Thursday, March 31, 2011

List Of Cruising Places In Toronto

Preliminary results of 2010 Population Census

end of 2010 took place in Russia the last national census of population and although final results be published in stages between late 2011 and early 2012 on March 28 last recently reported the first preliminary results. In a country like Russia under demographic crisis the main theme was of course know that As the population had declined in relation to the previous Census in 2002?

The adjacent images show the 2010 census enumerators carrying various elements of their official dress and the bag and scarf.

As reported on 28 March, the Federal Statistics Service of Russia, РОССТАТ (Rosstat), the Russian population decreased in the last 8 years in an- 2.2 million from the 145.2 million to 142.9 million inhabitants. The reason for this decrease in population is associated with low birth rates as shown in the following chart in which they appear in gray levels and black birth the mortality, both between 1950 and 2009. Until the '60s there was a substantial difference in favor of birth is quite moderate in '70. After the end of the USSR appears to place a sustained trend rather mortality over the birth rates, however, the gap has been narrowing in recent years due to an-government measures and sustained improvement in the level life of the population.
to mid-60s it was common in Russia that families had 2-3 children, which was manifested in 1964 at a rate of 2.15 children per woman. That figure suffered a sharp fall in the late '90s when the index under just 1.2 children. In the past an-os, however, due to the active population policy of the Russian government in the birth rate has increased, increasing the number of second and third births but that the rate of children per woman to climb now 1, 6. Despite the steady decline of population both Moscow and St. Petersburg presented at the last census, due to internal and external immigration, an increase of population. Moscow between 2002 and 2010 grew by 11% while St. Petersburg did in 4%. Today, with its 11.5 million inhabitants, Moscow more than doubled to 4.8 million inhabitants of St. Petersburg.

However, regions with higher population growth presented in the Russian Caucasus, where Chechnya, Dagestan and presented an increase of over 15%. A neighbor of both region, Ingushetia, present, however, a sharp decline of 11% but the reason is simple: In 2002 the region was home to many refugees from the war in Chechnya, which have largely returned to their regions an origin in the following os.

distribution of population by sex

is usually said that in Russia the number of women far exceeds that of men and, at first glance, the census confirms this, since women make up 54% of the population while men reach 46%. Comparing this proportion to the 2002 Census can also note that this difference grew by 600 thousand women. In 2002 the number of men in Russia was 67.6 million, a figure that low in late 2010 to 66,200,000. That is, the decrease in the number of men was 1.4 million. In terms of women in 2002 had 77.6 million in 2010 fell to 76.7 million, ie, the decline was 860 thousand women. Because of this, there are now 10.5 million in Russia more women than men but the overabundance of women is manifested rather in the age range of older adults.
The chart above shows that in Russia to 29 an-os, including the number of men slightly exceed that of women in the country. Between 30 and 44 is a slight difference for the number of women aged 45 and a difference for the number of women grows almost alarming as it shows that the difference in female population in Russia is explained by the high and early male mortality in the country and also shows that is a characteristic rather of people over 50 an-os.

distribution pyramid divided by sex according to population figures for 2009 (in gray). You can see that around 60-65 an-os much smaller population in the aftermath of the Second World War (Russian Call Great Patriotic War), a feature that would change radically in the projections made for 2019 (red line) and 2029 (blue line).

The volume of the Russian population globally

In the list of 10 most populous nation in the world, Russia is in 9th place, leaving in 10 th in Japan (127 million), being overtaken by China ( 1.343 million), India (1,195 million) and U.S. (311 million) countries that accumulate to 41% of world population and are followed by Indonesia (231 million), Brazil (194 million), Pakistan (172 million), Bangladesh (162 million) and Nigeria (154 million).

is expected that in 2050 both Russia and Japan out of the list being replaced respectively by Ethiopia and the Republic of Congo since Russia should move from the current 143 million to 117 million. Nevertheless, Russia is not the country that has the highest demographic problem in the world but another former Soviet republic, Ukraine, countries that had 53 million inhabitants in 1992 and is expected to arrive in 2030 at 39 million.

Graphic population in the territory of the Russian Empire from 1722 and then in the territory of the USSR. Since 1858, the lower tracing shows the Russian population in the territory that corresponds only to the limits of the current Russian Federation which broadly show a slight but steady increase of population until the end of the Soviet Union, when beginning a sustained population decrease.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Osiris Bronx Red Blue

The manuscript of a madman / Charles Dickens


The manuscript of Charles Dickens crazy


Yes ..! A madman! How overwhelmed my heart that word in years! I have awakened the terror that used to befall times, sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins, until the cold dew of fear appeared in large drops on my skin and knees knocked together by the horror! And yet, now I like it. It's a beautiful name. Show me the monarch whose angry frown was ever feared more than the brightness of the eyes of a madman ... rope and hatchets of which half were safe to squeeze one fool. Ja, ja! It's great to be crazy! Be seen as a wild lion through the iron bars ... gnashing teeth and wailing in the night long and quiet, with the joyful sound of a chain, heavy ... and roll and twist the straw so brave ecstatic music. A Hurrah for the madhouse! Oh, it's a great place!
I remember the time I was afraid to be mad when I used to wake up startled, dropping to his knees and prayed that I forgive the curse of my race, when he fled precipitately at the sight of joy or happiness, to hide somewhere alone and spend hours watching the weary progress of the fever that consume my brain. I knew that madness was mixed with my blood and marrow of my bones. Who had spent a generation without the pestilence appeared and I was the first who revived. I knew I had to be: that this had always been, and so would be, and when I cowered in any dark corner of a crowded room and saw men whispering, pointing and turning their eyes towards me, I knew they were talking to each of the doomed madman, and I fled to stultify in solitude.

I did for years was a time long, long. Here the nights are long at times ... very long, but they are nothing compared to restless nights and terrifying dreams he suffered in that time. Just remember me cold. In the corners of the room remained squatting large, dark forms of insidious and mocking faces, then bent over my bed at night, tempting me to madness. Low whispers told me that the floor of the old house where he died My father's father was stained by his blood, he himself had provoked his angry madness. I covered his ears with his fingers, but screaming inside my head until the room echoed with the screams they said that a generation before the madness he was asleep, but that his grandfather had lived for years with folded hands to the ground by shackles to prevent shattered himself with them. I knew that told the truth ... well you know. He had discovered years earlier, but had tried to hide it. Ja, ja! It was too clever for them, although I consider as a madman.

madness finally came and I marveled that could ever be afraid. Now I could enter the world and laugh and shout with the best of them. I knew he was crazy, but they do not even suspected. I used to pat myself with pleasure at the thought of how well they were cheating after all what I had said and how I had looked askance when I was not crazy and he was only afraid he might go crazy someday! And how I used to laugh at pleasure, when he was alone, thinking how well I kept my secret and how quickly my kind friends would have me away from knowing the truth. Would have screamed in ecstasy while dining alone with a thundering good friend thinking how pale he would be placed, and how fast you run away, knowing that our dear friend who sat near him, sharpening a bright, shiny knife, was a madman with all the capacity , and half of the will, to sink into his heart. Oh, it was a happy life!

riches were mine, wealth poured upon me and noise among a thousand pleasures multiplied by the consciousness of my well kept secret. Inherited wealth. The law, the law itself eagle eye had been deceived, and was delivered into the hands of a madman discussed thousands of pounds. Where was the wit of men of sound mind ready? Where the ability of lawyers, eager to discover a bug? The madman's cunning had surpassed all.

had money. How I was courted! I was spending lavishly. How I praise! How humiliating to me these three brothers proud and despotic! And the white-haired old father, what deference, what respect, what a devoted friend, how I worshiped! The old man had a daughter and a sister men, and five were poor. I was rich, and when I married the girl I saw a smile of triumph on the faces of her needy relatives, they thought their plan had worked well and had won the prize. A smile touched me. Smile! Laugh laugh to clean, tear my hair and twirling across the floor with cries of joy. Very little realized that she had been married to a madman.

But wait. Had I known, "they have saved? Sister's happiness against her husband's gold. The lightest feather tossed in the air against the gay chain that adorned my body! But on one thing, despite all my cleverness, I was deceived. If he was not crazy, because even though we have enough good wit crazy sometimes get confused, the girl would have known that before would have preferred the stiff and cold placed in a heavy coffin lead to come dressed as a bride to my rich and dazzling house. Would have known that his heart belonged to a dark-eyed boy whose name I heard him utter a sigh at one time between their troubled dreams, and I had been sacrificed to alleviate the poverty of the white-haired old man and his arrogant brothers.

Now I do not remember forms or faces, but I know she was beautiful. I know I was, because in the moonlit nights when I wake up startled in my sleep and all is quiet around me, I see, standing motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure with long hair blacks that fall down his face, shaken by a wind is not of this earth, and eyes that fix their gaze on mine and never blink or close. Silence! My blood freezes in the heart as I write this ... that body is hers, the face is very pale and the eyes have a glassy sheen, but I know them well. The figure never moves, never gestures or talk like the others that fill this place sometimes, but for me is much more terrible, worse even than the spirits that tempted me many years ago ... Has come fresh from the grave, so it is really deadly.

For almost a year I saw that face was becoming more and more pale for nearly a year, I saw tears falling mourners down her cheeks, and never knew the cause. However, he finally discovered it. I could not help me long to find out. She never wanted me, for my part, I never thought I would do: she despised my wealth, and hated the splendor in which he lived, but I had not expected that. She loved another and I never thought I never thought such a thing. A strange feeling overwhelmed me and turned and turned in my brain thought that seemed taxes for some strange and secret power. Do not hate him, though he hated the boy for crying. I felt pity, yes, pity the unhappy life that had condemned her relatives cold and selfish. I knew she could not live long, but the thought of that before his death might engender a child of doom, which would transmit to their descendants madness, I decided. Decided to kill her.

For several weeks I thought about the poison, and then drowning, and fire. It was a beautiful view of the great house on fire, and the wife of crazy becoming ashes. I also thought the mockery of a great reward, and any sane man hanging and waved by the wind for an act he did not commit ... And all the cunning of a madman! I often thought about it, but finally gave up. Ay! Pleasure sharpening the knife day after day, feeling the sharp edge and thinking about opening that could cause a stroke of his thin, bright edge!

Finally, the old spirits that had previously been with me so often I whispered in his ear that the time had come and put the open knife in my hand. I held her firmly, rising gently from the bed and leaned over my wife, who lay asleep. His face buried in his hands. The gently pulled away and fell carelessly over his chest. He had been crying, because the traces of tears still wet on his cheeks. His face was calm and placid, and as I looked, a quiet smile lit up her pale features. I put my hand gently on the shoulder. She started ... had been only a passing dream. I leaned forward again and she screamed and awoke.

A single movement of my hand and never have returned to give a shout or sound. But I got scared and backed away. His eyes were fixed on mine. I do not know why, but I chickened out and frightened, and moaned to them. He stood, still looking at me intently. I was shaking, had a knife in his hand, but could not move. She headed for the door. When I was close, she turned and looked away from my face. The spell is undone. I jumped forward and held her by the arm. A cry after another, fell to the ground.

could have killed her without a fight, but had caused alarm in the house. I heard footsteps on the stairs. I left the knife in the drawer usual, I opened the door and cried aloud for help.

came, was caught and placed in bed. He remained with the knowledge lost for several hours, and when he regained life, look and speech, had lost consciousness and rave furiously.

call several doctors, important men who came to my house in fine carriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. Were at his bedside during weeks. Held an important meeting and consulted with each other softly and solemnly, in another room. One of them, the most intelligent and famous, he took me aside and asked me to prepare me for the worst. My wife told me I was crazy ... To me, the fool! He stood near me with an open window, looking straight at his face and left hand on my shoulder. With a little effort could have been throwing down the street. It would be fun to do, but my secret was at stake and let him go. A few days later I was told to submit to certain limitations: it should provide someone to care for her. What I calling to me! I went to the open field where nobody could hear me, and laughed till the air resounded with my shouts!

died the next day. The white-haired old man followed her to the tomb and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of her whose sufferings they had regarded with iron muscles of his days. All this fed my secret joy, and laughed hidden by the white handkerchief over his face while he was riding back home, until the tears welled up in my eyes.

But although he had accomplished my goal, and was killed, I felt restless and disturbed, and I would not take much to know my secret. I could not hide the joy and exhilaration wild and boiling inside me when I was alone at home, I was jumping and clapping, round and round in a frenzied dance, and shout loudly. When I went out and saw the busy bodies who hurried down the street, or went to the theater and heard the sound of music and watched the others dance, I felt such joy that I would have rushed among them and would have torn limb from limb , howling in ecstasy that I produce. But gritted teeth, said foot on the floor and dug his sharp fingernails. Kept secret and nobody knew I was still mad.

remember, although it is one of the last thing I can remember, now is mixed reality with my dreams, and having so much to do, having always brought here so hastily, I have no time to separate between the two, by strange confusion in which they are mixed ... I remember how it finally became clear. Ja, ja! I think I see now its look scared, and feel how it departed from me as I plunged my fist into their white faces and then escaped as the wind, and left them screaming back. When I think about it makes me a giant force. See how they curve this iron bar with my angry jerk. Could break like a twig, but I know there are long galleries behind many doors, do not think I could find the way between them, and even if I could, I know down there are iron gates are securely locked with bars. They know I've been a crazy smart, and are proud to have me here to show me.

Now, yes, had been discovered. It was late and dark when I got home and found there the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to see me ... said that an urgent matter. I remember it well. I hated that man with all the hatred of a madman. Many times my fingers wanted cutting it. I was told it was there and went hurriedly downstairs. Had to say a few words. I dismissed the servants. It was late and we were alone together ... for the first time.

At first he carefully drew my eyes off him, he was conscious of what he could not even think, and I gloried in that knowledge, that the light of madness in my eyes shone like fire. We stayed a few minutes sitting in silence. Finally he spoke. My current dissipation, and some strange comments made shortly after the death of his sister, were an insult to the memory of it. Joining many other circumstances that it had at first escaped his observation, had come to think that I had not been treated well. He wanted to know if he was right in saying that I was going to do a reproach to the memory of his sister, thereby failing to respect for family. The explanation required by the uniform he wore.

man had an appointment in the army ... An appointment with my money and bought the disgrace of his sister! He was the most cunning and had planned to stay with my wealth. He had been the main instrument to force his sister to marry me, and knew that the heart of it belonged to the pious boy. Because of their uniform! The uniform of his degradation! I turned my eyes towards him ... I could not help, but did not say a word.

under my eyes I saw that it was a sudden change. It was a brave man, but the color drained from his face and back in his chair. I pulled mine to hers, and while laughing, then I was very happy because I saw how to shudder. I know the madness pouring from me. I was scared of myself.

"I wanted you lot to your sister when she was alive," he said. A lot.

looked uneasily around, and saw him holding his hand over the back of the chair, but said nothing.

"You're a villain," he said. I discovered. I discovered your hellish traps against me that her heart was set on another when you forced her to marry me. I know ... I know.

Suddenly, he jumped from his chair and swung up, forcing me to go back, because as he tried to get closer to talking about it.

Rather than talk about cried, because I felt tumultuous passions were running through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and tempted me to take out her heart.

-Condemned "I said putting it up and throwing me over him. I killed her. I'm crazy. I'll finish with you. Blood, blood! I have to have it!

I stepped aside to avoid a coup that, in their terror, I threw the chair, and I enzarcé with him. Producing a strong noise, we fell together on the floor and rolled over him.

was a good fight, he was a tall, strong man fighting for his life, and I'm a crazy powerful thirst for destruction. There was no force equal to mine, and I was right. Yes, the reason, even a fool! Each time was struggling less. I knelt on his chest and held it firmly with both hands dark throat. His face was turning purple and his eyes popped out of his head and his tongue hanging out seemed to mock me. Squeezed further.

Suddenly the door opened with a loud bang and went into a group of people, shouting to each other that cogieran the madman.

My secret was out and now only fighting for my freedom. I stood before a hand touched me, I jumped between the assailants and made my way with my strong arm, as if he had an ax in his hand and attacked her. I reached the door, I jumped over the banister and in an instant was in the street.

I ran fast and straight, no one dared to stop. From behind I heard the sound of feet, and redoubled speed. It grew weaker in the distance, until finally disappeared completely, but I kept jumping in the swamps and creeks, over fences and walls, with wild cries they heard strange beings coming toward me everywhere and the sound increased until it pierced the air . Was carried in the arms of demons who ran on the wind, which pierced the edges and hedges, and circled and circled around me with a noise and speed that made me lose my head, until I finally got away from them with a bang and fell heavily to the ground. Upon waking, I found here in this gray cell which rarely reaches sunlight, and by passing the moon rays only serve to show dark shadows around me, and so you can see the silent figure in the corner. When awake, I can sometimes hear strange cries from distant parts of this huge place. I do not know what they are, but not from that body pale, and she also ignored. For from the first shades of dusk till the first light of morning, that figure still stands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron chain, and seeing me jump on my bed of straw. End

Friday, March 25, 2011

Dwa ładunki Punktowe O Wartościach

Russia

Before 1991 the USSR gave to their partners abroad huge amounts of weapons, in annual amounts that once exceeded even the 20 billion dollars while real income for the Soviet coffers were much lower, because Most are sold on credit (credit that often never paid) or sometimes even given away to countries and partner organizations.

In 1991, at the end of the Cold War, the Soviet defense industry was 3 times larger than now. It is thought that the proportion of military expenditure in relation to the then Soviet GDP spent 20% which exceeded 4 times the level of western countries. In 1991 this system collapse the hand of the disintegration of the USSR and in the midst of social chaos, political and economic development Russian military industry was the need to build a new system of military exports.

Under these conditions the export of arms to India and China were a real lifesaver for the Russian military industry for since the early '90s two Asian nations were set up in their biggest buyers.

India had been a traditional buyer of Soviet weapons and one of the few who paid with real money. Moreover, China, whose relationship with the West had deteriorated significantly in the late '80s (after the protests in April de 1989 en la Plaza de Tiananmen) requeria la adquisicion de armamento moderno para romper la brecha que existia entre sus fuerzas armadas y las de paises desarrollados en terminos de armas y aun mas aguda en terminos de industria militar.

La mayor popularidad la adquirieron los aviones de guerra y los sistemas de defensa antiaereos pues Rusia podia ofrecer a sus socios extranjeros sistemas muy modernos basados en su experiencia de decenas de an-os en defensa contra los paises mas poderosos de Occidente.

Suxoy ( imagen anterior ) se transformo asi en la marca rusa mas famosa reemplazando al tradicional MiG ( imagen siguiente ) que domino en tiempos sovieticos.

Diversification of markets

the late 90s to 80% of Russian arms exports went to the Chinese and Indian markets. This concentration in 2 markets doubted Russia's ability to export their weapons to other competitive markets and to think of the early fall of their shipments and revenues after that met the needs of Chinese and Indian markets.

However, in the first decade of XXI century Russian arms exports have experienced a steady growth to reach just under 10 billion dollars in annual sales in 2010 and this despite the fact that China stopped buying weapons Russia as countries as Algeria, Venezuela, Vietnam and Syria, previously held junior positions in the market for buyers of Russian arms, obtained a greater role.

Today 90% of exports of Russian arms exports to 10 major buyers from Southeast Asia and the Middle East while the remaining 10% is distributed among 60 countries to choose Russia for its interest in acquiring weapons at a relatively lower.

addition, the penetration of Russian weapons in Western traditional markets such as Kuwait, UAE, Malaysia, Greece and South Korea allowed to break the traditional image of Russia as an anti-Western arms supplier, ie, trading only with countries with West which refused of trading or were only able to purchase cheap weapons.

So, after 20 an-os Russia completely change their model of export, a system that favored a military-political balance in the Third World to a business that is privileged to deliver products more competitive.

The current balance

Currently, the United States and Russia are the largest exporters of weapons in the world and both are distributed 70% of the market leaving Germany in 3rd place. Traditionally, Americans sold 3 times more weapons than the Russians, a higher cost and it is customary to say that too of better quality. In addition, due to military operations in Afghanistan and Iraq, are considered to have the plus it has been tested in real war scenarios.

an Over the past 10-years, the Russian arms exports have grown from 3.7 billion dollars in 2000 to 5.8 in 2004, 2.7 in 2007 and almost 10 billion in 2010. In Russia's arms exports dominated aviation, with 40% of the total volume, including air defense systems. The rest is divided between armaments for land and naval forces.

According to the director general of the state-owned Russian arms sales, Rosoboroneksport, Anatoli Isaykin (bottom), in 2010 Russia to orders for arms sales by 34 billion dollars which allows you to view with optimism the future of Russian arms industry, however, this optimism could fall sharply as the quality of Russian war production has begun to provoke the criticism of a number of foreign countries.

The weakest point of the great success of Russian arms production, aircraft and armored vehicles, are the electronic elements that are far behind the main competitor of Russian weapons, the United States. While in 2010 Russia sold a record of almost 10 billion dollars in various foreign weapons experts say that in 2 to 3 more an-os of the export earnings of the war industry will fall as buyers require new technology of which Russia is currently not available.

According to a recent statement of General Aleksandr Postnikov (previous image), Army Commander of Russian weapons factories developed by Russian weapons for ground forces are lagging behind their counterparts from NATO and even China. Under this principle explains the recent acquisition in France, landing craft and helicopter carrier Mistral . It was also decided to acquire the Italian armored vehicles IVECO (picture below) instead of vehicles and also Russian Tigr sniper rifles for British and Austrian origin while testing with their Russian analogues.

purpose we mention the story with the drones in whose development the Russian Defense Ministry spending 5 000 million rubles (176 million dollars) and finally ended up buying in Israel.

However, not everything seems so bleak since the last time the Russians have made concrete efforts to sell arms not only based on price advantages but also in maintenance and warranties. In the past, Russia lost many opportunities to export for lack of after sales services and spare parts supply. In this sense, the United States looked a lot more advantageous although their weapons were far more expensive. Now the Russians can not only show advantages in price, on average half of their American equivalents, but are also improving their reputation in terms of maintenance. Besides the

Russian warships are selling better and more expensive technology. For a long time its warplanes constituted about 2 / 3 of its military exports, but today constitute about half the warships.

Exports to China

Before the main buyer of Russian weapons was China, which took between 30 and 40% of Russian exports, but today the Chinese have begun to produce most kinds of weapons previously bought from Russia as airplanes, ships, armored ground for it between 2008 and 2010 China has signed no big deal to buy Russian weapons. Moreover, according to the Russians, the Chinese have acted dishonestly in the past an-os copying models Russian military technology and then producing their own versions without paying for the technology used and, even more, looking to export these copies. The Russians are trying to develop license agreements with them but have found positive response from Beijing.

Moreover, the Chinese claim that their generals are very upset with the fact that Russia sold its military technology to potential military enemies China and India, which for the Russians is pointless since they sell arms to India for several decades. Russia fears that the Chinese refuse to buy Russian military technology because they can simply plagiarize what they need. Possibly these are also part of the subterfuge of Chinese seeking thereby achieve more favorable conditions for the purchase of Russian weapons.

However, it is likely that the interest of the Chinese and Russian weapons has its days numbered as it is expected that in the months to Europe to lift the embargo on arms sales to China, which was introduced in 1989 following the events Tiananmen Square. Not only this would help support the euro for the entry of huge amounts of money from China but it definitely would put the tombstone on the arms trade between Russia and China.

The priority for the Chinese in Europe will buy weapons for ground forces, which constitute the main part of the Chinese army, for them a matter of principle never bought in Russia for arming their shooters, artillerymen and tankers with Russian military technology to the Chinese would have been the end of recklessness because the total would end dependence on Moscow spare parts, repairs, etc. The Chinese army aviation and production are barricaded with Russia because Beijing had no other choice because there are many vendors of tanks and self-propelled artillery pieces, however, there are few countries which built fighter planes and big ships. Unable to buy from the Americans or Europeans Chinese were forced to go to the Russian market.

Exports to India

Russia is today the largest exporter of arms to India, a country that is now the largest buyer of weapons in world having acquired between 2006-2010 to 9% of all imports of weapons in the world. Russia delivers 82% of its arms exports to India. The Indians basically acquire aircraft, comprising 71% of their purchases.

And as China will soon be free from the restraints to buy arms in Europe, recently learned that the Americans are preparing to lift sanctions against India's main industries. Now this is more serious than what happens to China because India, unlike Beijing, hitherto the main customer for Russian weaponry. If U.S. sanctions lifted most of the purchases of the Indians will fall into American hands. Russia begins

to acquire weapons in the West

All those shadows that begin to haunt the Russian arms industry also seem to come from within the country first, because the same Western producers are very interested in selling to the Russians, who for almost a whole century considered their enemy, their own weapons and, second, because Russia considers that only 10% of its weapons is global and is planning to spend over 600 billion dollars in the next 10 years to replace an "obsolete military equipment times of the Cold War.

and Russia are heading to the West in search of renewed military equipment since the Russian military industry is capable of producing superior weapons, something that has publicly admitted his own defense minister, and also because the capabilities of the Russian military industry were completely overloaded and will not be able to supply some components for a long time due to excess orders from abroad.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

How Much Does An Ipod Mini Cost

The moonbeam / Gustavo Adolfo Becher

The moonbeam Gustavus Becher


I do not know if this is a story that seems a fairy tale or it seems history, I can say is that its background is a indeed a very sad truth, which perhaps I will be one of the last to take advantage, given my imagination conditions. Another
with this idea, it might have made a tearful philosophy tome, I have written this legend, who see nothing in your background, at least you can entertain them for a while.
was noble, was born amid the clash of arms, and the strange cry of a trumpet of war had not made him raise his head a moment and his eyes a dark point of parchment he was reading the last ballad of a troubadour.
Those who want to find, not what they had to look at the broad courtyard of his castle, where the grooms domaban foals, taught the pages fly falcons, and the soldiers entertained the Sabbath in sharpening the iron of his spear against a rock.

- Where is Manrique, where is your master? "Asked her mother sometimes.

We do not know, "replied his servants - perhaps will be in the cloister of the Rock, sitting on the edge of a grave, listening to see if any surprises word of the conversation from the dead, or on deck, looking run one after another the waves of the river below the arches, or curled up in the collapse of a rock and have fun at the stars of heaven, to follow a cloud with the view or watch the crossing as wisps exhalations on the face of the lakes. Either party is least where everybody is.

Indeed, Manrique loved solitude, and loved her so much that sometimes wished to have no shadow, because your shadow will not follow him everywhere.
loved the solitude, because within it, giving free rein to the imagination, they create a fantasy world inhabited by strange creations, daughters of his delusions and his dreams of a poet, therefore, that he had never been satisfied with the ways that could enclose their thoughts, and never had been locked up in writing them.
believed that among the red embers fire house inhabited by spirits of a thousand colors, as gold bugs running over logs on, or dancing in a round bright sparks at the height of the flames, and the long hours spent sitting on a stool next to High Gothic fireplace, motionless and staring into the fire.
thought in the back of the waves of the river between the mosses of the source and on lake steamers, lived a mysterious women, fairies, or mermaids Sylphs, exhaling moans and sighs, and sang and laughed in the monotonous Water rumor, rumor I heard in silence trying to translate.
in the clouds in the air, deep forest, in the cracks the rocks, I imagined perceive or hear sounds mysterious ways, ways of supernatural beings, unintelligible words could not understand.
Love! He was born to dream about love, not to feel it. He loved all women for a moment: the latter because she was blonde, a former because his lips were red, because the other walking swayed like a reed. Sometimes
his delirium came to the point of staying a whole night looking at the moon floating in the sky through a mist of silver, or the stars that tremble in the distance like the changing of the gemstones. In those long sleepless nights of poetry, exclaim,

"If it is true, as the prior of the Rock I said, it is possible that these points of light are worlds, if it is true that in that balloon of pearl clouds rolling on live people, why women are so beautiful women in those bright regions, and I may not see and I may not love them! ... What will your beauty? ... How is your love? ...

Manrique was not yet crazy enough to follow him boys, but enough to speak and gesture alone, which is where it starts.
on the Douro, which spent licking the decayed and dark stones of the walls of Soria, is a bridge leading from the city to the former convent of the Templars, whose possessions extended along the opposite riverbank.
At the time we are referring to the knights of the Order had already abandoned its historic strengths, but were still standing remains of the towers wide walls still looked like today are partly covered with ivy and snowdrops, the massive arches of the cloister, the ogival galleries extended its courtyard, where the wind sighed with a whimper, shaking the tall grass.
In orchards and gardens, whose paths untrodden many years the religious plants, vegetation, left to itself, displayed in all their finery, without fear that the mutilated human hand, believing embellish. The climbing rose vines by the aged trunks of the trees, the dark streets of poplars, whose tops touched and mingled with each other, were covered with grass, wild thistles and nettles sprouting amid the gravelled paths, and in two pieces from the factory, near collapse, the arugula, floating in the wind like a plume crest, and blue and white bells, swaying like a swing on their long, flexible stems, proclaimed the victory of the destruction and ruin.
was night, a night of summer, warm, full of gentle fragrances and rumors, and a white moon and calm, in the middle of a blue sky, bright and transparent.
Manrique, seized the imagination of a frenzy of poetry, after crossing the bridge, where watched a moment the dark silhouette of the city, which stood out against the background of white clouds and some light wound on the horizon, he went into the deserted ruins of the Templars.
Midnight drew to a point. The moon, which had been going up slowly, was already at the top of the sky when entering a dark avenue which led from the ruined cloisters at the edge of the Duero, Manrique gave a slight scream and drowned, strange mixture of surprise , fear and joy.
At the bottom of the dark Mall had been waving a white thing, that floated a moment and disappeared into the darkness. The hem of the dress of a woman, a woman who had crossed the road and hidden among the foliage, in the same instant the crazy dreamer of impossible chimeras or penetrated into the gardens.

- An unknown woman! ... This site !..., these hours! This, this is the woman that I look, "cried Manrique, and launched a follow-up, swift as an arrow.

got to the point that had been lost in the thicket of branches to the mysterious woman. Had disappeared. Where? Far away, far away, thought spotted by between cross trunks of trees as a clear or a white that moved.

- Is she, is she, who has wings on his feet and flees like a shadow! He said, and hurried after her, spreading his hands ivy networks spread like a carpet of each other poplars. Came tearing through the bush and parasitic plants to a kind of landing that illuminated the clear sky ... No!

- Ah, here, here goes then cried. I hear their footsteps on dry leaves, and the rustle of her dress that drags along the ground and slashing at the bushes, and ran and ran like crazy back and forth, and not seen. "But still ringing in his footsteps," he murmured again, - I think he has spoken, no doubt, has spoken ... The wind sighs through the branches, leaves, which seems to quietly pray, have prevented me from hearing what he said, but no doubt, goes around, talked ... has spoken ... What language? I do not know, but it is a foreign language ... And he returned to run follow-up, sometimes to believe her, thinking others hear, and noting that the branches, among which was gone, moving, and imagining in the sand distinguishing mark of his own feet, then firmly persuaded of a special perfume aimed at intervals was a scent belonging to the woman who made fun of him indulging in between those intricate outrun by weeds. Worry useless!

wandered some hours back and forth beside himself, and pausing to listen, and sliding with the utmost care on the grass, and in a frantic and desperate career.
Moving, moving up from the vast gardens that line the banks of the river, came to an end at the foot of the rocks on which stands the church of San Saturio.

"Perhaps, from this height I can steer me to continue my research through this confusing maze," said climbing from rock to rock with the help of his dagger.

reached the top, from which the city is found in the distance and a large part of the Duero that writhes at his feet, dragging a mighty stream, dark and curved margins between the jail.
Manrique, once at the top of the rocks, lay the view around him, but to lie down and fix it after a point, could not blasphemy.
The shimmering moonlight sparkling in the wake left behind them a boat bound for all rowing to shore.
In that boat was believed to distinguish a white, slim, certainly a woman, the woman he had seen in the Knights Templar, the woman of his dreams, the realization of their wildest hopes. It picked up the rocks with the agility of a deer, threw down his cap, as long round pen could become pregnant to run, and stripping width velvet cape, started like a shot to the bridge.
thought through and reach the city before the boat touched on the other side. Madness! When Manrique was panting and covered in sweat at the entrance, and those who had crossed the Douro by the San Saturio, Soria entered one of the gates in the wall, which at that time ran to the river bank, in which portrayed its brown waters battlements.
Although faint hope of reaching those who had entered the wicket of San Saturio, not that our hero lost to know the house that the city could house them. Fixed idea in his mind, entered the town, and heading toward the neighborhood of San Juan, began to roam the streets at random. Soria
streets were then and are still, narrow, dark and winding. A deep silence reigned in them, silence interrupted only, sometimes the distant barking of a dog, now the sound of a door closing, now the neighing of a horse that sounded pawing the string that held the manger in the stable ground .
Manrique, with an attentive ear to these sounds of the night, which sometimes seemed to him the steps of someone who had doubled since the last corner a deserted alley, others confused voices of people speaking on their backs and every moment expected to see him, he walked a few hours, running at random from one place to another.
Finally, he stopped at the foot of a stone mansion, dark and ancient, and to stop her eyes shone with an indescribable expression of joy. In one of the tall arched windows of that might be called the palace, saw a ray of warm, soft light, passing through a light silk hangings pink, reflected in the black and cranny of the house wall front.

"No doubt, here lives my unknown," murmured the young man quietly without taking a point your eyes from the Gothic window, - lives here. She went through the wicket of San Saturio ... for the wicket of San Saturio comes to this neighborhood ... in this neighborhood is a house, where after midnight there are still people awake ... What candle? Who but she, who returns from his nocturnal excursions, you might be at this hour? ... No more, this is their home.

This firm persuasion, and stirring in his mind the most insane and fantastic imaginations, waited for the dawn in front of the Gothic window, which all night did not miss the light and he spread it a moment.
When the day arrived, the massive gates of the arch that led into the mansion, and key on which were carved the arms of its owner, focused heavily on its hinges, to a halt long and sharp. A squire reappeared in the doorway with a bunch of keys in his hand, rubbing his eyes and yawning showing a box of teeth capable of envy a crocodile. Verle
Manrique and go to the door, everything was the work of a moment.

- Who lives in this house? What do you call it? Where is it? What has come to Soria? Does husband? Respond, respond, animal-it was the salutation that shook his arm violently, led to poor squire, who, after watching him a good space time with frightened eyes and stupid, he replied, his voice breaking with surprise:

"In this house lived the honored Mr. D. Alonso de Valdecuellos, hounds of our lord the king, who injured in the war against the Moors, in this city is recovering from his fatigues.

"But what about your daughter? "Interrupted the impatient young man, - what about your daughter or your sister or your wife or whatever?

"There's no woman with him.

- do not have any! ... For who sleeps there in that room, where every night I have seen a light burning?

- There? There sleeps my lord D. Alonso, who, as is sick, keep your lamp lit until dawn.

Lightning suddenly falling at his feet caused him no more wonder that he caused these words.

"I'll have to find, I find, and if I find I'm pretty sure I know ... What? ... That's what I can not say ... but I must know. The echo of his footsteps or a word from you to re-hear, one end of his suit, one end to see her again, enough to get me. Night and day I'm looking to float before my eyes those diaphanous folds of cloth and-white, night and day are ringing me in here, inside the head, the rustle of his suit, the confused sound of unintelligible words ... Say what? ... What did he say? Ah, if I could know what he said, perhaps ... but without knowing I will find ... I'll find, I give it heart, and my heart are never wrong. Truth is that I have already covered all the streets in vain Soria, I've spent nights and nights under the stars, made a corner post, I've spent more than twenty fold in gold to talk to ladies and squires, who have given holy water San Nicolas in an old, wrapped with so much art in its mantle of anascote, that I figured a deity, and out of the collegiate a night of matins, I followed like a fool litter Archdeacon believing that the end of their holapandas was the costume of my unknown, but no matter ... I have to find, and the glory of possessing exceed likely to look for work.

How are your eyes? ... Should be blue, blue and wet as the night sky, I like both the eyes of that color, they are so expressive, so melancholy, so ... Yes .. no doubt, must be blue, blue are surely, and his black hair, very black and long to float ... I think I saw that night float, the pair that suit, and they were black ... I am not mistaken, no, they were black. And how well
feel blue eyes, very ragged and adormidos, and loose hair, floating and dark, a tall woman ... because ... she is tall, tall and slender like those angels in the front pages of our basilica, whose oval face wrapped in a mysterious twilight shadows of a granite canopy! His voice! ... I heard his voice ... his voice is soft like the sound of wind in the leaves of poplars, and rhythmic gait and majestic as the cadences of music.
And that woman who is beautiful as the most beautiful of my dreams as a teenager, who thinks like I think, that like as I love, hates what I hate, which is a human spirit of my spirit, which is the complement of my being, do not have to feel shocked to find me? Did not have to love me as I love you like I love ya, with all the strength of my life, with all the powers of my soul?
Come, come to where I saw the first and only time I've seen ... Who knows, capricious like me, a friend of solitude and mystery, like all dreamers souls, is happy to wander through the ruins, in the silence of the night?
Two months had passed since the squire D. Alonso Manrique Valdecuellos disabused the dreamer, and two months during which each time had formed a castle in the air, that reality vanished in a puff, two months, during which he had searched in vain for that unknown woman, whose foolish love grew in his soul, thanks to its even more absurd to imagine, when after these ideas absorbed through the bridge leading to the Templars, the young love lost between the intricate paths of the gardens.
The night was serene and beautiful, the moon shone in all its fullness at the top of the sky and the wind sighed with a sweet sound in the leaves of the trees. Manrique was the cloister
tended the light for his room and looked through the massive columns of the arcades ... It was empty.
came out of it, directed his steps toward the dark avenue which leads to the Duero, and had not yet entered it, when he escaped from his lips a cry of joy.
was seen floating a moment and disappear the end of the white suit, white costume of the woman of his dreams, the woman who loved him as a madman.
Run, run after her, arrives at the site that has been disappearing, but to get stops, the frightened eyes fixed on the ground, remain motionless for a while, a slight nervous tremor shakes its members, a tremor that is growing , which is growing and offers a true seizure symptoms, and finally bursts out laughing, laughing sound, loud, horrible. The thing
white, light, floating, had returned to shine in their eyes, but had stood at his feet a moment, no more than an instant.
was a moonbeam, a ray of moonlight penetrated intervals between the green canopy of trees when the wind moved the branches.
few years had passed. Manrique, sitting in a seat next to the fireplace high Gothic castle, immobile and with a vague and uneasy look like an idiot, or just paying attention to the caresses of his mother, or the consolations of their servers.

"You're young, you're beautiful," I said it, - why do you eat in solitude? Why do not you find a woman I love, and loving can make you happy?

- Love! ... Love is a moonbeam murmured the young.

- Why not awake from the lethargy? "Said one of his squires, - iron clothe you from head to toe, you send your outdoor display banner nobleman, and marched to war: the war is glory.

- The glory ... Glory is a moonbeam.

- Shall I tell you a ballad, the latter has made Arnaldo Mosen, the troubadour of Provence?

- No! No! Cried the young man angry at his stall joining, "I do not want anything ... that is, if you want ... I want to leave me alone ... Cantigas ... women ... glory ... happiness ... lies all in vain that we are ghosts in our imagination and dress as we please, and we love and run after them, why?, why?, to find a moonbeam.

Manrique was crazy: at least everyone thought so. To me, however, I figured that I had done was to recover the trial. End

Monday, March 14, 2011

Induction Silicone Matt

Joe Hill:" It's a great time to write horror or science fiction

Stephen King's son presents his new novel and continues to gender and the tricks of the father. Not believe in the supremacy of realism and terror ensures that answers questions darker.

Joe Hill was never a normal boy. As a kid, not even his name. In no bedroom walls hung posters of rock stars, athletes or naked girls. His heroes were makers of special effects of horror films. I was more worried about getting sick and American hostages in Iran, which the dark. Joe Hill never had the option of a normal boy. The blame, for better or worse, may have been from their parents, the writer Thabit King and the absolute master of horror Stephen King. When Joe was born his father had dedicated a book. "This is for Joe Hill King, who shines," read the second page of The Shining.

Cannon Fodder for an analyst, with such a history from the cradle, it started to write and chose not to change the genre that made him rich and famous father. Instead, he chose to change his real name Joseph Hillstrom King by the American activist who admired his father. "Then I had the need to learn my craft without the pressure of being the son of a famous type. I wanted to give my fiction the chance to succeed or fail on its own merits, "Digital Ñ reminded via mail. Pseudonym with the breastplate of a dozen stories published several comic books that will be adapted for television, garnered a lot of awards and completed two novels, true to the style of his father, nearly 500 pages. Horns (Sum letters)-the second one-just edited in Argentina. "It's a job that is in the tradition of Latin American magical realism. It is a tragic love story about a man becoming a devil, "Hill said without much property or King, as you prefer. For Horns is the story of Ignatius Perrish, a guy who killed the bride, and a huge hangover after rising two devilish horns on his head. Such hook occurs on the first page of the book, so imagine the fate of the protagonist turned into a demon.

"Many believe that a new primacy of realism. What is the situation in your country?
- Hell, no! The popularity of realism is declining everywhere and also in the U.S.. It is a great time to write horror, fantasy and science fiction literature. Audiences are increasingly open to the idea that history might include elements of the genre without losing depth. There are writers like Cormac McCarthy's apocalyptic science fiction writing and Michael Chabon writing a new Sherlock Holmes mystery. At the same time, writers like the crime novelist Dennis Lehane and my father are getting the recognition they deserved and were denied before.

- Why the horror genre is so successful?
"People choose this type of fiction to explore questions that are difficult to face and have no easy answers. What happens when we die? What are the last moments of your life? If there is a God why decent people allows him to pass such things? Escape from these questions every day and terror can inquire about the largest and most obscure questions.

At just 38 years, Hill quickly learned to interact with the circus that surrounds the literature. Suggests titles and phrases left dormant. When asked about the scariest experience happened in his life, something perhaps significant a guy who is dedicated to bring them the creeps, "answers readers laconic. "There were a couple of months I was afraid of losing his head. I struggled for a time against the paranoia and anxiety. But I will not go into those details, "he says perhaps only to create mystery. When instead turns to his idea that terror is as prolific as undervalued at home is quick: "America is prolific in all genres. Our number one export is the entertainment industry. We are the country that has hit music just to sell Cokes. "

-In Horns, in other of your stories and in this interview has cited once a diabli and God. What is your relationship with religion?
-The King James Bible is the most important document of Western literature and a treasure trove of history. I have my own religious beliefs. I'm not a big fan of organized religion. I'm a guy who thinks that people go crazy in congregations and healthy just by itself. One version I like best is the devil Lucifer offered Mick Jagger in "Sympathy for the devil." Like the demon from The Exorcist. But my favorite is the devil's walking dead zone.

No need to explain why. That is the devil's father King. Guido Carelli


Lynch Revista Ñ

Thursday, March 10, 2011

What Does Damiana Tea Do

THE SIMPSONS HAPPY EASTER AND THE VATICAN

only remains for me say with the Rev. Homer Praise Jebus

Repairs Life Fitness Elliptical 9500hr

PHIL COLLINS. TRUE COLORS

This is a program like Nacademia of Mexico, but it looks more upscale.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Are There Alway Symptoms For Gonorhea

The giant tortoise / Horacio Quiroga


The giant tortoise


Horacio Quiroga was once a man who lived in Buenos Aires and was very happy because it was a healthy man and worker. But one day he fell ill, and doctors told him that only by going to the field could be cured. He did not want to go because boys who had brothers fed, and was sick every day. Until a friend of his who was director of the zoo, he said one day:
"You are my friend, and is a good man and hard working. So I want to go to live in the mountains, to do much outdoor exercise to heal. Y as you have lots of aim with a shotgun, hunt bugs hill to bring me the bottles, and I will give money advanced for their siblings to eat well.
The sick man agreed, and went to live in the mountains, far, far more missions yet. It was very hot there, and that made him well.
lived alone in the woods, and he was cooking. Eating birds and bugs from the mountain, he hunted with a shotgun, and then ate fruit. He slept under the trees, and built in bad weather in five minutes a ramadal with palm leaves, and there spent sitting and smoking, very happy in the woods that the wind howled and rain.
He had made a bundle with the skins of animals, and her shoulder. There were also caught, live, many poisonous snakes, and was inside a big mate, because there are mates as big as a can of kerosene.
He again had good color, was strong and had no appetite. Just a day that was very hungry, because just two days that did not hunt anything, he saw the edge of a large lake a huge tiger wanted to eat a turtle, and put stop singing to put in a leg and remove meat with nails. Upon seeing the man the tiger roared and threw terrible jump on it. But the hunter who had a great aim he said between the two eyes, and broke his head. Then he took the leather, so large that it alone could serve as a carpet to a room.
"Now," said the man was going to eat turtle meat is very rich.
But when he approached the turtle, saw that he was already injured, and his head was almost severed in the neck, and head hung almost two or three threads of flesh. Despite hunger
felt, the man took pity on the poor tortoise, and carried out by a rope dragging ramada and bound his head with strips of genre took off his shirt because he had only one shirt , and had no cloths. Had taken dragging because the turtle was huge, as tall as a chair, and weighed like a man.
The turtle was leaning against a corner, where he lived for days without moving.
The man healed every day, and then patted her hand on his back.
The turtle finally healed. But then was the man who became ill. He had a fever and ached all over.
then could not get up again. Increased fever ever, and her throat burned from thirst. The man realized he was seriously ill, and spoke aloud, although it was only because he had high fever.
"I will die," said the man. I am alone no longer I can get up again, and I have who give me water, even. I will die here of hunger and thirst. And after a while
fever rose even more, and lost consciousness.
But the turtle had heard and understood what the hunter said. And she thought then:
-Man ate me again, but was very hungry, and cured me. I'm going to heal him now.
He went to the lake, found a tiny turtle shell, and after cleaning it with sand and ash filled it with water and gave drink to the man, who was lying on his blanket and was dying of thirst. Began looking at once rich and yuyito tender roots, which It took the man to eat, the man ate without realizing who she was eating, because I was delirious with fever and did not know anyone.
Every morning, the turtle walked the hill looking increasingly rich roots to give the man and was unable to climb trees to bear fruit.
The hunter ate for days without knowing who gave him food, and one day she regained consciousness, looked around and saw that it was only because there was only him and the turtle was an animal. And again he said aloud: "I'm
alone in the woods, the fever will come back again, and I will die here, because only in Buenos Aires there are remedies for healing. But I can never go, and I will die here.
And as he had said, that evening the fever returned, stronger than before, and again lost consciousness.
But this time the turtle had heard, and said: "If you stay here
in the bush will die, because there are no remedies, and I have to take him to Buenos Aires.
said, cut thin and heavy vines, which are like ropes, carefully lay the man on his back, and fastened it with the vines so they do not fall. He did many tests to accommodate either the shotgun, hides and mate with snakes, and finally got what he wanted, without disturbing the hunter, and so the journey began.
The tortoise, full well, walked, walked and walked day and night. He crossed mountains, fields, rivers swam across a mile wide, and crossed marshes that was almost buried, always above the dying man. After eight or ten hours of walking we stopped and undid the knots and the man slept very carefully in a place where grass would dry.
He was then to get water and tender roots, and gave the sick man. She ate well, though she was so tired that she preferred to sleep.
sometimes had to walk in the sun, and as it was summer, the hunter fever was so delirious and dying of thirst. Shouted water!, Water! every time. And each time the turtle had to give him a drink. So
walked for days, week after week. Each time they were closer to Buenos Aires, but also every day the turtle grew weaker each day had less strength, though she did not complain. Sometimes he lay completely powerless, and the man regained half knowledge. And he said, aloud: "I'm going to die
, I am increasingly sick, and only in Buenos Aires, I could heal. But I will die here, alone in the forest.
He thought he was always in the ramada, it was not notice anything. The turtle is lifted then, and again undertook the road.
But there came a day, a sunset, that the turtle could no longer poor. Had reached the limit of his strength, and could not go. He had not eaten for a week to arrive sooner. Had no power to anything.
When night fell completely, he saw a distant light on the horizon, a glow that illuminated the entire sky, and did not know what it was. He was getting weaker, and then closed his eyes to die along with the hunter, thinking with sorrow that he could not save the man who had been good to her.
And yet, was already in Buenos Aires, and she did not know. That light that I saw in the sky was the glow of the city, and would die when he was already at their heroic journey's end.
But a city mouse, possibly the tooth fairy, found the two traveler dying.
- What a turtle! "Said the mouse. I've never seen a turtle that big. And that's on your back, what is? Is it wood?
"No," the tortoise replied sadly. He is a man.
- "Where you going with that man? "Added the odd mouse.
-I ... I ... I wanted to go to Buenos Aires, "said the poor turtle on a voice so low that it barely audible. But we're going to die here because they never get ...
- Ah, eejit, eejit! "Laughed the little mouse. I never saw a tortoise eejit! If you've come to Buenos Aires! That light you see there is Buenos Aires.
Upon hearing this, the turtle was felt with great force because he still had time to save the hunter, and rode off.
And when it was still early, the director of the Zoological Gardens saw a turtle get muddy and extremely skinny, which brought lying on his back and tied with vines, to keep it from falling, a man who was dying. The director recognized his friend, and he it ran for remedies, which the hunter was cured immediately.
When the hunter knew how he had saved the turtle, how she had been traveling three hundred miles to take medicine would not spread more of it. And he could not have it at home, I was very young, the director of the Zoo is committed to having it in the garden, and take care as his own daughter.
And so it went. The turtle, happy and satisfied with the care that we have, stroll through the garden, and is the same great turtle that we see every day eating the grass around the cages of the monkeys.
The hunter is going to see every afternoon and she knows from afar his friend, by the steps. Spend a couple of hours together, and she never wants him to go without to give him a loving pat on the back. End

Friday, March 4, 2011

Card Reader Pro Magic Gate Sony Vaio Driver

Why write?

to understand. To love. For that we want. To know. By necessity. For money. By custom. To live other lives and revive itself. To testify. Fifty writers try to answer that uncomfortable question
Some came to literature calling for the pleasure of reading and to emulate the authors they admired. Now create vital necessity, or just do it for money. Renowned authors reveal the reasons for devoting their lives to writing.


In the beginning was the Word ... San Juan takes it in his Gospel. The word that makes up the world, the name says it all. May not have been such, that before the word existed skies, seas, night, day, stars, sky. But nobody knew how to name, were nothing, absolutely nothing. So at the beginning was the Word, as well he wrote John. And that verb followed biblical epics of Homer, the weather and the power of the gods, love and war that tells the Iliad and then the madness of Don Quixote, then, the loneliness of Macondo.

may after episodes narrated as those do not need anything else. But the classics, who rode all the foundations of the temple, followed by more generations - "link in the unbroken chain of tradition", which alert Enrique Vila-Matas, some new questions for every age, new problems and, Therefore, new concepts, new words. Behind her lay a log writer. Why?

Why write? What name? Why count? To understand. To love and be loved. To know, to know. For fear, by necessity, for money. To survive, because not everyone can dance the tango, play good football. By custom, the custom to kill, living and reliving other lives own. To bear witness, because they do not know how to write well, admits John Banville. For read, suffered and looked face to face with death. Because the verb

causes disquiet in Nelida Pinon; because it is chosen as a love Amélie Nothomb adds. Being the masochist that you have inside, Wole Soyinka argues, for streams and rivers of the books read, has Fernando Iwasaki; as a form of existence, according to Elvira Lindo. "One way to live," says Vargas Llosa, to paraphrase Flaubert. To feel alive and dead, proclaims Fernando Royuela. As you breathe, released between interrogations Carlos Fuentes. Or to survive for that purpose, "the necessary death that I name each day, "testified Jorge Semprun.

Writing is pain and pleasure. As the story, as Aristotle's rhetoric is a weapon, we learn. beginning and end. First of all came the verb makes clear San Juan. So Kafka knew. But the Czech writer asks: "And in the end?". Perhaps silence, as interpreted by George Steiner about his work, with good sense, smelling the apocalypse of the European destruction.

As testimony also puts one in roles . It is written by the same reason that Anne Frank began to organize his journal. Or why the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova, when he spent 17 months in the ranks of the Leningrad prison to see his son responded to a woman who recognized her and asked if he could describe what I do, I would. "Then," says Anna Requiem - a sort of smile slid across what had once been her face. " That was enough reason. The thrill of truth, justice record. For others perhaps apply to your present, so that was not repeated. But Anna Akhmatova

confessed also that he wrote to feel a bond with time. Also did for love, for fear of love, by tearing. In honor of the Muses, like Shakespeare, "that sweet tooth of the words", according to Steiner, in his sonnets: "My muse bites education language and silent while compiling / praise you wear glitter / and phrases that the other muses liman. A piece that ends with a declaration of intent and a response to the great subject of writing: "If others for those you respect / to me, so I think that is my point.

the beginning was the Word. But haughty Cervantes and Shakespeare, which equals the measure of God. For explored all delusions and passions His creatures. Why write? to emulate, nothing more. Could be. "To be like Espronceda" as loose Caballero Bonald. Write because you meditate, like Descartes, like Chesterton, whose work involves us in an endless paradox. To enter in the mazes and do not necessarily want to leave them, like Borges. "Because we're here, but we would like to be there," says Antonio Tabucchi. To emulate his childhood when the child Almudena Grandes amending the plan to the end he did not like. For re-invent stories of Indians, cowboys and Smurfs, says David Safier. Because when you do this, "Enjoyment is a word that falls short," says Ken Follet.

To fix the memory, a way to "bring forth memories and pictures," says Alvaro Pombo. To return to previous lives, to the readings and each has stumbled in his backpack, according to Arturo Perez-Reverte. As a solitary vice, described Hector Abad Faciolince. Because you do not feel well, "says Juan Jose Millas. For love or grief, says Gonzalo Hidalgo Bayal. Or because he liked the essays in school, as discovered by Antonio Muñoz Molina. And to this day.

The word is water and every story, the river that carries them. The writer is the one who dominates the current, as did Balzac, Dostoyevsky, Dickens, Galdós, Clarín, Flaubert, Tolstoy, who followed in the footsteps of Homer's epic as anyone. Or the one that goes against the current, as Marcel Proust, James Joyce, Valle-Inclán. Undoubtedly, you have to deal with it, says Josep Pla in his Dictionary of Literature, "with temperament." Or the effort of knowing, in the manner of Montaigne and the great memoirists later eighteenth century. Between truth and exaggeration, but with talent like Casanova.

The game, the torture of the word, it is also legal. But that is more committed to the poets, as admitted Jaime Gil de Biedermann. For him, writing was "eroding the language in the way the language supports it." That is, the word abuse, whipping, strangling. But to resurrect it later, as the Gospel. Throughout history, the writer has seen Babel and helped to understand. But there was also a time in the twentieth century, which wiped out, he threw himself to the apocalypse, the Second World War. Enjoy in this new era. All reasons, all that occur to tell our story who should apply

Héctor Abad Faciolince
Because my brain communicates better with my hands than with his tongue. Because I hate less typing than talking. For a pleasant solitary vice. John Banville


write because I can not write. A reporter asked why Gore Vidal Myra Breckinridge had written, to which he replied: "'Why was not there". " It was a good response. Put something new in the world is a privilege not granted to many people.

Felipe Benítez Reyes
I do not know why I write, nor do I have much interest in knowing. In this case, I worry more about how to why. The question seems pointless, so that any possible answer would not be a tricky pirouette in a vacuum. Although, who knows, maybe write one for that: to get answers without the requirement of a previous question and, above all, to practice tricky stunts in a vacuum, which is a very fertile literary territory. John Boyne


write because the stories come into my mind and I refuse to leave until I write 26 letters on the keyboard and send them to a screen before my eyes. Writing by Charles Dickens. And George Orwell. And John Irving. And Colm Tóibín. I write because I love the feeling of having a book in my hands and a book in my head. I write because I love words. I write because I read. I write because I always want to know what happens next.

José Manuel Caballero Bonald
I started writing because I wanted to look like Espronceda. One day I found in my family home a biography of the poet and was fascinated by someone who died at 33 years and had seen a great adventure: founding a secret society, suffered persecution and imprisonment, he went into exile in Lisbon and London, he fought on the barricades in Paris , was a deputy lived love tough, fought heroically against absolutism, and so on. Well, since I could not emulate Espronceda unique in so many feats, I chose what I was more feasible: rebellious exercise and write poetry. Andrea Camilleri


write because it is always best to unload boxes at the central market. I write because I can not do otherwise. I write because I can then dedicate the books to my grandchildren. I write because it makes me remember all the people who I always wanted. I write because I like telling stories. I write because I like telling stories. I write because in the end I can take my beer. I write to give back everything I've read. Luisa Castro


Writing for me is a surrender. I write to find stories that I tell myself. I am owner of my stories, even then, are autonomous and more powerful than me. I do not identify with them, do not share their ideas or their world view. Occur in my head without my permission, and when the loose, it's because I have won. Lucia Etxebarria


That I want more. Because every time someone says, 'Your books have helped me a lot, please keep writing "gives me a reason. Because by placing characters in situations that can symbolically represent aspects of my life and make them go gracefully somehow saved me. Because I've always done, because it is natural to me, and because it is things I do best, besides drawing, cooking, making love and hold parties. I write for love, public money. For that reason, public or half of what I write. Umberto Eco


Because I like. Ken Follet


enjoy writing, but "enjoy" is a word that falls short. The act of writing I love. All part of the challenge to jinx my readers. My work absorbs me totally. Carlos Fuentes


Why stop?

Almudena Grandes
When I was little and read a book that I liked, I made up alone, for myself, the other end, then its author wanted to write. Even now, when I can not sleep, I tell stories, I think, the review, I describe in silence with eyes closed, until I fall asleep. Mark Haddon


Fiction, poetry, theater, painting, drawing, photography ... really does not matter. One day that I can not do something, however small, it seems a wasted day. Sometimes it can seem a blessing to be so, as certainly know what I do but often is painful, because knowing what you want is not the same as knowing how. Why write? The only answer is "because I can not do anything else." Gonzalo Hidalgo

Bayal
"For love, for grief," I once wrote. For fans, it is lean, necessity, perseverance and distraction. For pain, because only the pain and its many circumstances provide sufficient literary field. Focuses on the love relationship with language, that is, the more intense, more enjoyable and fun. Grief requires, however, the search for meaning, if you have any sense the misfortunes of mankind. Fernando Iwasaki


write because it is the most powerful act libertarian I know. I write because the spell of literature is explosive and I am excited to be an apprentice of those spells. I write because my parents and children light up every time someone tells them he has read something of mine. I write because storytelling is the oldest profession in the world. I write because I spend all my fiction as well, while women and keep writing, she'll know you still love. Use Lahoz


writing to reflect and think and ruminate on the life of characters always more interesting than mine. And enjoy the pleasure of fiction that is addictive and that, as reality has no limits. Writing course to combat boredom and a good time. For a writer to live, basically, is to write. I write to be at peace with myself, saying that Machado's "I live in peace with men and at war with my body." I write because touching and enduring, each novel is first. It is also fairly inexpensive. In short: I write because I learn, and so it sometimes seems that I'm studying. Donna Leon


At first wrote to see if he could. It turned out that writing a book was fun. And so now, after 20 years and 20 books, I do it because it's fun. The characters do what they tell you to do, the reality can be changed to suit my needs, if someone dies, I can resurrect the next day. I guess there is also an element of vanity. At a dinner, we all want to pay attention to our ideas, is not it? But good manners dictate that we share conversation with others. But in a book, our book, we writers can continue, blah, blah, blah, without stopping, and never have to interrupt to let anyone else speak. Elvira Lindo


writing since she was nine. From a very young began to pay me on the radio scripts, short stories and sketches. At age 31 I began to write books. I thought that writing was my calling until I realized it was something else. It is a skill but also a way of life. I could not live without writing. Everything I do at the end of the day, what I see and hear, which makes me wonder, joy or sorrow is material to be counted. And that attitude to life, to form part of the human comedy but also to be a spectator of it, this being outside and inside at the same time, helps me to assimilate in an enriching experience. I write every day. When not writing, I feel useless, so I've reached a radical conclusion: I will never quit. I can not do otherwise, would not know vivir de otra manera.

Alberto Manguel
Porque no sé bailar el tango, tocar un instrumento musical como la celesta o el glockenspiel, resolver problemas de matemáticas superiores, correr una maratón en Nueva York, trazar las órbitas de los planetas, escalar montañas, jugar al fútbol, jugar al rugby, excavar ruinas arqueológicas en Guatemala, descifrar códigos secretos, rezar como un monje tibetano, cruzar el Atlántico en solitario, hacer carpintería, construir una cabaña en Algonquin Park, conducir un avión a reacción, hacer surf, jugar a complejos videojuegos, resolver crucigramas, jugar al ajedrez, hacer costura, traducir del árabe y del Greek, perform the tea ceremony, butcher a hog, being a stockbroker in Hong Kong, orchid planting, harvesting barley, to belly dancing, skating, talking in sign language, recite the Koran by heart, act a theater, flying in an airship, a filmmaker and a film in black and white, absolutely realistic, Alice in Wonderland, pass myself off as a respectable banker and defraud thousands of people, enjoying a plate of tripe à la mode de Caen, making wine, be a doctor and travel to a place ravaged by war and dealing with people who have lost an arm, a leg, a house, a son, to organize a diplomatic mission solve the problem of the Middle East, save shipwrecked, spent thirty years studying Sanskrit paleography, restore Venetian paintings, being a goldsmith, turn somersaults with or without a net, a whistle, that why I write. Javier Marias


write to avoid head or being forced to wake up early. Also because there are not many who can do more things, and I prefer it and I enjoy more than translate or teach, I do know that apparently do. Or knew, are activities of the past. I also write for not owe almost anything to almost anyone or having to salute those who do not wish to greet. Because I think I better while I'm at the machine elsewhere and circumstance. I write fiction because fiction has the power to teach us what we do not know what is not given, as one character in the novel I just finished. And because the imagery is very helpful to understand what we're in, what is usually called "reality." What I do is write out of necessity. So quiet I could spend years without writing a line. But something has to take the time and some money must be won. I also write for it. Martin Luisgé


When I listen to a writer to explain the reasons for writing, I think I share those reasons. All. I feel like a compendium, as one of those hypochondriacs they find themselves all the symptoms you hear about. I write as psychological therapy, to order the world and understand it, to live lives that I could not live. But recently, reading Pamuk's speech at the Swedish Academy when he received the Nobel, I found a reason I had never heard well made and I feel wonderful, "I write because it may well understand why I am so, so angry with you, with all the world. "

Luis Mateo Díez
write to disguise the inability to do anything else. I write not only entertains, it also excites me and makes me feel ownership of something that is contrary to my existence to a certain inclination of futility. The days when I am satisfied with what I write I have the conviction not to have wasted your time. Eduardo

Mendicutti
I too, like Vargas Llosa, tell me lots of times the only thing I do is write. Maybe that's why eventually giving me the Nobel. For everything else, I'm convinced I'm a mess: to lay bricks, to grow tomatoes, to impose order, to run on foot or by bicycle, even if doped, to convict criminals-with what I like some criminals-without breaking my heart, without becoming infected or to defend ... Admittedly, since 30 years ago, I'm pretty good as general secretary of an employers' consulting firms, but with something I have to redeem myself. Of course, as some critics and colleagues, writing may also be a calamity, but that have not yet come to believe. Eduardo Mendoza


honestly do not know. Not a pretty answer, but it's the closest to the truth. Ricardo Menéndez

Salmon
write for dissatisfaction. If satisfied, I would simply "living life", rather than trying to understand through writing. Of course trying to understand, that is, to write, I realize that in fact life is incomprehensible. This generates a new dissatisfaction, verify that the attempt to understand life through literature that illuminates only thing is the inability to achieve that understanding. But then something strange happens, and that the failure to discover the impossibility moves me, admires and encourages to write more and more.

Juan Jose Millas
write for the same reasons that I read, because I do not feel well. Rosa Montero


write because I can not stop the constant flood of images that cross my head, and some of those images so excited I feel the urgent need share. I write to have something to think about when in the dark loneliness of the half-sleep at night, in bed before sleep, I assailed the fears and anxieties. While I'm writing because I am so full of life that my death does not exist: as I write, I am untouchable and eternal. And above all, I write to try to give the evil and pain a sense that I actually have not.

Luis Muñoz
I think I can distinguish reasons of a general and particular reasons. Between individuals: to give shape to a particular emotion, to make him a household word to one of those thoughts that you think might be saviors, to be vulnerable to contagion from another poem believe me feel wonderful and I can answer that, go talk to him or any of its loose ends. Among general, wanting to feel my time, the rabid present, in language, by being in love with the ability of words to tell the truth again, for the feeling of freedom that produces, by shaping beings reports: embryos voices, feelings, sensations, ideas ...

Antonio Muñoz Molina
I think I never thought much about why I write, except when I have asked that question and I had to improvise a response to sound convincing. I write, mostly because I love it, and I liked almost since I have memories. I liked making up stories, writing and drawing as a child. I liked writing essays in school. Then I started reading novels of adventure and I learned that all had an author who used to be Jules Verne, for the first time I thought practicing that craft. Then I fell in love to read poetry and I started writing imitation poems, always very bad. When I had a typewriter in the evenings I would improvise whatever, for the pure pleasure of hitting the keys, diaries, poems, plays. I write for fun and because I make my living writing. Sometimes I really enjoy and others would rather be doing anything else. But sometimes when I began to write against my will and almost by force, I found things that I otherwise would not have occurred. I also write for taking away the bad conscience of not writing, or to have the relief of having done. I can not imagine not running, at least for long periods, but I can not imagine not writing. In the background is a vice, a daily habit, or a way of being in the world, and have love for reading or music. Julia Navarro


For me, writing is an opportunity to live other lives, but also engage, although sometimes be involved with the role of entertainment. Andrés Neuman

write because
child felt that writing was a form of curiosity and ignorance. I write because childhood is an attitude. I write because I do not know, and do not know why I write. I write because the only way I can think of. Amélie Nothomb


I wonder why I chose writing. I did not choose. It's like falling in love. We know it's not a good idea and no one knows how he got there, but at least have to try. He devotes all energy, all thoughts, all the time. Writing is an act and like love, is something that is done. It is not known due to its use, so they invented because it necessarily must find a way to make a means to achieve it.

Arturo Perez-Reverte
write because I am 25 years professional novelist, and live it. It's my job. Like others in the office spend eight hours a day, I will step in my library, surrounded by books and notebooks, imagining stories that explain the world as I see it, and bringing them to paper keystroke. I try to do the most disciplined and effective manner. As for handling the matter, each written in what is, I suppose. With what he has in the eyes and memory. Many things do not need to invent them: I simply remember. I was a late writer to 35 years because I was busy living, reading, kicking the world, books and life. Now, so I threw in a backpack during those years, I narrate my own stories. Rewrite the books that I loved the light of life I lived. Nobody has told me that story. Nelida Pinon


I write because the name causes me anxiety, sharpens thousand instruments of life. And because, to tell, I depend on my belief in mortality. With the belief that a story well told snatch me tears. Especially when, in the heady narrative mentions unrequited love, bridal hurtful, mixed feelings, stripped of logic. Write, in conclusion, to win a pass to wander in the human labyrinth. Alvaro Pombo


I think of the little cemetery in London, about ten minutes walk from Paddington Green, where he stole a dog ugly, cement, from the grave of a woman buried there. Coming to Madrid, I left that dog to its fate. Write this, is it write or not? It is, of course, a way to bring up memories and images than the normal way: a way prefabricated, you want to cause an indelible effect at least in my soul and then in a reader or a million, if possible. It is also an attempt to express the self, the God in the light of being-there that I was then, at the edge of nowhere. Benjamin Prado


I write to amuse, to entertain, to learn, to teach them to be true that "writing is to dream and others to remember to wake up", so I will not forget, lest we shut up and first because there might not. Soledad

Puértolas
The joys of life overwhelm you. The pain and loss than you and sink. Boredom and monotony can be killers. When I write, I'm out of that reality. I entered another where it is possible to find meaning even glimpse. The loneliness that so often has become unbearable, it is lightweight and desirable. The perfect state. There are goals, humanity senses. To be laughter, great gift. Santiago Roncagliolo


should say I write because I can not do anything else, but I'll try a more profound: I think the reality has no meaning. Things happen around you in an erratic manner, often contradictory, and one day you die. The things you thought were no longer certain of one point to another. In contrast, the novels have a beginning, middle and end. The characters go to some place, the glory, self-destruction or nothing, and their actions have consequences in this way. I write stories to create something that makes sense. Fernando

Royuela
write to seduce, to subvert, to feel alive and dead, to mourn, loving and cursing. I write not to have to put up with me, to deny the world, to escape. I write because I feel like it and I can afford. David Safier


Do you remember as a kid and playing, inventing wild stories with figurines of Indians, cowboys or Smurfs? Or just in the bathtub imagining that he was the captain of a pirate ship in search of a treasure in the midst of the storm? Do you remember how you felt when playing with other children living on the street and doing incredible adventures of explorers, hunters or secret agents battling dinosaurs, monsters or supermalos who wanted to destroy the Earth with death rays? Well, all that is what I do yet. Playing with my imagination. Every day of my life. And I'll keep doing it until I die. Or I go mad. Jorge Semprun


If I knew I might not write. I mean, if I knew for sure if every moment could be restricted to proclaim without hesitation, why I write, and what, for who, if so, may not write. So I write, to some extent, to find answers to why. Writing is not a reflex, not a natural function. Not written as they eat or love. Not exhausted by the fact to write the portentous, or painful, or one or the other, a miracle of writing. Not limited, to write, writing endless desire. Perhaps because it is the best way to survive. Why write? Perhaps to survive death, the necessary death that names me every day. Wole Soyinka


several years ago, I participated in this same experience with the French newspaper Libération. On that occasion said, "I guess that's the masochist in me be me." Since then, I had no reason to change my answer.

Antonio Tabucchi
rather ask the question this way: Why write? Long ago, when I was young, I listened to Samuel Beckett answered: "I have no other." The possible answers are all plausible but the question mark. "We write because we fear death? Why are we afraid to live, because we have nostalgia for childhood, because the last time he ran faster or because we want to stop? Do you write for because of nostalgic longing, regret? Why we would have done one thing and did not or because we should have done something we did? Why are we here and we want to be there and if we were there we would have been better to stay here? As I said Baudelaire, life is a hospital where every patient wants to change the bed. You think it would heal faster if it was next to the window and another thought it was better with the heat. Andrés

Trapiello
natural thing is to speak, even sing, but not write. Put the words written in a book is, Unamuno said, a "tragedy of the soul, and perhaps be written by a fear of being alone with their pain, as if writing were a choice, not a poison. I feel so well. Uribe Kirmen


In November 2007 I was fortunate to attend as guest writer to creative writing class Anthony McCann, the CalArts Los Angeles. Anthony told me that the best of each promotion are acquired by large producers to work as a writer of TV series. Get rich. The "worst", by contrast, are dedicated to poetry. I love being alone and writing. "A lonely impulse of delight" leads me to write, as Yeats said in his poem "An Irish Airman foresees his death." I enjoy almost as much as the "worst" of CalArts, which lay on the lawn of the campus with a book in his hands, looked up to see the clouds pass. I, on the kind of Anthony, would undoubtedly be the group of poets.
Mario Vargas Llosa
write because
child learned to read and gave me much pleasure reading, made me so rich life experiences, transformed my life in a wonderful way I guess my literary vocation was as a perspiration, giving off the great happiness that I was reading . In some ways writing has been like the back or the essential complement to this reading, which for me remains the ultimate experience, the richer the more it helps me to face any adversity or frustration. On the other hand, writing, which at first is an activity that you incorporate into your life with others, exercise is becoming the way you live in the central activity, which organizes absolutely your life. Flaubert's famous dictum that whenever I quote: "Writing is a way of life." In my case was exactly that. It has become the center of everything I do, so do not conceive a life without the writing and, of course, without its complement indispensable reading.

Juan Gabriel Vásquez
write because it irritates me and it saddens me the mess in the world and discovered long ago that in good fiction the world has an order or disorder has an effect. I write because my understanding is limited and I can understand only what comes in words. I write, therefore, because I do not understand or because I do not know: "write what you know" seems to me more advice idiot of the world, because it is written precisely to know. Manuel Vicent


If this question is I had made many years ago, when I started writing, my answer would have been more romantic, more literary, more stupid. Probably would have said he wrote to create a world in my image, to read the book that was not in my library, not to kill, to love a girl, to influence society or perhaps cynically because it did not for anything else or even to fix a plug. Not to mention that the trade has vanity and narcissism, at this stage of the writing because I believe profession is a job I like, that sometimes I get good and some bad, but in any case the literature and is part of the same life force that helps me to feel comfortable in this world yet, but expect much from their result.

Enrique Vila-Matas
Ah, I see again the old and treacherous question. But you might also wonder why I just made a knot in my shoes, and why I have not contented with a knot, for that matter, would have served me well. At some distant time, an ancestor made the first bow. We are not more than their imitators, a link in the unbroken chain of tradition. So who would to ask why I write is that ancestor, asking why he wanted to go beyond the knot.

Juan Eduardo Zúñiga
The garden looks aged with the cold of November and the ground is covered with fallen leaves of an acacia. I keep looking at it from the window, I'm alone in the empty room where I have toys and stories, the walls covered with pins two sheets relating to a foreign country and abroad is the author of a book that lame, and I learn your Name: Michel Zevaco. Leo the end of the second chapter: a man seeking non-stop in a chest full of jewels and finds it more important to him. I'm surprised that more " valuable jewels? I have next to a notebook and pencil, write without thinking: "He wanted something from the jewelry ..." and keep writing, and until today I
Courtesy
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