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Definition of Bliss the poem

imagine for a moment that the science that deals with the mechanisms Cosci and unconscious man is an exact science and can arrive at a definition of absolute self-consciousness.
Imagine also that the self comes to know everything about himself: mechanisms and reasons for any intention of his adpetendi .
It would not be able to achieve a form of property and be perfect? Love, the sexual instincts, envy, his career would be free of foreign interest real since it is the mechanism that regulates its importance.
Bliss is omniscience on the part of self-ego, that it is pure self-consciousness.
Much of what we call life is only to insist, in this perspective, the immature fruit of imperfect self-consciousnesses.
And the more unfortunate as less than perfect. There are cases of self-consciousness minimum, there is also the illiteracy of self.
I think I have to think again ...

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52

There is a poem of infinite sadness. I refer to the poem of 52 V. Catullus.

And the sweet melancholy in which it is wrapped, it is much more evocative, the most historical references to which it refers, in essence, we are far away and lost.

"Quid est, Catulle? emory moraris quid? saddle curule struma Nonius sit for consulatum peierat Vatinius: quid est, Catullus? quid moraris emory? "

" What is it, Catullus? What are you waiting to die? Curule Nonius sits in the chair the scrofulous, the consulate perjured Vatinius: there is, Catullus? What are you waiting to die? "

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a letter to the father prorpio

Dear Father,

really did not want to begin my usual with the opening words of the letters. And not because you do not let me dearly, but because I want, as I write, I will be as aseptic as possible.
you think we tried hard enough to understand? Sometimes I feel I have not made many steps in your direction, let alone you. Other times I think we got close to distorting it.
not want to talk about the past. I do not want to tell you when Damiano scoured the yard of Patrick expressing their anger at seeing me there. Just fifteen years of talking amiably and Terence Callimachus, ignoring those that were priorities for him in life: blondes, cars and little else. Really not much else.
You do not talk as long as you believe me when I say that I suffered a lot. More than I can, however, to say in a letter, more than yourself, now, reading these words, we can guess.
This is part of that road you had to do in my direction. Understand that my pain was so, even without understanding it. I did not want to share: to be seen was enough. And there are pains that never go out, simply turn into fear, reluctance, inability, and even more often, new pain, in a new guise and with new faces. And then there's your pain: huge, old and tired. A helpless pain that I sometimes want to die, sometimes it's so big and so be linked to your father that you throw your whole person into the abyss, if you could, because I did not die. Do not think I do not know him, but instead know that it stands next to me day and night is at my table to make love every bite. There is pain in our lives, and then there's the sense. Do you know what a meaning in life? Know the difference between a sense, a goal and an appetite? One sense is a search that begins with oneself, and that never ends. It passes through many things: books, study, love and none of them is a sufficient answer. Since culture does not give answers: only serves to make the most difficult questions. Yet those of us who are afflicted by the search for meaning, they have no choice. Must take an obligation. It is also an omnivorous instincts. Even in the degradation lies, or at least the literature has often tried there.
enough for us to take away a greek aorist sleep. Here, I did not, and I'm falling into a trap which I much feared. And I have to look at. I have to look quotes from the tumbler and speculation, to establish a relationship of admiration or pride on your part to me. In that report you would have the illusion of me I would have understood and still our long distance.
The truth only matters. The truth heals, so just what I have in my beloved Hebrew characters tattooed on his right arm, when tattoos were not yet fashionable, even when it was just a way to be seen, to show part of my research. "Who knows more, sorry," he wrote that great poet admired than understood. But art is not a monument, the art is alive, blood, mud, meat. As wisdom. You'll never understand why a man must accept all the poor social and economic return to the point of considering the money nothing important, another stranger among them, to write about prefixes Semitic, I do not understand how many people. You just know that that's an obligation.
And so I set in motion: Paris, Brussels, Haifa had wonderful opportunities that life offered me.

...

My joy is called Qumran, PhD, acute dinners with people who publish and speak the languages \u200b\u200bof the world, because they have sought and sometimes found. It all boils down to a short formula: "you should not die in vain." But how many of us fail?
How many of us? Despite All villas, Luis Vuitton, jewelry, bought degrees, the company and the chatter of the bourgeoisie of the country, how many of these people, by these means, they do it?
I do not want to judge, I have a past that allow me to be a moral guide for anyone. Nobody younger than me has the right to judge. But there are questions that remain open. And you, too, do not try to give me the answers. When there will be a single, fragmentary but authentic, do not say anything, do not tell me anything. I understand.


M

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Submarine

Sometimes I think I do not do it anymore. How often, how many letters, even how many messages have contained these words. Vane, yes, but not less than all the others.
I think of a small submarine, designed for me only, almost completely transparent with which sink in the oceans. I wish it were in with a machine capable of producing food (of course all the food I want, infinity) and a small bathroom (self-cleaning). A television and a computer connected to the Internet.
If I dream about a submarine that accompany me in the wilderness of the seabed, I want it with all the comforts.
to disappear my tracks, I'm not saying forever, but at least for a good shine. The show would be great, because of course could change my submarine depth at my leisure, without pressure problems. But it never comes close to places humanized, because it would be so programmed. Yesterday
train was a girl from her face hard. Concentrated on very few scattered pages, constantly fearing to lose someone. I think he was writing a fair copy. There was no doubt that this was a love letter. And it was long.
probably had those words advances in all its pathos and his love for a handsome guy who does not reciprocate.
I wanted to say that this letter, with all admissions, even with all the valuable literature and the demands of broken love, would have been in vain. That he would not have understood or even read.
I also brought her for a ride in my submarine.

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What words of love?

I'm not a man of letters. I do not distinguish what is art from what is not: not for me to this office. I distinguish only what excites me from what does not. And I also know that this is entirely subjective, since the emotion itself that gives the work may not be acceptable. Behind that single emotion there all my past. And, all fall within the realm of pure subjectivity, pace of Shopenawer, it is clear that I find disrespectful to the combination of a song by the most Fossati Dante's high places. Because when the emotion or re-enactment comes into existence, I stop being a lucky reader and begin to confront my inner life.
Today, as washed up, I listened to a song by Fossati and stopped with the thought of a sentence: "And what are words / today / to those who can not write love letters?" Yeah, what?
Here is my past: the hundreds of love letters that I wrote! At the start those swollen rhetoric directed at men who would not understand, nor wanted. All linked by a single leitmotif: my narcissism, whipped by the refusal, he drew his sword of intellectual superiority. And so it was possible that committed a autlet provincial disparities come to see themselves, strictly provided citations in major languages \u200b\u200bwritten in ancient and incomprehensible to most characters, the meaning of life or love. Then rhetoric and erudite quotation gave way to attempt to provide an image of me as a young Werter operetta. Of these letters do not collect any and this is a favor that provides homelands letters have all been lost. I swear. But now, what words?

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Agrado because you do not exist?

Agrado call me because throughout my life I've always tried to make life pleasant to others ... as well as pleasing are very authentic. Look at that body ... all made to measure. Almond-eyed 80 000. Nose, 200 discard all because next year I have reduced the other way with a blow. Tits, two, because I'm not a monster, but I have already written off super. Silicon .. nose, forehead, cheekbones, hips and butt. A liter is about 100 thousand, so you do count because I've already lost. Filing of the mandible 75 000. Permanent hair removal by laser, because women are from apes as humans, up to 4 sessions, but if the flamenco dancing it takes more clear. What I was saying is that it costs a lot to be authentic senora ... and this must not be stingy, because it is a more the more authentic like the idea that she dreamed of herself.

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this our humanity

Ugly foolish, proof of the correctness of snobissima kalokagathia Athens. When you are stripped (not want to do it, he was so ugly that he had only tirarselo out), I noticed that his health was neglected. Restless: ugly, ugly and foolish. If it were fragrant and nice, well kept indeed, we would not have looked with sympathy for this man, because we sympathized with the vain effort to become less unpleasant.? The poor hygiene complaint
indifference: they are ugly, ignorant, ugly and I do not care! Existence is my right! And, of course, pace of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
But we, by seeking them in a moment of confused and disordered need for confirmation (attention?), We have implicitly agreed that he has more than the simple right to exist. But even this is not the problem. The fact is that we went to bed. Rather, we let the man ejaculate in question with our help (even if it seems to be replacing (our help) at any time with a porn of the worst kind). After what happened (a few minutes but a harbinger of the moral implications, psychological, health, and even literary), we found that neglect was excessive. Odors, stains we were disgusted with the washing of ourselves more than him. So: back to the issue of departure: that disgust even try, was not mitigated by the effort to have hygiene care? It would have been the minimum duty of a foolish, ugly, ugly and dirty has to not only me but all of creation?

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Marguerite Yourcenar 1 / 6

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Marguerite Yourcenar 1 / 6

Marguerite, Marguerite,

not you imagine how distant. Sometimes I turn to you with affection. This is the video of your admission to the Academy of France (we all know that you were the first woman to get in, do not repeat).
I would like to explain to me how you managed to be every day more beautiful.

With Love.

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vanitas

here are completely unproductive in a Florence that hides his gold like a miser. Not working on my PhD thesis and the school where I teach I think the army Brancaleone.
I feel deeply unresolved, it seems that sitting on an unknown shore, the sea ports expect something.
But the sea does not bring anything. Sometimes I only sleep. Sleep is like all the friends he leaves you when there is really need.
I do not want to give an explanation to all this: misunderstanding, and Freud, and gays who are fierce
... All this talk is futile, Hevel hevalym him as a great depression of unknown time: Qoheleth.
It would take something decisive, like love. But love was made for people like Ilaria, who deserve it and are fine. There are only four persons who devote their lives: the bartender, the Hebraist, a bookstore and saw a visa at an intersection. The night before falling asleep, I try to think, under review, the many difficulties that I would in a stable relationship with one of them. The solution is to eat small everyday joys, we know ... But
auget scientiam auget quis et dolorem , to borrow the words of that depressed above translated by Jerome in some time.

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today were dressed in red.
Or was it orange?
seemed
the dawn Eos rododàktylos
mentioned by Homer
seemed
my sea when I was young.
seemed Sicily.
But it was blood.

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Love, Anna Magnani (Human Voice)

CIO 'is most important in life and which cause PAIN. THE METAPHYSICS more ingenious DOES NOT JUSTIFY THE MAN WHO HAS THE HEART THAT LOVED Straža " (Constant Benjamite)



After all ends well. This is art. But when nothing more starts?

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Bonocrazia : social system created by the media that subverts the moral order of things to impose a reverence for beauty advertising. Ex
I was in a bar bonocratico (= I was in a bar where they were revered and considered attractive only those who embody the beauty advertising (biceps, abs, clothes, make bold, to the vulgarity) while discoverer of a vaccine or a speaking 16 languages \u200b\u200bwill have no consideration, if not the blame incapperà)

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Any 'Ohev otka

I'll take you a feeling that is not subject to definition. Avoid thinking. But when I think of you, then I suppose to touch your body like those that graze in the evening efemere large clear lakes. To rest, to quote the words of Yourcenar, on your body as a crucifix on his cross. When you're near
observe some details of your person. They are beautiful. Of this feeling I blame myself. And they did just fine infelice.Hai not answer my email.t please do not give me anything.

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what about the chat?

Chatto much. The fact that gay chat channels simply saying that I have to face a world in which physical appearance is hypertrophied. The photos, after the first two measures are a conditio sine qua non of preseguire. Since 1998
away chatting and incntro, with different purposes, with a large evolution of the psychological disposition that animates my relationship with the chat, at least on average two people a week. Get your calculations, but no one can doubt that I played on large numbers. Well, with none of these people there is a relationship of any kind, which survived the week. Nobody
postpones the chat in good faith, even the most balanced. The chat is the place of exchange of their self-perception. And it is all the more true as far from plus the perception of the person who meets the chattista is disappointed.

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the country

"A country does it, if only for the taste to go away" (Cesare Pavese)

There is a lot of rhetoric around me. It is said that the country is beautiful, sweet, comforting. That destroys the city, depersonalized.
intense memory of my country the games room located on my way. I had fear. When I left the school bus in the square, a tremor through my back. I knew that boys who roamed the insults were shouted as I passed. I would have said: "ricchione, give me a blow job." And I remember also that I was not scared for me and for my parents that they could hear and be aware of what was I to the country. The country that saves and comfort.
My adolescence in terror. This is the land. How long I thought I would be deformed and grotesque.
Everyone in the country blamed me. The country is perverse and disgusting sex seen in people. Although there are not.

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a poem destiny. Damn the Vati!

Placida one night, and Verecondo radius
2 of shooting the moon, and ideas that you
3 between the silent forest and over the cliff,
4 nuncio of the day, oh dear delight and
5 while unknown to me fur the Furies and fate,
6 appearance in my eyes, no smiles already
7 shows the desperate suffering springs. 8 We
insueto Then the joy revives
9 when the liquid is turned
ether and 10 fields for them anxiously
the flood of 11 dusty 'note, and when the wagon, wagon
12 serious to us over the head of Jupiter ,
tonando 13, divides the dark air. We
14 for cliffs and deep valleys
Natar it should be between 15 'clouds, and we
wide flight of 16' flocks, thinking he od'alto
17 river bank to the dubious sound and
18 Vittrice wrath of the wave. 19 Bello

your mantle, or star sky, and beautiful 20
you, dewy ground. Ah, the infinite beauty Cotesta
21 22
no part in the miserable Saffo the gods and the Empire 23
fate they did not. A 'proud kingdoms
your base 24, or nature, and serious host officer,
25 and despised lover, to your charming
26 forms the core and the pupils
27 pleading in vain I mean. I do not ride
28 Aprica Margo, and dall'eterea
port 29, the morning dawn, I'm not singing
30 de 'colorful birds, and not from' beech
31 salutes the murmur: and where the shadow
32 degl'inchinati willows unfolds
33 candidates within the pure stream, my foot the supple lewd
34 lymph
disdaining subtract 35, 36 and press
fleeing the smell beaches. 37 What do

ever, as they occur rather execrable excess
38 macchiommi Christmas, waves grim
39 heaven and I was the face of luck? 40
sinned in that child, then that 41
unaware of wrongdoing is life, then so stupid
of 42 youth and wane, the indomitable 43
Zone Parc 44 volvesse
the steely my stamen? 45 entries misguided
spreads your lips: for the 46 events
move arcane advice. Arcane is all
47 out that our sorrow. Neglected children were born at 48
crying, and reason on her lap
49 de 'celestial pose. Care Oh, oh hope
50 from 'verd'anni more! Appearance to the Father,
51 in the pleasant appearance eternal kingdom
52 people gave in, and for male enterprises,
53 per pound or learned hand,
54 virtues not bare light mantle. 55

we die. The veil on the ground unworthy esparto, 56
shy away from Dis, the naked soul,
57 and the crude foul 58 will amend the blind
dispensator de 'cases. And you love in vain 59
whose long, long, and faith, and vain desire
60 of implacable rage he shook,
61 live happy, happy if he lived on earth 62
born mortal. I do not sprayed
63, the suave licor stingy butt
64 Jupiter, then that perish deceptions and the dream of my childhood
65. Each happier
66 days of our age, flies away first.
67 Sottentra's disease and old age, 68 to the icy shadow
death. Here's hoping many palm trees and delightful
69 errors, 70
the Tartar left to me, and the brave have the talent
71 tenary Diva,
ATR 72 at night, and the silent shore.

(G. Leopardi, Canti, Newton Compton, Rome, l996, pp. 67-73)