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And the sweet melancholy in which it is wrapped, it is much more evocative, the most historical references to which it refers, in essence, we are far away and lost.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

Some Time Stomach Stick Out Too Much

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?