E71 Camera Voorkant Gebruiken

Rewriting

"I am unable to prove that lay readers enjoy books more than the professional critics, but I can say what is the advantage we have in relation to them. We can not forget. They suffer the curse of memory, never to be erased their brains books about which they teach and write. For them become part of the family. Perhaps that is the reason why some critics have just acquired a slightly paternalistic relationship with their subjects [...] the average reader, but enthusiasts to forget, to go, being unfaithful with other authors, and feel back again in ecstasy. "

Julian Barnes' Emma Bovary's eyes "in Flaubert's Parrot

Male Waxing New Jersey

lay readers IV

Donde habite el olvido,
in the vast gardens without aurora;

where I only memory of a stone buried in nettles
on which the wind escapes your insomnia.


Where my name Let the body that appoints the arms of the centuries,
where desire does not exist.

In this great region love, angel terrible, like steel

not hide in my chest his wing, gracious smile
air while growing torment.

Wherever I finish this effort requires a master in his own image, subjecting
life Hereafter,
no other horizon than facing eyes.

Where such penalties and no more than names
native heaven and earth around a memory;
where the end is free without knowing myself,
dissolved in fog, no, no light as meat
child.

There, far away;
where dwell oblivion.

Luis Cernuda "Donde habite el olvido" in Forbidden Pleasures (1931)

When he awoke, he remembered nothing

the night before,
"too many beers" told
see my head,
beside hers on the pillow
and kissed her again,
but it was not yesterday, but tomorrow
. And an insolent
sun
like a thief entered the window
.

The day he arrived mauve

had dark circles and mud on the heel,
naked, but strange,
saw us, broken
deception of the night, the harsh light of dawn.
was time to flee
and left without saying
"call me one day."
From the balcony, I saw
lost in the bustle of the Gran Via

And life went on,
things are still
not make much sense.
told me once,
a mutual friend, who saw
Inhale.

The pupil filed a red light,
a backpack, peugeot

and those myopic eyes and blood

galloping through my veins
and a cloud of sand

within the heart and this love spell
no appetite.
kisses I lost, not knowing

say "I need you."
And life went on, things are still
not make much sense
,
once told me,
a mutual friend, who saw
Inhale.

Joaquin Sabina "Where Inhale"

Wife Sunbathing Topless

Volcanic

Back to you is the service road

to take my hat broken words ,

I do not understand the boundaries, you move me frames.

In the space of my forgetfulness is your shadow

a bank to come and see you, you know and shut up, bruise

jump timer, 3, 2, 1, here I am.

Now I've learned to make nooses,

to use step of the first times, to skimp on whys,

to ask the last dance for my fantasies,

now that burns me so much life inert

now nothing, now I do not know if I write to you.

Across runs a voice says that I miss you ,

and I stumble in the meantime the only way I know to love you

with autism from the walls of a safe house,

with teeth of skin wound , I have words of Mercurochrome,

bite the hand that feeds me.

I crawl double-lined skirts memory.

magma to reach that I have almost no fool.

Raquel G. Otero, also known as Sybilla Cardinale www.computodefantasmas.blogspot.com

[A long, but much I want to share here some of the wonders that publishes Ra. The time has come. Computation of ghosts passing through. Really worth it.]

Microbrew Coffee Maker

against forgetting words

all want to rescue the memory through every piece of life suddenly comes back to us, however unworthy, even painful. And the only way is to fix it with writing.

literature, much as we love to deny it, can rescue from oblivion all that about what the contemporary, increasingly immoral aims slide with absolute indifference "

Enrique Vila-Matas, Bartleby and company