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
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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