived, inexorable. E inexorably bring with it that day, as sometimes date recited quietly, with a feeling of seclusion and intimate terror ...


September 12 I went for a walk a little with the small Assumption. It is a good companion, he is silent and sometimes I look at me raising her large eyes full of affection.
We went down the road from the beach to Kronshafen, but turned around in time before you found us more than one or two people.
As we returned I was happy to see the look of my home. How well had chosen! From a hill, which was now dead grass and wet, watching the sea of \u200b\u200bgray. Gray is also simple and the house. Along the back passes road, and there are fields behind. But I do not look at it, look only to the sea.


September 15 This solitary house on the hill near the sea and under the gray sky is like a dark legend, mysterious, and that's how I want it in my last fall. But this afternoon, as he sat at the window of my study, we presented a car that brought supplies, the old Franz helping to unload, and there were noises and voices. I can not explain how much it bothered me. Shaking with anger, and ordered that such a thing was done in the morning, when I sleep. The old Franz said only: "As you have, Count," but I looked irritated eyes, expressing fear and doubt.
How could understand? He does not know. I do not want vulgarity and boredom stain my last days. I have fear of death may have something bourgeois and ordinary. Must be arcane and strange around me at that big day, solemn, mysterious, of 12 October ...


September 18 In recent days I have left, but I've spent most time on the couch. I could not read much, because doing so tormented me all my nerves. I simply lie down and watch the rain falling, slow and relentless. Assumption
has often, and once brought me flowers a wet and slimy plants found on the beach when he kissed the girl to thank her, she cried because I was "sick." What impression was inexpressibly painful to me their love melancholy!


September 21 I have spent much time sitting at the window of the study, with Assumption on my knees. We watched the sea, gray and huge, and behind us in the great room of tall white door and furniture rigid silence reigned. And slowly stroking the soft hair of the creature, black and straight, falling on his shoulders, I remembered my life variegated and varied remembered my youth, quiet and protected, my wanderings through the world and the short, bright days of my happiness. Do you remember that lovely creature of ardent affection, under the velvet sky of Lisbon? For twelve that made you the gift of a child and died, encircling your neck with her slender arm. Asuncion has
The small black eyes of his mother just more tired and thoughtful. But above all has the same mouth, that mouth so infinitely soft and somewhat bitter at the same time, which is more beautiful when it is silent and merely smiled slightly. My little Asunción
!, If you knew that I shall leave you. Are you crying because I thought "sick"? Ah! What is to do that? What has that to do with the October ...?


September 23 The days I can think and get lost in memories are rare. Many years ago I can only think ahead, just waiting for this big day and chilling, the October 12th fortieth year of my life.
What will? What will? I have no fear, but I think it comes with agonizing slowness, this October 12.


September 27 The old doctor Gudehus Kronshafen wine, arrived by car on the road and had lunch with the small Assumption and me.

"It is necessary," he said while eating half a chicken, make you exercise, Count, plenty of exercise outdoors. Nothing to read! Nothing to ponder! I'm afraid you're a philosopher, heh, heh!

I shrugged my shoulders and thanked him sincerely their efforts. He also gave advice concerning the small Asunción, watching her smile a little forced and confusing. Has had to increase my dose of bromide, maybe now I can sleep a little better.


September 30 - The last day of September! And requires less and less needed. It's three o'clock, and I even calculated how many minutes left until the start of October 12th. Are 8.460.
I could not sleep tonight because the wind has risen, and hear the sound of the sea and rain. I have been cast, let time pass. Think, ponder? Ah, no! Dr. Gudehus making me a philosopher, but my head is very weak and I can only think: Death! Death!


October 2 I am deeply moved, and my excitement is a sense of triumph. Sometimes, when I thought and looked at me with doubt and fear, I realized that I took for a madman, and I looked at myself with distrust. Ah, no! I'm not crazy.
I read today the story of the Emperor Frederick, who prophesy I would die sub flore. So avoiding the cities of Florence and Florentinum, but on one occasion ended up in Florentinum, and died. Why did he die?
A prophecy in itself does not matter, depends on if he gets hold of you. But if it succeeds, is demonstrated and therefore is fulfilled. How? Why a prophecy that comes from myself and strengthened, not be as valid as that coming out? And is the firm knowledge of when to be dying, is not as dubious as that of the place?
There is a constant union between man and death! With your will and conviction, you can join your area, you can call to come to you at the time that you create ...


October 3 Many times when my thoughts are spread before me like a gray water, I seem endless because they are obscured by the fog, I see something like the relations of things, and I recognize the futility of concepts.
What is suicide? A voluntary death? No one dies accidentally. The life and leave him to death always occurs because of weakness, and weakness is always the result of a disease of body or mind, or both at once. Do not die before having one made with the idea ...
as I Am? So I think, because I think it would be crazy if it died on October 12 ...


October 5 I keep thinking about it, and I fully occupied. I reflect on when and how I had this assurance, and I find myself unable to speak. At nineteen or twenty years and knew what was coming when they were forty, and sometimes insistently asked me what day would take place, I also discovered the day.
And now this day has come so close, so close that I seem to feel the cold breath of death.


October 7 The wind has become more intense, the sea roars and the rain drumming on the roof. Overnight I have not slept, but I've come to the beach with my raincoat and I sat on a rock.
Behind me in the dark and rain, was the hill to the gray house where we slept the small Assumption, my little Asunción. And to me, pushing his murky sea foam before my feet.
I looked all night, and I thought that this must be death or the afterlife of death was front and infinite darkness, filled with a dull roar. "There would survive an idea, a bit of me, ever hear the incomprehensible noise?


October 8 I must give thanks to the death when it comes, as all will be fulfilled as soon as I get when I can not go on waiting. Three short days of autumn yet, and will occur. I hope the last minute, the last true! Do not be a moment of ecstasy and unspeakable sweetness? A moment of maximum pleasure?
Three short days of autumn yet, and death shall come in my room ... How do you lead? Will I be treated like a worm? "He grabbed my throat to choke? Or with your hand penetrate my brain? I imagine big, beautiful and a wild majesty.


October 9 Assumption I told when I was on my knees, "What if I leave early in your hand, in some way? Would you be sad?" She leaned her head on my chest and wept bitterly. My throat is choked with pain.
Moreover, I have a fever. My head burns, and trembling with cold.


October 10 was here tonight, tonight! Never saw nor heard, but despite that I talked to her. It's ridiculous, but it acted as a dentist: "It is better that we end soon," he said. But I would not and I defended myself, I threw in a few words.
"It is better that we end soon!" How those words sounded! I I felt pierced. How utterly indifferent, boring, bourgeois! I've never known a feeling so cold and sardonic disappointment.

October 11 (at 11 pm)
Do you understand? Oh! Believe me, I understand!
hour and a half ago I was in my room and entered the old Franz, shaking and sobbing.

- Miss "he cried. The girl! Please come soon!

And I went away. I did not cry, and just shook me a cold shudder. She was in her bed, and her black hair framed her small face, pale and painful. I knelt next to it and not think anything or do anything. Gudehus doctor arrived.

"It was a heart attack," he said, shaking his head as one who is not surprised. That Old rustic was as if I knew anything really!

but I, I understand? Oh, when I was alone with her rumored-out rain and the sea, the wind moaned in the chimney, banged the table, so clearly the truth enlightened me a moment. For twenty years I have called the death a day starting in about an hour, and in me, deep down, there was something I always knew he could not abandon this child. Could not die after midnight tonight; however, so it should happen! I would again reject it when it is presented: but she went before the girl, because I had to obey what I knew and believed. Have I been myself who has called the death of your bed, you've killed me, my little Assumption? Ah, words are crude and miserable things to talk about such delicate, mysterious!
Bye bye! Maybe I find out there an idea, something about yourself. Well, look: the hand of the clock is ticking, and the lamp that illuminates your sweet face will soon go off. Keep your hand, small and cold, and wait. Soon she will approach me, and I'll do it they nod and close your eyes when you hear say

"It's better that we end up soon ... FIN

Water Retention When Travelling

screens and books in the same world / Roger Chartier

The renowned French historian stresses the importance of school as a key tool to achieve a harmonious relationship between digital technology and culture of the printed book.

When it comes to analyzing the past, present or the future of the book, it is essential to tap into the thinking of Roger Chartier (Lyon, 1945). Of his numerous works on the practices of writing and reading in the West may include the classic The world as representation (Gedisa, 1992) and more recent Listening to the dead as his eyes (Katz, 2008). A few weeks after receiving an honorary doctorate from the University of San Martin, the French historian adncultura spoke with some of the issues he was passionate about: books, disputes with digital culture and education.

"In his inaugural lecture at the Collège de France, entitled" Listening to the dead eyes, "you ask an elementary question, basically, that I would return here. The question is what is a book.
"There are several definitions that we can consider, such as those arising from the metaphors used in the Golden or conceptual distinctions century XVIII, who argue that the book has body and soul. Or that the book, as Kant said, is on the one hand, a mechanicum opus, a material object produced by a technique which the object belongs to whoever buys it, and, secondly, a speech, a play intended for a that in that sense, belongs to whoever wrote.

- What happens to the meaning of the work? Is property of the author or the reader?
"The situation is really complex. Because what the reader reads a book, but the authors do not write books. Written works, speeches that others, editors, printers, typesetters, transformed into books. This transformation provides a way to text sometimes overflows or even contradicts the author's intentions. And what is appropriated by the reader is the text as material. But on the other hand, the construction of meaning that makes the reader does not refer only to their expectations or categories, but also to the reading experience that each produces a particular text. Hence, for me, the need to link three elements in the analysis: the compositional procedures, appropriations (both in the same society as over time) and the material is written and printed items.

-On several occasions has referred you to a process of "dematerialization of the work, which is enhanced for several centuries. What are the causes and scope of this dematerialisation?
"There are many reasons that have wiped out the effect of registration materials. First, the definition of literary property promoted in the eighteenth century, which states that the author is the owner of a text, regardless of their material forms successive or contemporaneous. The copyright protects the work in its immaterial essence, in its dimension of aesthetic and intellectual production. And from that moment the law itself operates the dematerialization of the work. It is very interesting that arise when disputes over copyright. There we see the problem of defending the copyright of an author about his work at a time when the Enlightenment dream indicated the possibility of appropriating all the ideas that were considered useful for the progress of humanity. Some authors such as Condorcet in France, which radically rejected any notion of copyright, because they believed no one could appropriate the fundamental ideas of the Enlightenment process.

- What are the other reasons for the dematerialization of the work?
"Another key reason is linked to the reception. In this sense, is the reader himself who dematerialized the work by reading it. Unconsciously, creates a relationship in which the text loses all forms particular specificity. It is the discourse of the other with which the reader talks, which penetrates, or is the discourse that passes through it.

-naively, the reader can experience the text as a kind of inner voice, detached from all materiality. But also, from a naive at all, much of literary criticism has rejected the materiality of the text.
"Actually we could say that this was reinforced by the entire literary criticism, both for the more classical and for which came from structuralism. The classical tradition, for which the text is in the heart or mind of the author, did not address the material form, but the intention the author. But neither did the criticism originated in French structuralism, but somehow erased the author ranked the sense in linguistic functioning of the speech, leaving no room for the effect of materiality, the registration form.

"When you issued the revolutions of literacy (Gedisa, 2000, French edition, 1997), the de-saparición the book as object appeared imminent. However, there are still many readers who remain faithful to the book of paper.
"At that time there was an address contained in a prophetic stance that predicted the immediate disappearance of the book. Some had this with enthusiasm and others rejected. I think we've come out of this antagonism, in particular thanks to the idea that making sense of a text, whether by its author, whether by its reader, is not independent of the form of registration. It is seen that there is no equivalence between a text on the screen and text in printed book form. Even though the text could be considered linguistically the same, the relationship with him is completely different. Not only in terms of body posture, but also the practice of reading is different.

- What are the differences?
"A central element, key, reading is the relationship that can be set at all times and immediately between the excerpt, and the entire work: consistency and identity. Both in the case of the novel as in the trial, is that the printed book allows this relationship to a facility that is not in the mail. In the digital world, the fragment out of context of the whole to which he belonged. This is a property that favors the texts are fragments of a database, because it assumes that nobody will read a database in its entirety. But when is a book that is in a narrative or argumentative demonstration, is that the expectation of the reader (at least the reader who entered the world of literacy with print books) stays true to the book object, which, while not being forced to read every page, provided the relationship between fragment and whole becomes possible.

"In this situation, does it make sense to maintain the distinction between body and soul in the book?
-Currently, besides the book as a particular object is the computer, which carries all the texts and also serves to read and write. Now, if it becomes complex to keep the book as a body, what remains of the book as a discourse or the book as a soul? This is all the discussion on the subject of e-book concept. How can we maintain the view identification of the book as a work in the digital world?

- Is it possible?
"The problem is that the digital world, in its origin, said the idea of \u200b\u200bmobile text, malleable, open, distributed free. A series of concepts that oppose term by term with the criteria that defined the book as a discourse in the eighteenth century, that is, a work that is not mobile in their text, although it may be in form, "for no is malleable, which is imposed by the registration form, which belongs to an author who has rights to both economic and moral on her, and, finally, that circulates through the publishing and library market.

- This opposition continues to be valid?
"There is a tension between two positions. On the one hand, those who claim that the world could be a world texts of speeches without owners, produced in a polyphonic and spreading of originality, referred to the thought or the feeling of a single individual. On the other, those who seek to introduce into the digital world with means to maintain the category of uniqueness, originality and ownership. Ie, that texts are closed, the reader can not intervene in them, that access is not necessarily free of charge but, as in the case of a printed book, involving a payment, and recognition the work as something mobile, as it can go from one computer to another, but that is not open, that is identified as a composition that has an originality and uniqueness that refer to the proper name of its author.

- What do you think of the increasingly frequent cases of thought and written texts for the electronic world (blogs, web pages) but which are later published as books on paper?
"There is a kind of ironic revenge of the classical form of the book. For those writing practices that have their origin and their meaning in the digital world, with a brief, time sequence, with an openness to dialogue with the reader- today are in a format that is inconsistent with the logic that has led to the writing. This could be interpreted as evidence of the force that perpetuates the printed object. But at the same time, can be interpreted as the strength of the proposal for a new way of writing was invented precisely because he was away, distant from the classical criteria of writing for the printed text. This reinforces the idea that only a radical replacement, what we see today are multiple forms of coexistence between writing and recording digital print. Screens and printed books can cohabit the same world: this is something we experience every day.

- Are there factors that can disrupt the harmony of the living?
"First, do not think that everyone has immediate access to technology. Even developed countries have cultural boundaries, economic, technical terms such access. This is something that should not be forgotten. But that division is added to a generational problem. Is fundamental difference between those who entered the screen from the written word, written or printed, and younger, conversely, sometimes entering the world of literacy from an experience that has built and is experienced each day in front of the screen.

-Young that are very adept at reading and writing text message but have difficulties in studying academic texts.
"Exactly. We are faced with new generations of readers who have built their habits in front of a textual inscription has little to do with the classic practice of the book, journal, etc.. In such cases is likely to be difficulties in reading by an inappropriate application to printed texts in the way of reading that has been built in front of the screen and that is the discontinuity, segmentation, fragmentation. This is a fundamental challenge that must be seen and already considered "school.

- What is the role school? "Train children in the new technologies or to insist on presenting a traditional lecture mode, which is considered in crisis?
-Both. Because on one hand, it is absolutely necessary to provide facilities for all citizens to enter the digital world that is imposed on them every day. It is a world not only for pleasure, games. It is also the world of administrative form, the world used to build everyday. Thus, the new form of illiteracy could be exclusion from the digital world: people can read and write but unable to enter this new world of multiple business forms, games, discovery of learning. In this perspective, the school must give a central place in the presence of the digital world. On the other hand, of course, the school must remain the place in which to learn the written culture in its most traditional. Must show that there are different ways of reading reading and fast batch occurs off screen, and that these forms can be useful precisely because they are different.

- Is a task that the school can pursue?
"I think that is a huge task, difficult, which asks teachers, but this relationship would maintain dual dialogical understanding necessary for citizens of XXI and XXII century. Children can not be out of the digital world that is everywhere. It is similar to what happens with television. The school can not turn it off. What you can do is teach to use: to discriminate, to choose, to criticize. Similarly, entry into this world must be accompanied by a sustained relationship with the past is still present. That is, the past present of the existence of some texts or works with a form that allows the digital-plus-an understanding and making sense-and thus, the individual-in its critical relation to society or other or with nature. Gustavo Santiago

DNA
Culture

Cross Stitch Dora The Explorer Free

arms exporter Russia is ready to be 2 hours of your time

In tropical countries the difference in the course of the day between summer and winter is negligible and therefore not use the time shift system in winter and summer so common in North America , Europe, Russia and some countries in the Southern Hemisphere since as we get closer to the poles the extension of daylight clarity depends directly on the station of an-o, with summer maxima and minima in winter.

detailed world map of countries that use the system currently DST change and winter (blue) or which was in use (orange), as also those in which he has never been used (red)

In many countries where the system remains in place is fierce dispute between those who are in favor of maintaining and proponents of repeal. The main arguments are related to electrical energy savings while opponents talk about a variety of give-you that would cause the health of the displaced living given by the natural time zone, especially in nin- years and older as well in chronic patients.

However, those who are in favor, argue that the adaptation to the time change occurs quickly and that any negative effects associated with removing 1 hour (summer time) is offset by the positive effects that would occur when you add 1 hour (time winter). While those who are against claim that energy savings are minimal and would be much greater if the establishment of an energy-saving policy.

In the particular case of the Russian Federation authorities say that the change to daylight saving time can save the country 4.4 billion kW-h of electric energy, equivalent to 0.5% of its electricity demand , about 8 billion rubles (275 million dollars), although in per capita terms is equivalent to only 31 kW-h per year, figures that are even less significant in terms of switching to winter time. Critics say the presidential decision that permanently switch to daylight savings time change following implementation of this an-or Russia, represents a minimum savings and a further deterioration in the health of the population, adding that the increased spending on energy as performed by the industrial sector and therefore are forced to save the population while the industrial sector consumes much electricity required without skimping on expenses.

also argue that long ago that the street lighting in Russia stopped being the main source of electrical expenditure rather the regime remained so of utilization of light in the apartments, a variable that depends exclusively on the individual regimen of life, not the extension of the hours of light.

The sense of time change

The graph above ( valid for the Northern Hemisphere ) to understand from the perspective of an average citizen a sense of time change. The more clear and limited area for 2 strokes called civil twilight ( time at which the sun hides 6 degrees below the horizon ) clearly shows the period over an-o. This is broader mid-an-o, ie, summer and winter and less extensive if the hours of day in summer would last more than 60 minutes. Dotted lines are drawn in the waking hours, the period of the day on which a person would be awake, on average between 7 and 23 hours. You see, in the latitude of the figure (50 º North), equivalent to Kiev, Berlin and London the day "begins before" in the summer for a person by what makes sense to start the day before, ahead of time, ie making that 7 of the man-ana, time to get up, are actually 6.

The same graph as above but valid for 2 Russian cities (and at different hours): Moscow and Vladivostok, the first located further north and therefore a longer summer in the daytime. The 2 graphs on the left show the distribution of annual hours of light according to the local time zone. As you can see, if you use the time zone that corresponds to the natural time, you lose hours of light in summer in both cities (in white, down the line that marks the 6 am) as people wake up enough after dawn. When both center and right graphs show a change of 2 hours (the 6 are the 8) allowing longer hours of light lost in the summer in the case of Vladivostok or reduce its loss in the case of Moscow as people rise, indeed, possible.

The schedule change in Russia
is carried out, in the case of change to daylight savings time last Sunday in March (March 28 2010 and 27 March 2011). That day, at 2 am, clocks are advanced 1 hour (top). The switch to winter time on the last Sunday in October (October 31 2010) at 3 in the morning, returning the pointer hours 1 hour ago (image below). Because of this, October is the month plus an over-or.

The next feature of the time change in Russia, on the night of 26 to 27 March, is that it will be the last on February 8 the recent past President of the Russian Federation, Dmitry Medvedev, the abolition determined schedule change in the country . Russia therefore remain in summer time and 120 minutes continuously with the time zone difference it belongs, making it the only country in the world to live permanently moved 2 hours of your time zone.

Why 2 hours apart?

Beginning in late March if you get up in Russia on 7-ana man really be doing at 5 am because in Soviet times following the time change daylight saving time on 2 occasions that displacement local to your time zone by adding 2 more hours, however, in Soviet times permanent change was only 1 hour and reached only 2 hours in summer. History

time change in Russia

was held in Russia for the first time the change to daylight saving time after a provision of 1 July 1917. According to a decree of the Provisional Government authorities who then ruled the country all the clocks were advanced by 1 hour. At the end of the an-o and when the Soviets were in power when it was amended again, back by 1 hour during winter time. This procedure of forward and reverse time remained until 1930.

PM by decree, 1 hour on the Time Zone

In 1930, the change to winter time, which slows the hour into 60 minutes, was dropped and eventually the country permanently lived 1 hour advance in relation to time zones. This schedule was called Декретное время (Dekretnoe Vremya, Time by decree) because it was entered after a decree of the Soviet of People's Commissars of the USSR. Under that time the USSR lived more than 50 an-os. New

change, and 2 hours on the Time Zone in summer

From the summer of 1981 the USSR began to add 1 additional hour at this station an-or so the gap in that period came at 2 hours keeping the difference on the time zone 1 hour during the winter.

On March 31, 1991, the an-or disintegration of the USSR, was canceled by decree Schedule throughout the USSR, although it had been abolished in 1990 into five Soviet republics: Ukraine, Belarus, Moldova, Azerbaijan and Georgia. However, in October 1991 the Russian Soviet Socialist Republic (later Russian Federation) made the decision to return to the time of decree what is specifically the January 19, 1992 while leaving out seven provinces. Thus, the country is 2 hours ahead of its time zone in summer and 1 hour in winter.

Then in 1997, Russia made a small modification to the time change date. From then change to winter time and not in late September but the last Sunday in October and throughout Europe.

Other changes later time

The vast geographical extent of Russia allowed to spread naturally across 12 time zones as shown in the chart below, which bears the territory of the country since the exclave of Kaliningrad (Greenwich Mean Time + 1 hour), left map and in the midst of the European Union, to Chukotka in the Far East and off the coast of Alaska (Greenwich Mean Time + 12 hours):
time Given this diversity, even a matter of pride for the Russians as it shows the vastness of the country in November 2009 and by a message to the Federal Assembly President Medvedev ordered a draft reduction in the number of time zones in Russia, of the 11 actually were used.

The was made on March 24, 2010 , on the eve of the change to summer time and determined that since the March 28 regions of Kamchatka, Chukotka, the province of Kemerovo, the Republic of Udmurtia and Samara province would shift to the neighboring zone, located west of them which would be 1 hour closer to the time zone of Moscow. This immediately reduced the time zones in force from 11 to 9.

In the future we may think of the union of other time zones, such as the Urals and Siberia so the number of time zones should be further reduced. The idea in any way because China is new step in 1949 of 5 time zones to one, that of Pekin, example was later followed by India.
above maps can appreciate the above reductions in the time zones in the country, highlighting the provinces that unified their time zones with neighboring regions.

What Does Infiltrate Mean At Lower Lobe

Embargo / José Saramago

Embargo
José Saramago

awoke with acute sense of a dream and was slain before him ashen and cold surface of the glass, the eye framed in the morning he entered, pale, cut Cross and perspiration dripping condensation. He thought his wife had forgotten to draw the curtains to the bed and became angry: If you got back to sleep now, would ultimately be a tiring day. However lacked the courage to stand up, to cover the window, preferring to cover the face with the sheet and turn to the woman who slept in their warm refuge and the smell of her hair loose. Was still a few minutes waiting, anxious, fearing the morning insomnia. But then came the idea of \u200b\u200bthe warm cocoon that was the bed and the presence labyrinthine body that was coming and almost slipping into a slow circle of sensual images, fell back into sleep. The eye of glass ash was blue slowly, staring at the two heads resting on the pillow as forgotten remnants of a move to another house or another world. When the alarm went off, after two hours, the room was clear.

told his wife not to get up, which exploited a bit more in the morning, and slid into the cold air indefinable moisture to the walls, the doorknobs, towels in the bathroom. Smoked their first cigarette while he shaved and the second to coffee in the meantime had cooled. Coughed like every morning. Then he dressed in the dark without turning on the light in the room. Do not want to wake his wife. A fresh scent of cologne fanned the penumbra, and that made women sigh with pleasure when the man leaned over the bed to kiss her eyes closed. And whispered to never eat at home.

closed the door and jumped off the ladder. The farm seemed quieter than usual. Perhaps because of the fog thought. He had noticed that the fog was like a bell to drown out the sounds and transforming, dissolving, making them what he did with the images. It was foggy. In the last flight of stairs and could see the street and whether he was right. At the end there was a light gray yet, but hard, shiny, quartz. At the curb, a large dead rat. And as he lit the third cigarette, stopped at the door, a guy came wrapped with a cap, he spat over the animal, he had been taught and always looked to.

The car was five houses down. Very fortunate to have been left there. Had acquired the superstition that the risk of being stolen would be greater the farther he had left for the night. Without having ever said out loud, he was convinced he would never see the car if it is left at either end of the city. There, so close, I had confidence. The car was covered with droplets, crystals covered with moisture. If you do not make so cold, you could say that transpired as a living body. Tires looked as usual, found the way that the antenna was not starting and opened the door. Inside the car was cold. With the windows fogged was a translucent cavern buried under a deluge of water. Thought que habría sido mejor dejar el coche en un sitio desde el cual pudiese hacerlo deslizarse para arrancar más fácilmente. Encendió el coche y en el mismo instante el motor roncó fuerte, con una sacudida profunda e impaciente. Sonrió, satisfecho de gusto. El día empezaba bien.

Calle arriba el automóvil arrancó, rozando el asfalto como un animal de cascos, triturando la basura esparcida. El cuentakilómetros dio un salto repentino a noventa, velocidad de suicidio en la calle estrecha bordeada de coche aparcados. ¿Qué sería? Retiró el pie del acelerador, inquieto. Casi diría que le habían cambiado el motor por otro más potente. Pisó con cuidado el acelerador y dominó el coche. Nada de importancia. A veces no se controla bien el balanceo del pie. Basta que el tacón del zapato no asiente en el lugar habitual para que se altere el movimiento y la presión. Es fácil.

Distraído con el incidente, aún no había mirado el contador de la gasolina. ¿La habrían robado durante la noche, como no sería la primera vez? No. El puntero indicaba precisamente medio depósito. Paró en un semáforo rojo, sintiendo el coche vibrante y tenso en sus manos. Curioso. Nunca había reparado en esta especie de palpitación animal que recorría en olas las láminas de la carrocería y le hacía estremecer el vientre. Con la luz verde el automóvil pareció serpentear, estirarse as a fluid to surpass those before. Curious. But in truth, had always been considered much better conductor than the others. Question of willingness mirroring this agility today, perhaps exceptional. Half a tank. If found running a gas station, take advantage. For safety, with every lap I had to take that day before going to the office, better than less. This stupid embargo. The panic, waiting hours in queues of dozens and dozens of cars. It says the industry will suffer the consequences. Half a tank. Others go at this time with much less, but if possible to fill ... The car took a rocking curve and with the same movement, was launched by a steep climb effortlessly. Nearby was a little-known supplier, may be as lucky. As a setter at the scent goes, the car was hinted in traffic, turned two corners and went to a place in the queue waiting. Good idea.

looked at the clock. They must be ahead about twenty cars. It was no exaggeration. But he thought it best to go first to the office and leave for the afternoon round, and filled the tank, no worries. He lowered the glass to call a passing newsboy. The weather had cooled down a lot. But there, in the car, opened the newspaper on the wheel, smoking while waiting, the heat was nice, as the sheets. He had to move the muscles of the back, with a twist of voluptuous cat, remembering his wife still curled up in bed at that hour and sat in the seat better. The newspaper did not promise anything good. The embargo was maintained. A cold, dark Christmas, said one of the owners. But he still had half a tank and would soon have it full. The car moved forward a bit. Well.

hour and a half later I was filling and three minutes after start. A little worried because the employee had told him, without any particular expression in the voice, so often repeated information, there would not gasoline within fifteen days. On the seat next to the newspaper announced severe restrictions. In short, the bad bad, the tank was full. What would you do? "Go straight to the office or first pass through a customer's house to see if they gave the order? The customer chose. It was preferable to justify the delay in the visit was to say that last hour and a half in the queue for petrol when he was half a tank. The car was superb. He had never felt so good driving it. Turned on the radio and heard a news bulletin. Increasingly bad news. These Arabs. This stupid embargo.

De repente el coche dio una cabezada y se dirigió a la calle de la derecha hasta parar en una cola de automóviles menor que la primera. ¿Qué había sido eso? Tenía el depósito lleno, sí, prácticamente lleno. Por qué este demonio de idea. Movió la palanca de las velocidades para poner marcha atrás, pero la caja de cambios no le obedeció. Intentó forzarla, pero los engranajes parecían bloqueados. Qué disparate. Ahora una avería. El automóvil de delante avanzó. Recelosamente, contando con lo peor, metió la primera. Perfecto todo. Suspiró de alivio. Pero ¿cómo estaría la marcha atrás cuando volviese a necesitarla?

About half an hour after putting half a liter of petrol in the tank, feeling ridiculous under the scornful gaze of the petrol station. Tipped absurdly high and started with a great noise of tires and accelerations. What demon idea. Now the client, or will be a loss tomorrow. The car was better than ever. Responded to their movements like a mechanical extension of his own body. But the case was reversed that thinking. And here was really thinking. A large covered his damaged truck across the center of the street. I could not bypass, had not had time, I was glued to it. Again with fear and move the lever reverse came in with a soft sucking noise. Did not remember that the gearbox had reacted that way before. Turned the wheel to the left, accelerated, and in one smooth motion the car mounted the sidewalk, next to the van and out the other side loose, with the agility of the animal. The demon car had nine lives. Perhaps because of all this confusion, however, all that panic, disrupted services had been put in the petrol pumps much more power. It would be funny.

looked at the clock. Would it be worthwhile to visit the customer? Hopefully find the establishment still open. If transit aid only if would assist if the transit time. But the traffic did not help. At Christmas time, even missing the gas, everybody goes out to hinder those who need work. And to see a cross uncrowded visit the client withdrew. Better would be to give any explanation in the office and leave for the evening. With so many doubts, had drifted far from the center. Gasoline burned to no avail. Finally, the tank was full. In a square in the back of the street you came down, he saw another queue of cars waiting their turn. He smiled with joy and accelerated, determined to go numb puffing against motorists who waited. But the car, twenty feet, pulled left, by itself, and stopped, gently, as if I sigh at the end of the queue. What the hell was that, if it had not decided to put more gas? What on earth was, if I had a full tank? He stared at the various counters, touching the steering wheel, costing recognize the car, and in this sequence of gestures moved the mirror and looked in the mirror. He saw that he was perplexed and felt he was right. Again distinguished himself in the mirror a car coming down the street with all the air going to put in line. Concerned about the idea of \u200b\u200bstaying there immobilized, when he was a full tank, moved quickly lever to reverse. The car will handle resisted and fled from the hands. A second later he was caught between its two neighbors. Damn. What would the car? I needed to take the workshop. A working now reversing itself and now there is a danger.

had spent more than twenty minutes when he move the car to the supplier. Saw him approach the employee and his voice choked by calling for refueling. At the same moment made an attempt to escape the shame, got a quick first and drove off. In vain. The car did not move. The man looked suspicious gas station, opened the tank and, after a few seconds, was to ask for money from a liter kept muttering. Then, the first entered without difficulty and the car moved, elastic, breathing slowly. Something does not go well in the car, on changes in the motor, any place, the devil knows. Or would lose its qualities as a leader? Or was sick? He had slept well in spite of everything, I had more concerns than any other day of his life. It would be best to withdraw for now from customers, not thinking about them during the day and stay in the office. He felt uneasy. All around the car vibrating structures deeply, not on the surface, but inside the steel and the engine worked with that inaudible sound of lungs filling and emptying, filling and emptying. At first, without knowing why, took to mentally trace a path that led him away from other stations, and when he noticed what he was doing was frightened, he feared not being right in the head. It was spinning, stretching and shortening path until he came in front of the office. Could park the car and sighed with relief. Cut the engine, took the key and opened the door. He was unable to leave.

thought that the tail of his coat had been locked, the leg had been held by the steering wheel hub, and made another move. Even sought the seat belt to see if it had inadvertently. No. The belt was hanging from one side, black casing and soft. What nonsense, he thought. I must be sick. If I can not leave is because I am sick. Could freely move his arms and legs, bend your trunk slightly according to the maneuvers, looking back, leaning slightly to the right, to the glove, but the back was attached to the seat. Not rigidly, but as a member joins the body. He lit a cigarette and suddenly worried about what the boss would say if you look out a window and I saw it installed there, inside the car, smoking, in no hurry to leave. A violent twist horn did close the door, which had opened down the street. When another car passed, slowly left the door open again, threw his cigarette out, seized with both hands on the wheel, made a sudden movement, violent. Useless. Did not even feel pain. The seat back gently grabbed him and held him prisoner. What was what was happening? Moved down the mirror and looked. No difference in the face. Only a vague distress barely mastered. Turning his face to the right, onto the sidewalk, he saw a little girl staring at the same time puzzled and amused. Then came a woman with a coat Winter in the hands, which she began, still staring. And the two walked away, while she fixed her neck and hair of the girl.

She looked at the mirror and knew what to do. But not here. There were people watching, people who knew him. Maneuvered to secede from the sidewalk, quickly drawing his door shut, and down the street as fast as he could. He had a plan, a very clear objective and reassured him that, and while he let go with a little smile that softened her grief.

noticed only when the petrol station was almost going to go ahead. He had a sign saying "exhausted" and the car followed her, with a minimum deviation, without slowing down. He would not think of the car. He smiled more. Was leaving the city and the suburbs were, was near the site looking. He went down a street under construction, turned left and right, to a desert road, between fences. It began to rain when the car stopped.

His idea was simple. Was to leave within the trench, removing the arms and body, slipping out of it, as does the snake when it leaves the skin. Before people would not have dared, but there alone, with a desert around, away from the city that lay behind rain, nothing easier. He was wrong, however. The coat was attached to the seat back in the same way that the jacket, the cardigan, shirt, the vest, skin, muscles, bones. Was this what he thought without thinking when ten minutes after writhing in the car screaming, crying. Desperate. He was imprisoned in the car. For more to spin the body out toward the opening of the door through which the rain came driven by sudden gusts and cold, as much as say the foot on the ledge of the gearbox, could not pull out of the seat. With both hands he took the roof and tried to get up. It was as if to lift the world. He leaned over the steering wheel, sobbing in terror. In their eyes the wipers, which had inadvertently set in motion amid the turmoil, ranged with a snap of a metronome. From a distance came the whistle of a factory. And then the curve of the road, appeared a man riding a bicycle, wearing a large piece of black plastic in which the rain dripped on the skin as a seal. The man who pedaled looked curiously into the car and followed, perhaps disappointed and puzzled to see a man alone and not the couple had seemed far away.

What was happening was absurd. Nobody had been imprisoned in this way in his own car, your own car. Should have a procedure either to get out. A force could not be. Perhaps in a workshop? No. How do you explain? Calling the police? And then? Would join the people, all looking, while the authority would pull him clearly by the arm and ask for assistance to those present, and it would be useless because the seat would subject him sweetly. I would reporters, photographers and would be displayed inside your car in every newspaper the next day, full of shame as a shorn animal, in the rain. He had find another way. Cut the engine and without interrupting gesture violently threw out, as one who attacks you by surprise. No results found. Was injured in the forehead and left hand, and pain caused vertigo that lasted, as a sudden and uncontrollable urge to urinate expanded, releasing endless hot liquid was poured and dripped between her legs to the floor of car . When he felt all of this began to mourn quietly, with a yelp, miserably, and so was until a skinny dog, come rain, was barking, without conviction, the car door.

clutch slowly, with heavy strokes of a dream the cave, and walked down the trail, trying not to think, in not letting the situation is depicted in understanding. A vaguely knew he had to find someone to help him. But who could it be? Do not want to scare his wife, but there was no other remedy. Maybe she got to discover the solution. At least not feel so miserably alone.

went back into town, watch for traffic lights, no sudden movements in the seat, as if to appease the powers that held him. Were more than two and the day was dark a lot. He saw three stations, but the car did not react. All had the sign of "exhausted." As we entered the city, was seeing abandoned cars in abnormal positions, with the red triangles placed in the rear window, a sign that in the past would damage but it meant, now, often, lack of gasoline. Twice saw groups of men pushing cars over curbs, with great gestures of irritation, the rain had not stopped yet.

When he finally reached the street where he lived, had to imagine what he would call his wife. He stopped the car in front of the portal, disoriented, almost on the verge of another breakdown. He waited for the miracle to happen that his wife came down for work and merit of his silent cry for help. He waited several minutes, until a curious child from the neighborhood approached and could ask, on the grounds of a coin to come up to the third floor and tell the lady who lived there her husband was downstairs waiting in the car. That may go quickly, it was very urgent. The boy rose and fell, said the lady was coming and ran away, having made the day.

The woman fell as she was always at home, had not even agreed to take an umbrella, and now stood in the doorway, hesitant, not wanting to divert his eyes to a dead rat on the curb, into the rat soft , bristling, doubting to cross the sidewalk in the rain, a little irritated against the husband who had driven down for no reason, when I could very well have gone to tell him what he wanted. But the husband called gestures from inside the car and she got scared and ran. He put his hand on the doorknob, rushing to escape the rain, and when he finally opened the door he saw before his face open her husband's hand, pushing it without touching it. Persistence and wanted to go, but he shouted that no, it was dangerous, and told him what happened, while she bowed, got back all the rain that fell and his hair disheveled and she twitched all horror face. And saw her husband, in that warm cocoon and tarnished it isolated in the world, full twisting in the seat to exit the car without success. He dared to take him by the arm and pulled, incredulous, and could not move from there. As it was too horrible to be believed, were silent staring, until she thought her husband was mad and pretended not to get out. I had to go to call someone for consideration, to take him to treat the madness. Cautiously, with many words, told her husband to wait a little, not take, was to seek help to let him out, and so could even eat together and she would call the office saying he was cold. And do not go to work afternoon. That is reassuring, the case did not matter, that took nothing.

But when she disappeared on the staircase, think again surrounded by people, the picture in the newspapers, the shame of having urinated down his legs, and still waited a few minutes. And while his wife was up phone calls to all parties, police, hospital, struggling to believe in her and not her voice, giving his name and that of her husband, and the color of the car and the brand and tuition, he could not stand the wait and imaginations, and started the engine. When the woman went back down, the car was gone and the rat had drained the curb, at last, and rolled down the sloping street, dragged down by the water flowing from drains. The woman screamed, but people soon appeared and it was very difficult to explain.

to dusk man ran through the town, past gas stations without stock, putting in queues without having decided, anxious because money was running out and did not know what might happen when they had more money and the car arches its next to a pump for more fuel. That did not happen simply because all gas stations began to close and the queues were still waiting only the next day, and then it was best not to flee even find gas stations open, not having to stop. In a very long and wide street, almost no other traffic, a police car sped up and overtook him and when he ahead, a guard waved him to stop. But he was again afraid and did not stop. Behind him he heard the police siren and saw too, come from not knowing where a uniformed motorcycle almost succeeded. But the car, his car, gave a snort, a powerful start, and left, a leap forward, access to a highway. The police followed him from afar, far more than ever, and when night closed there was no sign of them and the car rolled down another road.

was hungry. He had urinated again, too humiliated to be ashamed. And a little delirious, humbled, humiliated. Was declining on alternating consonants and vowels in an exercise obsessive unconscious and defended him from reality. Did not stop because they knew what was going to stop. But early in the morning, twice, approached the car to the curb and tried to go slowly, as if in the meantime the car and he had reached a peace agreement and it was time to give proof of good faith of each. Twice he spoke softly when the seat held it twice tried to convince the car so that he might leave for good, twice in the night, icy wasteland where the rain never stopped, broke into cries, howls, in tears, in blind despair. The wounds of the head and hands to bleed again. And sobbing, choking, moaning like a frightened animal, he continued driving the car. Letting drive.

traveled all night, not knowing where. Crossed populations that did not see the name, covered long straight up and down mountains, made and broke ties and unlinking of curves, and when the morning began to emerge was in any part on a ruined road, where rainwater was collected in puddles bristling on the surface. The engine was snoring powerfully, pulling the wheels in the mud, and the whole structure of the car vibrated with a haunting sound. The morning opened completely, when the sun came to show, but the rain stopped suddenly. The road was transformed into a simple way forward, every moment, seemed lost among the stones. Where was the world? In the eyes was the mountains and a sky surprisingly low. Screamed and hit with fists closed wheel. It was at that moment when he saw that the pointer of the fuel tank was above zero. The engine seemed to tear himself and pulled the car twenty meters. The road appeared once again there, but gasoline was over.

forehead was covered with cold sweat. A wave of nausea came over him and shook him from head to foot, a veil covered her eyes three times. Groping, he opened the door to freedom from the suffocation that came and, with that movement, because it was to die or because the engine had died, the body hung on the left side and slipped the car. He slipped a little and was lying on the stones. The rain had started falling again. End

Bleach Doujinshi Online

The mysterious Mr. Aira

not give interviews in Argentina. Not circulating in literary circles. Publishes a book every six months. And international criticism is one of the most prestigious writers of our country. He speaks here of his inventions and secrets. Narrator

indefatigable, César Aira (1949) was born in Coronel Pringles, a village in the interior of Argentina. Currently residing in his youth in Buenos Aires, has spun a more copious narrative works of contemporary American literature. In addition to his novels, many of them published in Mexico, among which include the hare, How I Became a nun, Ghosts, The Congress of literature, The Adventures of Barbaverde and the two clowns, has written critical essays on Copi and Aira

Pizarnik style has emerged personal, imaginative and full of puns successive blunders that mark as a writer, if not marginal, at least rare. That rarity, and the frenzy with which he published his novels always brief, have led to pigeonhole him as an author for true devotees. He seems to prefer to have "readers" to be "public." This conversation took place during his brief stay in Mexico City.

- Does being a public figure is a burden? A necessary evil?
"It is only in travel. In Argentina I have never dropped the curtain and there are interviews, very occasionally participated in a conference, a panel once or twice a year. And I do not any kind of public life. When I travel I do, because sometimes it is the price you pay for a ride to somewhere nice in the world, and I do it with pleasure. Talking about oneself is always comforting to the ego, especially to see that there is some interest in one.

"Rather you are a retiring figure, domestic ...
"Yes, yes. Not because my strategy is as natural to me. I still like writing, which is rare among writers. I keep writing. Take time, have mindset to write. I do not need public exposure.

"It's a common phenomenon of the writers under time goes on and consolidates the work is beginning to favor his participation in conferences ...
"What happens is that there are many people who, in their youth when they say" I want to be a writer ", in reality they want to function socially as writers, that's what they like. Take the card to be able to say, going to conferences, have a professional social figure. And they find that the problem with that is they have to write, you do not like. Then write a book every ten years, with great effort, or collected items remain in effect so that the card writer. So many times I have said, when asked about this, I do not like the writers do not write. I see that there are writers who work as writers and they really are not writers by vocation. And in my case, I have published many books, but many little ones, is anathema to me to be very prolific. A friend told me, when I said I was coming to Mexico to participate in public affairs: "carrying a gun, and when you start to talk, Put it on the table and said: The first time you say the word? Prolific?, I stick a shot. So you're going to be controlled. " For prolific now has become a derogatory term. If it is prolific, can not be good. But that is precisely all those writers who do not write and defend themselves well. What else can a writer write? That is, if what you write is published, it is because there is some interest in publishing, a publisher interested, any reader interested in reading it. So I see no reason to despise the prolific.

"It's as if he intended to" measure out the genius. "
-Right, and vice versa, is the idea that if someone writes a book every twenty years is because it must be great. There is no guarantee.

-is also the idea that the writer has to say above all, become a kind of oracle ...
"There are many who like it. The fact that escrito unos libros es la excusa para hacer esto que quieren: opinar sobre el ser nacional, como se dice en la Argentina, sobre los problemas sociales del mundo, de la vida, de la ética. Quizá no está tan mal eso, porque después de todo un escritor es un profesional de la palabra. Sabe, ha aprendido, si ha hecho bien su aprendizaje, a hacer oraciones que suenen bien...

-Sin embargo, y es a lo que quería llegar, esas opiniones, esa capacidad para interactuar con el mundo, están en su caso en sus novelas, más que en la prensa .
-Lo mío siempre va un poco para el lado de la fantasía, de la invención, hasta del disparate, el delirio, así que no me atrevería to get a say in the world.

"But do not you think that this is a way to skew or skewed world view?
"In general, writers who become pundits become pundits from the left side of common sense, from an ethics biempensante. Never tell anyone who comes out a lot, it would be so nice.

"I'd like to tell me a little about your writing process. He spoke about writing every day ... just one facet
"My novels are based on an idea of \u200b\u200bsome kind of intellectual game, something that seems promising and challenging me. See if you can not know, what I know, a man who becomes in squirrel slowly. From there I launched the adventure, to improvise every day.

- Where do you write? In your home, in your study?
"No, no. When my children were young, we lived in a very small apartment, and got used to go to a coffee, sit down and write there. Buenos Aires is a city, blessed be, which has many cozy cafes where one can stay quietly. In my case, never too much. Half an hour, an hour, I feel, mid-morning. My children grew up, went to live alone, but the custom was mine. So every morning, mid-morning, I go to coffee and do my session date: paginita write because I write very slowly. Sometimes I wondered if mine is not more like drawing and writing, in the sense that I am very fetish of pens, ink, paper good, very fine books, and I write so slowly and thinking so much. All mine has a great visual component. I'm always thinking it looks good so I am writing, in the end I think I'm doing a drawing every day.

"Sure, in his novels are very visual ...
"Yes, sometimes I realize that I exceeds that. As I want the reader to see exactly, then I pitch with adjectives, making what is and what color form. Sometimes I have to cross because I realize that the reader does not need much fixing. And if you do not see exactly what I saw, well, what does it matter?

"Despite this fixation with show, the language of his novels is quite clear, transparent.
"That I did it by intuition, but I realize that since the invention of mine is so baroque, baroque could not add a language because it would be viviparous. To serve that unbridled imagination a bit I have, you need a prose as plain and simple.

"It could be seen almost as a courtesy ...
"That I have noticed when I travel anywhere for the appearance of a book of mine. I run an advantage because often an author gets to present a book and writing tell you that you have to read it tomorrow. And it turns out a book of big, heavy, boring, full of metaphysical reflections. Well, the interviewer will go with a bad temper ... In contrast, in my case, it is a book well, seventy pages, is read in a while, more or less fun. So come with a smile and treat me well.

- So brevity is something very thought?
"When I started to write and publish, I tried to go to normal extensions published several novels and two hundred pages; I think I got a three hundred. But with an effort. And then, as publishers were more accepting of me as I am, I was going to naturally to me. I think this format about a hundred pages, sometimes little more, it's natural for me. Call it the ideal format for the type of imagination, I invent stories.

-Va writing, and suddenly feel like you already gave him the story ...
"Yes, these are insights that one acquires with the job: I realize when it comes to the good ending. My finals are not as good, I often have criticized, rightly, because they are a bit steep. And I've noticed that sometimes I get tired or want to start over history, and finished in any way. Sometimes I force myself to put a little more attention and make a good final.

"I have a feeling that his novels are always a short digression.
"Yes, there is something that, by the way of writing, improvising every day. I like that line a bit meandering. I like aesthetically, and I think we still maintain a certain unity, coherence.

"Speaking of that line of digressions and their habits as a writer, are you a writer who walks a lot? I ask for the association of the digression with the ride.
"Yes, I am a great walker. In the morning, on I'm not going to the gym, I do my walk I call sport, a long walk that I am in the morning, because I'm very day, I wake up whenever the sun rises. Later in the day, way too much, as I have no car, never had it, "walk through the neighborhood. And at night, before dinner, I make my second long walk.

- What are job related?
"Sometimes I leave my house and I begin to think fantasies completely useless, not that I think arguments of the book. An hour later, I'm opening the door to my house and everything that happened in the middle left. I saw nothing, I was moving the legs mechanically. In general I do not write if I writing, if I have the pen in his hand.

"As to the writing process, you have been very close to the literary avant-garde. I am interested in ask about the idea of \u200b\u200bputting more weight in the process of creation that the final result.
"Yes, that's one of the characteristics, including contemporary art. Nor should we exaggerate too much here because this process turns out to be navel-gazing art, look at yourself. In this I, like so many other things, like paying taxes, I'm normal and the average. Yes, I am interested in the process, leaving bare the process of writing to display, but also have some respect for the result. That is something there. I think I'm somewhere in between.

"You, however, place him as an outlaw, as an outsider, a writer for faithful but not for majority.
"That was saying yesterday to my editor here, I'm one of those writers who are never going to be public, but will always have readers, readers at large. Never go to clot in public, that is what makes the business. In my case it will be.

- And how was your relationship with publishers?
's always been good. Perhaps because of my insecurity, my shyness, I always thought they were doing me a favor, they were losing money with me; thing is real, too. But, hey, publishers, even the music, always have a niche for something they like but do not give them money, which is my case.

"I would like to talk about his role as a good translator. Maybe that one approaches a seriousness and rigor ...
-A correction on everything. I always took it to the translation as a profession in which I lived. I saw it there with all pragmatism, so much so that I majored in literature bad. Because publishers pay the same for the poor than by good, and good is much more difficult to translate. So I ended up specializing, bah, rather taking those best sellers Americans, who are the easiest to translate because they are written in prose stereotyped.

"But it has also led ...
"I've also translated good things, a little challenge to see if he could. And now that I stopped translating professionally, I do from time to time for friendship with a writer or a friend. I ventured up to Shakespeare. A read Shakespeare since childhood, and had said: "This never going to translate, if I offer to translate Shakespeare, I will never accept, because Shakespeare is pure wealth is concentrated wealth." In each verse of Shakespeare is poetry, metaphor, there is a preview of the action, characterization of the character, all together in each verse. But once a friend was preparing to editorial Norma de Colombia, a collection of Shakespeare translated by Hispanic writers, spoke to me and gave me the choice and to do something different, I chose Cymbeline, one of the latest and favorite works of mine. And I translated. Gave me a job from hell, yes there I swore "never again Shakespeare." And yet relapsed. Relapsed by the curious reason, is that years later, a publisher called me and told me they wanted to translate, I'm not sure why, I think because I had mentioned Harold Bloom, Love's Labours Lost. Then I told them that was the most ridiculous idea that they could have been because the work has no argument, a string of puns, jokes language. How do you translate that? For the same reason, said, "Well, I'll do." I praised her a lot. Although there is no question of translating, it's about ... I do not know what verb should be used, to recreate every joke, every pun. I took it as a game as a challenge to see what was leaving. But never again, now. While those "never again" always an exception.

- And Cymbeline?
-I made a decision, which was translated into prose prose explained. At each metaphor, I would not translate it explained, sometimes along five lines, which Shakespeare had said in two words. Every joke, every obscenity, which abound, I explained at length. When I gave the editor said, "It seems a novel by Ivy Compton-Burnett." In fact, anyone who wants to read Shakespeare have to do a little effort, learn some English and read it, because there is nothing. The translations can serve either as a guide for someone learning the language or as an experiment and see what happens, what is passed from one language to another. Nor never interested me all the theoretical question of translation.

- And never lived as a process for its narrative? How does a transfer?
"No, no. I do believe that speaking in my work as a writer was to get used to the correction of prose. For each phrase has its syntactic structure well done, because that is what the editor asked the translator, a good prose. Good in the sense of good, readable. Ever thought that had ruined my prose, I had gotten used to over-corrected. And even tried to "salvajizarme" a little, do those things that make my younger colleagues, especially do not have verb phrases, where everything is upside down, but I do not think it's any problem.

"Speaking of younger colleagues, do not remember who said that to his contemporaries and their children one does not actually read them, but the watch. What's your relationship to his contemporaries, with the children? Do you read?
"Yes, I read. I read enough first two pages. It is rare that follow. I think the narrative, in Argentina at least, has fallen a little flat realism, almost folkloric, folkloric techno, but in the end manners. There is a flatness that (and it happens with many young people who claim to my influence to me as a model) that when I read what I write, I'm shocked. It has been very neglected the invention. There as more willing to witness these wonderful lives that we are. I think history has played a trick on the novelists, and that has solved many problems. And a novel without conflict ... These middle-class youth, who are the writers, those who go to the Faculty of Arts, these days have no problem, the story is responsible for resolving it. The sexual problem, for example, young people today do not have the problems we had. Then he invented. Or turn to the neurosis. A hypochondria. And all this psychological misery to me tired. I was like hooked on the novels of pirates, go out to sea to do something, to have adventures. This realism elegant neighborhood, Palermo Soho, does not convince me.

"Out there you said that the fact the others did, and that you were there looking at it as a spectator. I think that has to do with his commitment and his loyalty to the fable and the invention, which is at least impractical.
"Exactly. What happens is that a fable, a fairy tale, it is not serious. So, to give seriousness, do it well. And there I am afraid that these young people a bit wary of themselves. I'm not going to long to put a dwarf flying in my novel because that would have to do very well to work, then refer to the rave, which already have more controlled. Interestingly

-adventure inventive spirit is associated with risk.
"That's why I am surprised that these novels of youth, at least for the young Argentine novels seem senescence. Without building momentum.

- And how do you have felt over time?
"I have asked, I've wondered myself if there has been an evolution. I do not know. I think they are emphasizing the blues. Because to be honest, as I said Felisberto Hernández, I notice that more and write better, too bad that every time I go worse. One is improving his technique, but inevitably, if one is honest with himself, he knows that youth ended and there is a melancholy that grows. I think I have a line just to the game, with the invention, but it is coming. I do not know, I see from the outside. May end up being one of those oldies clowns.

- Containing the melancholy is a concern?
"It's not something that comes as a battle. It's something I notice. There is also some fatigue. But I'm sure I'll keep writing.

"Something that caught my attention was their short introduction to the Journal of the hepatitis. That little page ..
"Oh, yes, is a page of" I'll never write. " I think it was my time Rimbaud. Was flirting a lot with that, with abandonment. Stop writing and see what happens. But it was a flirt, a game theorist who does not lead to anything. Now I'm convinced he'll never leave. Even I have certain expectations: if I start to decline, as is normal for a man entering old age begin to lose his mental issues, what will happen with what I write? It's a feeling I'm curious and would like to experiment.

"To talk about poetry, you've been involved with great poets, has written about Pizarnik.
-I graduated in the middle of poets, and I think there is this love of mine for little books, which to me I look like jewels. And the thick books seem a bit rude, to follow the etymology. As I never wrote poetry, wrote novels that seem to change books of poetry. I think poetry is the laboratory of the literature. There are proven innovations, the most extreme games. In the story these games can serve as models for different structures ...

- the poetry that most interests you?
"Good poetry. One of the first books I read in my teens and I did discover something important was Trilce, Cesar Vallejo. That book made me realize that literature could also be enigma. When I read for the first time at fourteen or fifteen years, I understood nothing, not a single word. And that dazzled me. In fact, I think that what is now called children's literature has the defect that greatly simplifies the vocabulary. Because children love, spells the word you do not understand. Well, I happened to Trilce, which remains a favorite book of mine and he showed me how literature could be enigma, a mystery. I reread it at least once a year, I give a reinterpretation of that wonder Trilce to cool.

-I return to the writer as public figure, the writer says. There is a lightness in you that can be quite healthy. A light that corresponds to your writing ...
"That's what I feel naturally. I think that literature has an important role in society. On the other hand, I think that literature has always been, is and will remain a minority, for the few, and that has to be optional. There are many of my colleagues are preaching almost compulsory literature. Make reading to young people. I do not like. In our society everything is gradually becoming mandatory, so let's literature as an optional activity. Who wants to read. Whoever wants to read will have much happiness in your life, but if not read, can also be very happy. I'm not an evangelist for reading. Now it has become fashionable to promote reading. There are foundations that are dedicated to that. I suspect that all who do this work, and paid very good salaries to do it, do not read ever. Those who do read are not as likely to promote reading. Maybe because we have learned that freedom is the most you can do.

- do you think serious writers, intellectuals?
They do not know what they're missing. Do not know how much freedom are lost. I think, and I've said many times, it is increasingly difficult to write serious literature today. There has been a process over the last hundred years, irony, detachment. Today, writing or talking seriously seriously is placed on the edge on the ledge of the ceremony, the foolishness, the commonplace, the pathetic, lying biempensante. And perhaps a little sad that: we are obliged to joke.

"Anyway, the writer, to have a public space for an audience, have a responsibility ...
"But then you said it well: for an audience. Because if you would like to have readers, would make a joke. And say something crazy.

- Do you think your readers?
"Yes, I think all writers have a reader, someone we know or have known. Or sometimes we imagine someone with whom we are talking. Sometimes in favor, sometimes against. I finished feeling great affection especially by readers who come to tell me a scene from a novel of mine, or a character in a novel of mine. That's very nice because I feel something of what I've written incarnate. In France, a student approached me to tell me about this novel was published in that little girl, Princess Spring, which was translated into French. I said: "My favorite is Christmas Tree, I like it when you walk outside and gets so nervous." And imitated. That felt like something was coming true. These things cause a great satisfaction, rather than having academic praise, which is usually mediated by Derrida, Foucault ...

"But his work is highly sought by university departments.
"No, I have become a favorite of the academy. I've thought a lot: why so many theses written about me when they are written on writers so much better than me? I know what happens. I am serving them on a silver platter what they need. I give an example that I gave the other day about college students: In this novel of mine, The literature conference, I want to clone Carlos Fuentes, I need a cell of Carlos Fuentes and invented a mechanical wasp with a chip and instructed to go and take the cell. The wasp does exactly and it brings the cell, I get into the cloner and is a disaster. Because the wasp took a cell from natural silk tie Carlos Fuentes. This episode takes a professor of narratology and there you have it all served on a tray, where it begins and ends a body, is the social person is part of the biological person? We have all served on a platter by the structure of cartoons, comic, which I am giving it. That is, to apply the concepts of Deleuze, Kafka is to be Deleuze, to apply the concepts of Deleuze to me is easy. I think that's the point: to use these mechanisms suggestive but in terms of plebeian culture. Sure, I have well studied.

- Can you say you are not alien to the theory?
"I read a lot, because in my youth in the sixties, seventies, was very fashionable. There was a huge explosion of structuralism, poststructuralism of the reading of Barthes, Levi-Strauss, that whole world. Tel Quel magazine was my bible, then I moved away from that course. But I read a lot of psychoanalysis. Freud remains one of my favorite readings. And a lot of philosophy too. Although the philosophy around what Borges, a branch of fantastic literature.

"I wanted to ask about the centrality of the culture of Argentina.
"I went to Buenos Aires at age eighteen with the excuse studying law, which went bad liar. Argentina is a country highly centralized, everything happens in Buenos Aires and too little on the inside. Unfortunately. With the exception of the city of Rosario, which has a rich cultural life, but not Buenos Aires, it is close.

- You are concerned that centralization?
"No, no. Anyway I live in Buenos Aires, so I'm taking advantage of the center. Back two or three times a year to Pringles, my people. What I notice in the smaller towns in Pringles as elsewhere, is the complaint of people who have a cultural concern that nothing happens, there is nothing that is that all initiatives there are cultural end up failing, end up breaking up in a very pedestrian, very primitive, that do not want to follow. There's something I never do and that would take one jump to as high as you can have culture, which is read. That seems. Organized theater, music, clubs, even literature, and discuss novels Rosa Montero. Why not grab good books?

"Again the issue of compulsory culture ...
-Absolutely. Is that I think the word culture has several meanings: institutional, anthropological, and the meaning that corresponds to when you say that so is a learned man, and refers to one thing, to read books. Everything else, television, film, theater, all the good they have, do not replace the book. And the book itself makes up everything else. An educated man is a man who reads books and no other. If you do not read books, not worship, much as culture minister.

"As for the writer's relationship and power, here in Mexico there are government programs to national creators Becan ...
-In Argentina, thankfully never happened. Since there is Argentina, the writers have lived in their work. This not only gives them independence from the power, but also gives them a sense of reality, gives paw. I think that a writer is a writer subsidized washing. Not for submission to power, which also exist, but you lose the sense of reality. In Argentina, many of my colleagues are putting Mexico as an example that should continue, but I do not look so good. Not that I have anything against Mexico and the rich Mexican literature, but I find that dangerous.

- What Mexican writers among its influences, from his early readings?
-reading rather early, perhaps Payne, Azuela. The bottom was a teenager reading that I liked, there are other claw, there is strength, there is a sense of reality. My favorite novels of the revolution came to be other, more Type cartoon: They took the cannon to Bachimba, Rafael F. Muñoz, or Lightning August, Jorge Ibargüengoitia. And then, studying more, because I am a reader orderly, organic, I found my favorite Mexican writers to date, especially Gerardo Deniz, who read and reread. He is a poet enigma. Perhaps even more than Trilce of Vallejo. And Elena Garro, that I adore. I think as a writer is great, one of those that appear once every hundred years. I think is the greatest novelist of the twentieth century.

- Why your fantasy proneness?
"Yes, and for other reasons, for his biography. His life was a little too close to the work and that is dangerous, but in her case by a special alchemy that hatred, resentment, resulting in masterpieces such as Agnes and my sister Magdalena Reunion of characters or Y Matarazo not call. Jewelry, wonderful novels. Too bad he died and stopped appearing books Elena Garro. I'm expecting a good biography. I told a friend, Marcelo Uribe, and I have said also, unfortunately Mexico has no great tradition of biographies of writers. Argentina also, in that we are equal, and it is regrettable. For a biography serves as much to the reader. Sort readings, put in perspective. Countries with great tradition of reading, like England, also have a great tradition of biography. It's a shame and it is quite surprising that so many people having a scholarship in the universities, do not do such research. Even if from time to time, one in a hundred to write a biography. Can not be that great writers do not have his biography by Pablo Duarte


Mexico City

Plastic Bag Recycling Bin

TEARRUINA FERNÁNDEZ

How Can U Tellif Someone Masterbates

WE BELONG PAT BENATAR

How Many Calories Is In A Chow Mein

The Green Door / O.

The Green Door
O. Henry

Suppose you are walking down the middle, after dinner, has allocated ten minutes to the consumption of a cigar and trying to decide between having fun with a tragedy or do something serious, such musical comedy. Suddenly, someone put a hand on his arm. Turning, you encounter haunting eyes of a beautiful woman, who looks magnificently their diamonds and their Russian sable. She hastily put her hand on a buttered bun, very hot, and with a tiny pair of scissors cuts off the second button of his overcoat, exclaiming a word without meaning: "parallelogram!". He immediately fled down a side street, glancing fearfully at his back.
That would be an adventure. Do you accept? No, you do not. Flushed with shame, would drop the bun and would timidly walking down the street, fingering buttonhole feverishly empty. That is, this would be, unless you are one of the few blessed in those not yet dead the pure spirit of adventure.
The real adventurers have never been numerous. Those who are identified as such in print were mostly businessmen who recently invented methods applied. Seeking coveted things: golden fleeces, holy grails, the love of women, treasures, crowns and fame. The true adventurer moving aimlessly and without calculations the friendly encounter an unknown destination. A good example is provided by the Prodigal Son ... on the way back home.
Semiaventureros, all brave and wonderful characters, has been the spare. From the Crusades to the defenses terraced, have enriched the arts of history and fiction, and the trade of historical fiction. But each of them had a prize to get a goal to win, an ax to the edge to give a fresh blow to exhibit fencing, a name that gloss put a crown to adhere ... therefore were not persecutors of true adventure.
In the big city, Romance and Adventure, two kindred spirits, living on the lookout for suitors worthwhile. While wandering through the streets we look askance, challenging twenty different ways. Without knowing why, suddenly looked up at a window and spotted a face that seems to belong to our gallery of intimate portraits. In any neighborhood asleep we heard a cry of fear and torment, which comes from an empty house, closed. A taxi driver either, instead of leaving us in our familiar curb, leaves us before a strange door, someone opens before us with a smile, inviting us to enter. A piece of paper with writing flaps to land at our feet, from the high lattices of Chance. We exchanged looks of hatred, affection, or fear of any unknown instant hurries into the crowd. A sudden burst of rain ... and our umbrella may be protecting the Full Moon Daughter, cousin System Sidereal. In every corner handkerchiefs drop, fingers are calling us, we cornered eyes and the keys of the adventure, lost, lonely, seized, mysterious, dangerously changing furtively slip through our fingers. But few of us are willing to hold them and follow them. We are breeding rigid with the rod of the conventions attached to the back. We pass. And one day, after a very dull life, we think that our adventures have been the faded image of one or two marriages, a pink satin kept in the drawer of the safe and an eternal fight with the radiator heating.
Rudolf Steiner was a true adventurer. Few evenings were not left his cubicle - room in search of the unexpected and the egregious. For him, the most interesting part of life seemed to be what was perhaps just around the corner. Sometimes, those eager to tempt fate carried him down strange paths. On two occasions he had spent the night in a police station from time to time, ingenious and mercenary tricksters did his victim, and his watch and money had been, on one occasion, trophies flattering bait. But he, with undaunted zeal, kept picking up all the gloves that he threw in joyous pursuit of adventure.
One night, Rudolf walked down a side street, in the oldest part of downtown. Two streams of people filled the sidewalks, on the one hand, those who ran back home, and secondly, that restless contingent that abandons the tasty welcome a restaurant menu profusely illuminated.
The young adventurer was of nice size and moved cautiously calm. In the light of day worked selling pianos in a room. His tie was passed through a topaz ring instead of holding it with a pin. On one occasion he wrote to the editor of a magazine, stating that proof of the love of Junie, the work of Miss Libbey, had influenced his life more than any other book.
During his walk, a violent chattering the teeth displayed in a window caught his eye (wrapped in scruples) to the restaurant whose facade looked. But a second glance revealed the neon sign of a dentist, well above the next door. A gigantic black, wearing a beautifully embroidered red jacket, yellow pants and a military cap, discreetly distributed cards to passers who consented to take them. This type of propaganda
dentistry was a common sight to Rudolf. Usually passed along to the dealer cards without reducing his provision, but tonight the African slipped one in hand, with such skill that he held, smiling a bit to celebrate the triumphant achievement.
After walking a few meters, took the card to look indifferent. Surprised, she turned to her with interest. One side of the card was blank, on the other were read, written in ink three words: "The Green Door." In it, Rudolf saw a man, a few steps forward, threw to the ground the black board had given him. He picked it up, had printed the name and address of the dentist, with the usual notice of "fillings, crowns and bridges, more rich promises of" painless operations. "
The adventurous piano salesman halted in the corner to discuss the situation. Finally crossed the street, back a block, recrossed and joined back into the river of people moving along the street. Without showing that repaired in black, walked past him a second time and took it carelessly, the card offered. Ten steps further inspection. Showed, in the same script on the first card, the words "The Green Door." On the sidewalk were three or four cards, thrown by pedestrians who had gone before or after him. Were down with the blank side up, but saw Rudolf invert all printed with the announcement of the "salon" dental.
rarely had the malicious Adventure Elf convene twice a Rudolf Steiner, his faithful follower. But twice he had, and the feat was beginning now.
Rudolf walked slowly back to the position of the black giant, along with the cabinet of the chattering teeth. On that occasion, in passing, did not receive any card. Despite his gaudy and ridiculous garb, the Ethiopian exhibited an innate barbaric dignity while gently offering the cards to some, leaving others to pass unmolested. Every half minute singing a harsh sentence, unintelligible, similar to the gibberish of the drivers and opera singers. This time, not only retained their cards, but Rudolf seemed to receive, on that side shiny, black, bulky, a look of cold disdain, almost contemptuous look
That spurred the adventurer, who read it the silent accusation that he had been caught in crime desirable. Whatever the meaning of the mysterious words on the card, the black had selected him twice from the crowd as worthy of receiving them. And now condemn it seemed as lacking wits and courage to embark on the puzzle.
The young, away from the crowd, made a quick assessment of the building where, in his view, had to wait for the adventure. It had five floors, a small restaurant occupied the basement.
The ground floor, now closed, seemed to hold a fur. The first floor, next to the flashing sign, corresponding to the dentist. On top stood a polyglot babel of signs that were trying to indicate the whereabouts of palmists, dressmakers, musicians and doctors. Higher still, ruffled curtains and bottles of milk, white on the window sills, proclaimed the regions of domesticity.
After concluding its investigation, Rudolf gamely climbed the long flight of stone steps leading to the house. Ascended two flights of carpeted stairs and stopped at the top. There, the hallway was dimly lighted by two pale gas peaks, one far right, the other closer to his left. Rudolf saw the faint light from the nearest, a green door. For a moment he hesitated, but immediately thought he saw the African sneer card dealer, and went directly to the green door to call her. Moments like
passed before his call unanswered measure the rapid breath of true adventure. Do not have behind those green panels! Gamblers in the middle game of cards, clever con artists who fattened their traps with subtle skill; some beauty in love with the courage and, therefore, planned to be looking for him, danger, death, love, disappointment, ridicule, any of those things could respond to their reckless strokes.
In a faint whisper and the door opened slowly. A girl, still not yet twenty years, appeared at her, pale and trembling. Released the knob and swayed weakly, moving an arm as if in search of something to hold on. Rudolf held her, lifted her and placed her on a couch that looked faded against the wall. Then he closed the door and took a quick look around in the light of a flickering gas peak. The story that he read was that of a clean but extreme poverty. She was
motionless, like a swoon. Rudolf, excited, sought a barrel in the room. To do a barrel roll over the people who ... no, that's for the drowning. Then chose fanning with his hat. That turned out very well, I hit the nose with the brim of his hat and she opened her eyes. The youth could see that her face was, indeed, the missing link in the intimate portrait gallery in his heart. Franks gray eyes, your nose, which slyly curved upward, and curly brown hair like tendrils of sweet peas, all that seemed the end because the reward of all his wonderful adventures. But that face was painfully emaciated y pálido.
La muchacha le clavó una mirada tranquila. Luego sonrió.
- Me desmayé, ¿no es cierto?- preguntó, débilmente-. Bueno, vaya a no... trate de pasarse tres días sin comer y vea lo que le ocurre.
- ¡Recórcholis! – exclamó Rudolf, levantándose de un salto-. Espéreme; ya vuelvo.
Y salió a la carrera por la puerta verde, escaleras abajo. Veinte minutos después estaba de regreso. Tuvo que golpear la puerta con la punta del pie pata que ella abriera, pues traía los dos brazos ocupados con un cúmulo de paquetes del almacén y el restaurante. Los dejó sobre la mesa: pan, manteca, carnes frías, tortas, pasteles, encurtidos, oysters, roast chicken, a bottle of milk and a hot tea.
- is absurd, "he scolded, miss meals. You have to forget this type of betting. Dinner is ready.
As he approached the chair at the table, asked
- Is there a cup for tea?
- on the shelf by the window, "she said.
Returning to the bowl, saw Rudolf attack, with bright eyes and caught a huge celery pickled fish just any bag, with the unerring feminine instinct. He removed it, laughing, and filled his cup of milk.
- First drink this - -. ordained Then you take some tea and a chicken wing. Tomorrow if he behaves well, you can eat pickles. And now, if I invite to dinner, eat. Rudolf
took the other chair. The tea gave brightness to the eyes of the girl and returned a little color. Began to eat with a sort of elegant ferocity, as wild animals starving. It seemed that the young man's presence and assistance will feel natural. Not because they detract from the conventions, but as if their dire straits give him the right to put aside everything to keep artificial human. Gradually, however, to regain strength and well-being, took some small awareness of relevant conventions. Then he began to tell his little story. Was one among the thousands who were yawning every day to the big city: the history of selling winning underpaid, yet smaller "fines" that go to swell the profits of the trader, the time lost due to illness and, finally, lost jobs, lost hope y. .. And the call of adventure to the green door.
For Rudolf, however, that story sounded so great as the Iliad or the crisis in the proof of love Junie.
- And to think that you went through all that .- said.
- was something hard - recognized the girl, solemnly.
- Do not have relatives or friends in the city?
- No one at all.
- I too am only in the world - said Rudolf, after a pause.
- I'm glad, "she hastened to tell the girl.
And the young, somehow, I was glad to hear that she approved of his helpless condition. Very soon, she dropped her eyelids with a deep sigh.
- I have a terrible dream - he admitted. And I feel so good ... Rudolf
rose, picking up his hat.
- In that case, I say goodbye. A good night's rest will go down well.
He held out his hand and she took it, saying "Good night." But her eyes asked a question so eloquently, so frankly and pathos that he said out loud:
- Oh, come back tomorrow to see how it is. Not getting rid of me so easily.
At the door, as if they cared so much the reason for his appearance as the fact that there was, she asked
- What brought you to my door?
He looked for a moment, remembering the cards with a sudden pang of jealousy. What if I had fallen into other hands as adventurous as yours? Quickly, she decided that she should ignore the truth. Never knew you would know that the strange appeal which had been forced by her great distress.
- One of our piano tuners live in this house - responded. "I knocked on his door by mistake.
last thing he saw inside the room, before the green door was closed, was the smile of the girl.
When he was stopped downstairs to take a curious look around. Then down the hall to the end, rose to the upper floors and continued his puzzled explorations. All doors of the house were painted green.
Intrigued, he fell to the sidewalk. The fantastic African was still there, Rudolf confronted him with the two cards in hand.
- Will you tell me why I gave these cards and what they mean? - Asked.
The black exhibited a broad and friendly smile, a splendid propaganda of the profession of his master.
- You see, boss, "he said pointing down the street -. But I think it will be late for the first act.
Rudolf, to follow the direction of his finger, saw the entrance of a theater announcing, in dazzling electric points, his new book, "The Green Door."
- say that the work is first, Don, "said the black .- The agent gave me a dollar, you know? To distribute some cards along with the doctor. Do you want a doctor's gift?
At the corner of the block where he lived, Rudolf stopped for a glass of beer and buy a cigar. When he left, with his cigar lit, buttoned his coat, pushed back his hat and said, sternly, to the corner post:
- Anyway, I'm sure it was fate that gave me how to find it.
conclusion that given the circumstances, write to Rudolf Steiner, undoubtedly, in the ranks of the true followers of Romance and Adventure Weekend