Alergy To Rape Seed Oil

A

Is this the woman he loved / hated that so much talk in the book? No idea.

There are simple things in life. Or in the world who will be the same. Life, the world. The universe, Is it simple or complicated? Well, I do not know. I'm not drunk. On Sunday morning I do not usually drunk, or at least not usually drink. Going to say, there are simple things, like fixing a washing machine. There are simple things, like sitting in a chair in the kitchen and on the tablecloth to write a bill (72 euros) by changing a piston to the washer. A piston or whatever. In the afternoon, before yesterday, I waited for Mr technician to come fix the washer. No machine live in chaos. Half day or day and a half, I do not know, without washing, and the house collapses. We itch all over just knowing that the machine does not work (I will not be able to change my underwear and that troubles me), the mountains of clothes do not let us pass, we spit salads fluids and grease spots appear on the shirt criminals. Without washing. While I hope I'm reading the savior, this afternoon, the Daily of Cheever. I never thought I could read it over three days. Wear a couple of weeks.

You know, alcoholism, homosexuality is not accepted (either by him or his age, years 40, 50, 60 ...), curses left and right. Also, a marriage depressing, destructive. His Mary is a little witch a fairy tale wonder that torture will not be able to have sex with the witch. But that's life. In fairy tales the witch's just crushing a truck carrying chickens or pigs, at least in current versions. But in life one would say that there are no trucks carrying pigs. Or run over witches. In life you can be a practicing Catholic, a respectable family man and even a respected writer. A man who can change his underwear every day. A man giving a conference with the pristine underpants, while listeners silent fart briefs listeners on their conference. Simple or complicated life, but life. But one in your diary is bound to be a pig. We are left alone with ourselves and only see the pig. Our pork sensitive, nostalgic, lucid. Freud and his pig detected and made it a philosophy and a business for several generations of fraudsters. If life outside are clean underwear, for insisting on the theme of the machine, life inside the secret life, it's used underwear. It is, moreover, an obligation for the literary genius, teach your palomino.

Cheever believed in his posterity. He saw his posterity in life. It was quite clear. But I do not know to what extent it was a character in itself. One of those people unfortunate but laughable if not ridiculous. Cheever's diaries are excellent, and read, I think, for the pleasure of savoring the prose. Also pleased to gloat over their cynicism, which is what moves the irony sometimes when rubbed against corrosive unhappiness. Is a script to be read, not only to be written. That roll treatment. What I do see Job is in the hands of a prankster God, a horny. And in the hands of someone like that, how to take yourself seriously?

in the best journals is basic, the main character finds himself outside. This is another one when not writing. Or does it. Canto

aloud to the old bitch, "I started a lemon in the garden of love, which only grow peaches." [Cheever. Daily, p.. 450. Emecé]

Dental Hygiene Favors

A house by the sea

JUST READ ONE to Coetzee and wants to become a vegetarian. It is as if Beckett had enough of watching a white wall and go out into the street to see what ends the affair between whites and blacks in South Africa. Interested in life and writes well. He does not mind getting into mud, and put the reader in juvenile matters little, very little modern, very little cursed. What beautiful children as we are all out to the lady dying of bone cancer. Tramp black nails and wetting above, between cardboard under a bridge. Bastards blacks, whites assholes. A novel without bastards bastards. Where is the anger of the damned post. To look as bad as Artaud. Threatening a nun with a vibrator use the word 'stale' all the time, not just to talk about sausages.

We are as modern as we die only on the HBO series or news.

*

NIGHT, after dinner, I see ' The Ghost and Mrs. Muir ', which is a very innocent film. Innocent in the right direction. Poetics. It is a fairy tale. For sentimental, not for kids. I had not seen, I think, or not remembered. Favorite movie is Javier Marys (should have said at least fifteen or twenty items). This, really, bothers me a little movie. I can not forget. Almost one sees the film as if it were owned by Javier Marias. He has put his hand up and I could not see it without him before. It is as if in a theater a woman with an afro you sit in front. You have a filter that head, bordering the busts of the characters, reminding you at all times that there is that hair, that lady and a two-hour destination unbearable for you. I had the head of Javier Marias between my eyes and screen. Harvey attended without reading the subtitles. I tried and I even felt proud enough to understand (corroborating few seconds after the success with reading.)

Mrs. Muir, a widow who befriends a ghost, it's pretty good. He lives in a wonderful place overlooking the sea off cliffs. In case of desperation one only has to go out and jump into the void. The house is inhabited by the ghost of a sailor (played by Rex Harrison vehemently). A sailor of the novel, or the type of novelist. Not a sailor playing cards in the pub and spend the day discussing cooked emptiness, which is another type of film sailor. The literary, and there will I look at Mary, the ghost tells him his Life with Lucy (Mrs. Muir, but the ghost is a spoiled snob and called Lucia, Luchia pronounced, with a ridiculous bombast.)

is an excellent metaphor for the kinds of writing, especially novels. Those voices that non-schizophrenic is in your head and so on. Then there is the love between the ghost and the widow. Do not touch. It is of course an eternal love, but an impossible love until the widow dies. It dies of old, drinking milk. The ghost comes to pick it up. We think if the ghost of the widow of an old will, as it leaves the body. These moments are suspenseful. What is ghost? But no, of course no, no old woman's body for eternity. It is the ghost of the woman attractive and wonderful it was in his prime. The ghost, named Daniel (not mentioned), and Mrs. Muir, named Lucy, or Lucia, or Lucia, open the front door and make off at night by a shipping tablet surrounded by a mist that rises to heaven or at least gets lost in the fog. This confuses and disappoints me a bit, I thought I would stay at this wonderful house forever, and both seemed to like the ghost of the sailor Daniel. Why the hell are they?

The movie dazzles me but I like everything about. Like, for example, occur as natural relationship between the widow's ghost alive and grumpy. Death is death that children know (and you know, despite the pose, we are all children with hairy legs, including women). Death as a better life, invisible to the living, with almost all the advantages of life without having to poop.