M e So here in their thirties and I bequeath this legacy to sky. There's nothing more than the writings a passing thought as the one that m'insuffle the courage to resist a little longer. I wanted to conceptualize my books as I 'have tried it with my life. Stoppers & Mat. Disaster to the Erika. A book or a life, it is lived or written. From there I tried to have virtues, not for idealistic reasons of an archangel, or a halo to wrest Moderates but it was the probability of not being hit the worst evils, and , virtue as a "veil of ignorance" has been set for the preservation of this species of human who indulges without restraint. What is said there, there 's nothing new perhaps have to be mistaken, I am award before being mums funeral of an equation, the Oscar of "invisible hand". So here I am, despite myself, in yet another pope banking. Anyone who thinks must have suffered much, but what flaw? Which cable should we tripped yet connect this time? Protested the welfare state. Thus, men, everywhere, have sacrificed themselves for the next in the small hope that he does not think oh, on the edge of insomnia asylums. Sometimes, when a companion is a mistake, thought won his New Deal to the tops of caves hidden, it trots ... yeah! From across the ground floor of a desire, but not to take God grandpa. As to size, you're back, winning by puncturing the abscess of thought by its own stake, becoming the illustrious brood of yesteryear who learns the meaning of assets available. The scenes of eternal returns or detours of thought are gone, and there you are, the Nirvana of ataraxia deserved ... ()
In each of us, it has always had the potentiality of the artist, do not let anyone charge you that it is not the case, as in you spitting these words in full nose, you will not be the residence of mankind. Art does not choose the ruts of classes, nor complexed losers who have always believed that one of the top has always tastes better at your palate; art survives in us, and if anything a Once, I believed in God, it is thanks to that, his ability to tear our poor bodies of another universe that we see. What value subliminally, can we write to taunt ... survive better or worse than another? I can already see the future Republic of rehashed famous.
N it ! A book or a life, it happens from the inside, and nothing else. Is art. Although it is unnecessary to repeat the breaches that can act as sophistry-burnings at ground level. After these words, I was always afraid of having the refrain of the moralist venal, but when his body survives, we can understand the meaning of things and the Open is always close at heart. Later, I'll tell you what I mean by the Open. I 'have never claimed nab a Rilke ongoing torment. Be in his body needs a lot of endurance even when one says "be sociable" in essence. There's always the risk that you look back detail the orbits backwards. Live in this body is considering its own cause, being a tiny wave of ocean lambda inclined to show a natural. We understand better the Other on the threshold of frailty, failure to outlaw ex officio. The Other is sort of you without the murderous intentions.
Who was the first shadow we have left indelible imprints even Adam can hardly respond. From East to West, from North to South, lobotomized apple, even one who speaks to you in vain right there is one ... damn! Let's just for an easy life (in cases where there are no others) to be a virgin to all things mentally, and if it is almost impossible given the task, the damage of earlier centuries , then choose, at the checkout volitions, the weight of our chains futures ... ()
N ietzsche, the blaster moralist, said that "whoever does kill you makes you stronger point " gold individual experience, but alas! Shows us something very sneaky, because whoever does not kill you input will kill you sooner or later somewhere in small doses, if only we did not have the power to undo it from our chains. I think the true concept of "will to power " took its meaning there. Sometimes we excuse anyone, even at the cost of intolerance vain, because it is the name of a common ideal that brush painting a new vision.
R- evenons in writing ... begin to write, is to impose its right to exist, period ... Off! It is a cry that would echo Munch's always the little time that is doing it. The writing is of loneliness consumed galore; what verdict! Too sad is not it? That's what we dare not even cry ejecting or ejaculating faces visible-invisible, at a time. He was dressed up in excess of the term innovation to "automatic" when it has always been so. Surreal, is not it? As for me, I would see no frills visceral. What is Literature? Bold beyond question that it is a long section of sleeping pills or crafts for horny old men chat or elitist, it is a vital case law, or a trace of humanity left on the look of Destiny is the history of writing visceral. What a writer? Since it is taken in one way or another to answer for his actions the pov ', and I am one, alas! I launched myself open heart, even if the error has its reasons, unaware that the reason already ... ()
From Web, throngs of writing workshops are minted on the pretext that it can extract the talent where it is not; j'm'y am registered , you never know, and I had like Kinder Surprise-that what we are trying to extract is not a singular point of writing, but a conformist disturbing worthy of purging typically Kafkaesque. When I hear here and there, some claiming to be "committed writers," I said to myself, what redundant yet invented. The very act of writing is in itself a commitment. It encourages what? Not only life but also his soul to the point of having the sad impression of being mini-power Faust twenty, or wine, for the Dionysian aspect of the thing. J'n'écris not to hit the keyboard seal of an oversized ego though ...! Or display as what I have more neurons in the absence of testosterone so and so, or complete some psychoanalytic considerations that we want no longer kill the father never absent in the egg, or finally tell also as a freelance interim outfall embittered or sublimation routine. No, none of that! J''écris-cry just to consolidate my world with it. It's Pattex wholesale. This is the opening of a parallel world that real life can contain.
L ire a book is the secret passage from an author, not the life of the author, but a trap to its multiple states. A writer never gives all the keys to his craft factory, not that he does not want, but there has also contingencies that are outside. Doomed to evil, it only writes about everything from nothing. It's the anthem of all lightning, all oracles, or reluctance, that I know? It's an outlet on ac.
I remember like Kafka ... so there's nothing to write it, wham! A half-penny of poise, OR-At the suggestion of the sans-culotte! He would have wanted to get rid of his writings, one by one, so that the literary space never supplant his, and us! Or rather his Dalon, posting crucified him twice better than one. That's where we recognize that he had a true friend. When the intestine filled with praises arch-bookish, there is no binz exult in his idleness, by ensuring that these two disparate worlds, similar in some points converge there, but when ... struggled to exist, to be under the insult of an era that takes you to the most idlers and dandy, that finish, you suspect that these writings are more likely to survive than you! What wine killer. While these tips will have more unfinished works because the Bug, sad! Finally, there was only a pretext for more engineering; genii and whatever is said, beyond that there was never any expiration date are marked with irons holy suffering. It's already taken ... oh! Christian addictions.
Initially, the writer takes the reader, then, after its chrysalis, it digests of low voices, to embody his own flesh in writing. There are no secrets, no miracles of doping ; Qu'incessante there will get lost, and have hope to find their naked as a "worm SOI. In an interview with Celine finds this interesting thing in the writer's style, and always after him, that does not run the streets. What style? We're back at the first step of an aporia of multiple choice questions. What is really kiffa in the writer is not the style, style for style fermented "new novels" plump, well fed, believing that the book is "the adventure of writing "Miss the invaluable, that is to say the spirit of Time. The writer is not a byproduct of a philosophy labeled, is not it Sir Sartre? NO! It is the hunter's own pace ... spyware. One way or another, the exile is seeking affiliation with any of the areas visited, it's lonely in the rough brush up on life. We do not choose to write as they choose their Big-Mac a Mac-DO locally. In fact what do you else in life? Net issue flawless, during BA BA presentations, and when you reply: ah! I sometimes write ... immediately, you will likely tax illuminated. I laugh, half shall we say. I write, I shout at my peak, without realizing the fullness of no return with my family and one who reads me, feeling that the sacrifice would bear the very act of writing so that some would consider themselves to be out of spite or other spectra of their own novels. Why write when life is there, just quiet eyes. Tare what I do redirais enough. Writing the same when it claim to describe external events, is tinged with an "I", some will see as an expression of solipsism ambient, others see as an intellectual honesty. For my part, I incline to the latter, but such is not the "I" closed in on his own conscience to the point where the nests become prejudiced in building a world, but this "I" opened on changes in the world, the Other, the face repeatedly elusive. Say one day, that's it, I'm one, too, even when we were discharged automatically as pub brothels editing; is positioned, said the pace latent. Life beyond the current theories "Intelligent-Design" or other excuses for Eid-el-Kebir is that modern rhythm. Make literature, history of figure of speech is every time, do not enter, and also, alas! A deep disdain of what motivates us all. To say that literature is life, is somehow focus on writing visceral rhythm, it's as close to the painting, or music. Is an air of repose, to better eating alone. I'm just like any rhythm at all, and I try to use it wisely, not for a mercantile exploration, but to be a little more each day .... Writing is the Hi which will never dare speak its name, and if initially it was the Word, by me, in me, y 'rhythm that will bring forth the first verb of other mouths. Something has always fascinated me is ... wandering. Camus, who says that is absurd because the relationship between subjects, objects do more structured, was not wrong. As as I said to myself that even in these falls Foreign the Bug was still optimistic, probably due to residues humanists. Here, the wandering, the next stage of the Absurd. It is the deep sense of fallen hopes, subject-object, beyond that it does not communicate, one as the other bears the stigma of a lack conclusive. No! I would not write a new manifesto of the nihilist, or a plagiarism of a depressive Cioran, no! Literature as a therapeutic and also scraps of hope too. In fact, buy my books should be reimbursed 100% by the SECU. I attack the idea of wandering, and I say how to translate.
R Imbaud, visionary oh so admirable poetic ramblings, surely nothing was wrong once! "I" is not another "but" THE "others that whatever we do always leave a remnant in us to the point of sinking, and being a" J "of some sort. "J '" is the boomerang of an ailment. Moreover, what I write, have no beginning and no end, because for me, writing is a meeting place, a physical contact, nothing else. So if my books always start with p'tits points to is that before this he had other things we know, and maybe we uncover together. Escape is always before or after, never during, like many others I was no exception to the point the artist's totalitarian aspect. Once you put those damn (...) on a leaf from the outset we groan, Ola plagiarism! Let us not forget that Celine is primarily a singular rhythm, inimitable. Besides without him opt merit Dostoevsky did the same. Celine summarized by its three little dots, it is not felt that for him it was a means to establish his rhythm, his "little music". The pace!
P or most of us, you'd think that before Proust and Céline Literature was a landscape nonexistent. A piece of advice to anyone who would like to enroll in writing is to dare to Perdition, my brothers will dare! And, you'll see that you are simply. Before writing, I have a vague idea of what I feel, then I'll start without any constraint whatsoever.
For the best book will never be the next but one that will never exist as to say that these machines are written there as an eternal scrap unfinished. From this perspective, it is a spiritual quest impromptu. Words have their roles to play again, to be. Sometimes I am gently whispers, hey ... dude, Sorry, but that 'what's your trip? Okay? Actually, you do not empty the mash since when? Thus, according to them, I deserted the cuddly whores illegal for high literary escapades, mum. Sometimes ... I was wondering whether it is permissible to hold forth what I write. Like a craftsman of writing, should I leave minds close up my groove? I know these justifications that are beyond even the host talking about here? Nevertheless, here are some aspects collected. Wherever you see, punctuation, the amount of white space, these silences, these times or interior monologues, the Wandering Will there is sort of my motto, my pace, not for to kitsch, but I 'really think that a writer must also experienced breathing flow, and if, as Malraux ... want another reference, who knows it has the best seller at Matignon ... j 'kidding! I was where? Yeah! and if Malraux was right on the spirituality of this century is that Wandering has been prominent as a sovereign Dialectic.
The Wandering ... that's Wandering, wandering still folds of the lower strata of the pupils. Some, to support the thesis of a crisis in faith, we still serve as an aperitif in the evening, their old stats of churches or mosques deserted. Hogwash! What hogwash! The books were digested by the arteries and left their mark more than it suggests. Look at me! I 'am a Bible alive, although he had rubbed more churches for ages. Spirituality has given impetus to our internal Sangatte, and in addition the wandering as the idyllic odalisque wanted to expose himself in the face of common desires.
P o Finally, because this is not a complaint, write in Creole including my "flesh" island home, this is not a new return "Césaire" in the homeland. Creole words are my first steps on a literary world, not to the French, and at the same time, sprint double in fireworks-Doc Gyneco, no! This is neither more nor less, a need ... a necessity. Marmaille being, without exception they talked Creole, then when did you become age adults in spite of you, I felt the stigma of that language ... of my tongue. Suddenly, here are the villains that we had become in spite of ourselves. My language is related to the Creole was seen on the mode of an impairment of more.
Hardly certified the chosen people; language gagged insidiously, so-called inferior race from all eternity news, what do you want me to say, except that I annoy my detractors? Here I am ... Proud, slender as a gazelle in the savannahs of Africa, under the banner of a deceased Grandma ready to inject intravenously the ultimate power to exist. On Alize flower sticks, or lukewarm embers of a distant Maloya, my agony .... you relookent ()
What can I say after that? Nada! If a book is always the case of a bridge unknown both to itself than to the Other, I wanted to believe it still a little more, and there also ... it's me, R ita.
