O escafandro ea borboleta livro pdf

Continue Escafandro e Borboleta Capa by book published by Portuguese Author (s) Jean-Dominique Bauby Language French Country France Genre Autobiography Publishing Robert Laffonte Release 1997 Pages 139 ISBN 978-0-375-40115-2 Portuguese Edition Editorial Livros do Brazil Edition Translation by Ivone Castillo Benedetti Editor Martins Fontes 142 ISBN 978-8-578-27180-0 Escafandro e Borboleta (Le scaphandre et le papillon in original in French) is a book, written by journalist Jean-Dominique Bauby. Adaptation See the main article: Escafandro and Butterfly (film) In 2007 was released a film of the same name, directed by Julian Schnabel. Inquiries : In connection with the release of the film, Forest and butterfly, the autobiography of a journalist, .... Globe. July 30, 2008. Received on March 7, 2013 This article about the book is a stub. You can help Wikipedia by expanding it.vde, received from © 1996-2014, Amazon.com, Inc. or its affiliates on December 8, 1995, a stroke brutally plunged the yuan-Dominic Boubie into a deep coma. After leaving him, all his motor functions deteriorated. There was only one eye in his inert body. This eye - the left - is the connection he has with the world, with others, with life. Technical Information Publisher WMF Martins Sources Forest Name and Butterfly Author Technical Data Sheet Product Code ISBN-10 - 857827914X GTIN-13 - 9788578279141 ISBN-13 - 9788578279141 Approximate Weight Product Weight 160.0 Grams. Product Sizes (L x A x P): 13.8 x 20.8 x 9.0 cm. More information Read more More More More More Details More, contests, how to prepare for different types of tests? Read more This product has not yet been evaluated. Be the first to rate, click next to it. Credit card R$38.42 on cash 2x R $19.64 with interest 3x R $13.24 with interest 4x R$10.02 with interest of 5x R$8.08 with interest 6x R$6.79 with interest 7x R $5 8x interest R$5 5.08 18 with 9x R $4.64 interest rate 10x R$4.21 with interest of 11x R$3.86 with interest of 12x R$3.57 with interest R$38.42 at 2x R$19.50 with interest of 3x R$133.06 with 4x Interest R$ 9.84 with interest of 5x R$ 7.91 with 6x R$ 6.63 percent with 7x R$ 5.71 interest with 8x R$5.02 interest with interest of 5.02 with interest 7x R$ 5.71 with interest 5.02 with interest 7x R$ 5.71 with interest 5.02 with interest 5.02 with interest 7x R$ 5.71 with interest 5.02 8x R$5.02 with interest 5.029x R $4.48 with interest 10x R$4.05 with interest 11x R$3.70 with interest of 12x R$3.41 with interest Boleto banc'rio R $38.42 in plain sight You only have to earn by setting up a store in Voc magazine. Get up to 10% of the cash commission directly into your bank account for every product sold. Here's how easy it is: Create your shop within minutes to uncover the entire network of contacts selling products and earn commissions already there Shop? Shop? Enter Related Requests: Book - Scaffolding Book The Scaffolding Book Learn more about used USED book products sold in our book output category with malfunctions, but what preserves their integrity is the original content allowing you to very closely read new books. These products may have crumpled pages or lids, stains, scratches or signs of use and may be out of their original packaging. STOCK AVAILABILITYFor Outlet products are limited and, for this reason, the buying opportunities are unique. If there are defects in the product after purchase, the consumer may request a refund of the amounts charged under the Saraiva return policy.IMAGES ON SITE Images are merely an illustration of a new book with examples of units that show signs of use that may or may not be present in a unit for sale. 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For more information, please check our trade and returns policy.APPEARANCE And OPERATIONThe books used may contain dents, marks, stains, scratches or signs of use. These aesthetic marks do not jeopardize the reading or integrity of the original content. All products used have been tested and are in a state of reading. 1. ESCAFANDRO AND BUTTERFERING Ian-Dominique Baubi Scan: Mercia - RJ (2008) 2. This work was originally published in French under the title LE SCAPHANDRE ET LE PAPILLON, Robert Laffonte, Paris, 1997 1st edition July 1997 Translation by Ivone Castillo Benedetti Graphic Review - Elian Rodriguez de Abreu Graphic Production - Geraldo Alves Pagina'o / Fotolitos - Studio 3 Capa Editorial Development - Katia Harumi Teraakas International Data Cataloging in Publishing (CIP) Bauby, Jean-Dominique, 1952 - Forests and Butterfly / Jean-Dominique Bauby : Translated by Yvonne Castillo Benedetti. - Sao Paulo : Martins Fontes. 1997. Original title: Reads scaphandre et l'papillon. ISBN 85-336-0651-6 1. Bauby, Jean-Dominik. 1952 – 2. Cerebrovascular Disorders - Patients - Biography I. Title 97-2597 CDD-920.961681 Indices for systematic catalog: 1. Strokes : Patients : Biography 920.961681 2. Patients : Strokes : Biography 920.961681 All rights to Brazil reserved for Livraria Martins Fontes Editorial Ltda 3. Theophile and Celeste, with the wishes of many butterflies. I would like to express my gratitude to Claude Mendibil, whose main role in the creation of this book will be understood by those who read its pages. 4. PROLOGUE Behind the curtain of lace fabric milk clarity announces that soon morning. My heels hurt, my head anvil, and my body enclosed in some woods. Slowly, my room comes out of the darkness. I look closely at the pictures of loved ones, drawings of children, posters, a small cyclist in Flanders, sent by a friend on the eve of Paris-Roubaix, and a beam that crowns the bed where I was encrusted for six months like hermit Bernardo on a rock. I don't need to think long enough to know where I am, and remember that my life took a turn on December 8 last year, on Friday. Until then, I'd never heard of a brain stem. That day I discovered the plate of this masterpiece of our onboard computer, the obligatory passage between the brain and nerve endings when a stroke put such a barrel out of a loop. They used to call it brain congestion, and we died, clearly and simply. The progress of resuscitation methods has a sophistic punishment. We escaped, but toasted by the fact that Anglo-Saxon medicine was baptized with closed justice syndrome: paralyzed from head to toe, the patient locked himself inside the spirit of the untouchable, with the strokes of the left eyelid as the only means of communication. Of course, the person who knows about this pardon is most interested. As for me, I was entitled to twenty days of coma and a few weeks of fog before I really realized the extent of the damage. It wasn't until late January that I actually showed up in this room at 119 Burke Hospital, by the sea, where the first outbreaks of dawn are now penetrating. It's going to be a normal morning. At seven o'clock, the call of the chapel begins to mark the escape of time, every fifteen minutes. After a night of truce, my clogged bronchi snore loudly. Crispy on yellow, my hands make me suffer, without me being able to determine if they are burning or cold. To combat the ansylose, I put in action a reflex stretch motion that moves the arms and legs into a few millimeters. This is sometimes enough to relieve a sore limb. The forest no longer oppresses so much, and the spirit can roam like a butterfly. There's so much to do. You can fly through space or time, go to the Land of Fire or at the court of King Midas. 5. You can visit your beloved woman, slip into her and caress her still sleeping face. Build wind castles, conquer the Golden Velocino, discover Atlantis, fulfill children's dreams and fantasies of adulthood. No more scatterings. I have to pay tribute to the beginning of these still travel laptops and be prepared for when my editor's messenger comes to take the dictation, letter after letter. In my opinion, I recreate ten times each sentence, eliminate the word, along with the adjectives and decency of my text, paragraph by paragraph. 7:30. The nurse on duty interrupts my thoughts. According to a very precise ritual, she opens the curtain, checks the tracheotomy and drips, and turns on the TV so I can watch the news. So far, the cartoon tells the story of the fastest frog in the West. What if I formulated a desire to be turned into a frog? 6. CHAIR I have never seen so much white apron in this little room of mine. Nurses, nursing assistants, physiotherapists, psychologists, ergotherapists, neurologists, interns and even the head of the sector, the whole hospital moved into the case. When they came in pushing the device to my bed, I thought a new tenant would come to take over the place. Established in Burke a few weeks ago, every day I approached a little more peripheral consciousness, but I had no idea what kind of relationship might exist between me and the wheelchair. No one has yet painted me an accurate picture of the situation, and from the bits of conversation caught here and there, I forged confidence that I will soon recover with speech and movement. My worldly spirit even made a thousand projects: novel, travel, play and marketing fruit cocktail of my invention. Don't ask me for a recipe I forgot. Shortly after they put on me. It helps raise morale, the neurologist said. After the yellow nylon sweater, in fact it would give me pleasure to wear a plaid shirt, old pants and a warped pullover, if not a nightmare to wear them. Or rather, to see how they go, after a thousand contortions, over this sluggish and disjointed body that belongs to me, but to make me suffer. When I'm ready, the ritual can begin. Two gaiatos grabbed me by the shoulders and feet, lifted me out of bed and in the chair, without much delicacy. From ordinary patients I became disabled, just as in bullfighting novillero turns into a torero after passing through the ceremony of alternative. They didn't applaud me, but almost. My godparents took me for a walk to confirm that this position did not cause uncontrollable spasms, but I was very quiet, very busy that I was in assessing the brutal depreciation of my prospects for the future. They just really had to put my head on a special pillow because I was headed like an African woman when they took away the pyramid rings that stretched her neck for years on end. You got along well with the chair, commented the ergotherapist with a smile, which is designed to give the character good news for these words, but they actually sounded to me like a verdict. Suddenly I saw an amazing reality. As brave as an atomic mushroom. More cutting than a guillotine blade. They're all gone, three nurse assistants put me back in bed, and I thought of those noir movie gangsters who regret putting a nagging corpse in the trunk that they just erased. The chair was in a corner, in an abandoned manner, with my clothes thrown on a dark blue plastic back. Before the last white apron came out, I made it clear that you were turning on the TV very quietly. They played Numbers and Letters, my father's favorite show. In the morning it rained continuously on the window panel. 7. PRECE After all the shock of the chair was helpful. It's clearer. I didn't make any more locks in the air and I was able to free myself from the silence of friends who erected an affectionate barrier around me after such an accident. Since this topic was no longer taboo, we started talking about locking syndrome. First, it's rare. It's not comforting much, but the chance to get into this hellish trap is the same that you have to win the lotto. In Burke, there are only two of us with these symptoms, and on top of that my L.I.S. (1) is not very Catholic. I sin for the fact that I can turn my head, which in principle is not provided in the clinical picture. Since in most cases the patient is given a vegetative life, the evolution of this pathology is not well known. It is known only that if the nervous system decides to work again, it will happen at the rate at which the hair will grow from the base of the brain. So it may be a few more years before I can move my legs. In fact, it is in the area of air routes that any improvements should be expected. In the long run, there is hope of restoring greater normality to food, without the use of a gastric tube, natural breathing and a little breathing that puts the vocal cords vibrating. At this point, I would be the most men, if I could comfortably swallow the excess saliva that invades my mouth without stopping. The day has not yet come and I am already exercising my tongue, making it slide through the back of the palate of the mouth to provoke a reflection of swallowing. In addition, I consecrated on the larynx bags of incense that hang on the wall, ex-votos, brought from Japan by a friend-of-art and believers. This is one of the stones of the Thanksgiving monument, set by those around me, in the taste of pilgrimage. In all latitudes a wide variety of spirits will be summoned in my favor. I'm trying to put a little order in this huge shower movement. If I am informed that I intend that candles have been lit in the Breton chapel or that a mantra has been merged in the Nepalese temple, I immediately assign the exact purpose of these spiritual manifestations. That's how I entrusted my right eye to the Cameroonian marabou, to whom a friend delegated the task of getting me a mansuetud of African gods. As for hearing problems, I resort to good relationships, which the devout mother-in-law maintains with the monks of the Bordeaux fraternity. They regularly dedicate their rosaries to me, and I sometimes make my way to the abbey to hear the songs rise to heaven. This has not yet yielded any extraordinary results, but when seven brothers and sisters of the same order (I am) 8. were killed by Islamist fanatics, I had pain in my ear for days. However, these great protections, but clay walls, walls of sand, of the lines of Maginot, next to a small prayer that my daughter Celeste reads every night to her Lord before going to bed. As we fall asleep around the same time, I sail into the realm of dreams with this wonderful vitician that delivers me from all the funencounters. 9. BATH at 8:30 comes to the physiotherapist. Sporting silhouette and Roman coin profile, Brigitte comes to work arms and legs conquered by the elderly. They call it mobilization, and this military terminology is ridiculous in the face of the thinness of the troops: thirty kilograms less in twenty weeks. I did not expect such a result when I went into mode eight days before such an accident. Passing, Brigitte checks if any snow shudders so that it does not come to announce the improvement. Try grabbing my hand, she asks. Since I sometimes have the illusion of finger movement, I consume my energy to crush her phalanx, but nothing moves, and it puts my inert hand on a square of foam, which serves as a case. In fact, only the changes relate to the head. Now I can make it rotate ninety degrees, and my visual field goes from the slate roof of the building next door to Mickey's tongue-in-waiting that my son Theophilus drew when I still couldn't get between my mouth open. By the power of exercise, we now get to the point where we can enter the pacifier. As the neurologist said: You have to be very patient. The physiotherapy session ends with a facial massage. With her cool fingers, Brigitte runs across my face, a barren area that seems to me to be a parchment sequence, and an inside where I can still frown. When the demarcation line passes through my mouth, I only sketch half the smiles, which reasonably corresponds to the fluctuations of my mood. So a domestic episode like a toilet can inspire a variety of feelings in me. One day, I find it amusing, at forty-four, to be washed, rolled over, rubbed and put on cueiros as a child. In the complete regression of the child, I even feel this vague pleasure. The next day. It all seems pathetic to me in the extreme, and a tear rolls through the foam shaving cream that the attendant extends to my face. The weekly bath then immerses me at the same time in struggle and happiness. To the delightful moment when diving in the bathroom soon followed the current for the big baths, which was the luxury of my old life. With a cup of tea or whiskey, a good book or a stack of newspapers, I allow myself to be soaking for a long time, maneuvering the taps off my feet. There are a few moments when, remembering these pleasures, I feel so cruel to my current state. Fortunately, I don't have time to dig deeper. Soon they take me back to the room, shivering on a comfortable stretcher like a fakir bed. You have to be dressed from head to toe until 10:30, ready to go down to the rehab room. Refusing to accept the infamous style of running recommended by the house, I return my old anachronistic student clothes. Just like a bathtub, my old vests can open painful clues in my memory. But in them I prefer to see a symbol that life goes on. And proof that I want to be myself. Since it's for drooling, let it be cashmere. 10. ALPHABET I love the letters of my alphabet. At night, when the darkness is too much and the only relic of life is the red dot of television light, vowels and consonants dance for me farendol Charles Trena: De Venise, ville exquise, j'ai gard' l' doux souvenir... Hand in hand, they pass through the room, turn around the bed, walk through the window, service through the wall, go to the door and go for a walk. E S A R I N T U L O M D P P C F B V H G J and Y X K W The obvious disorder of this joyous parade is not the fruit of chance, but intelligent calculations. More than an alphabet, it's a hit parade in which every letter because of its frequency in French. So, the snail in the front, and V. got hooked on his back so he wouldn't be left behind by the platoon. B bronchi, because he was close to the V, with which he is always confused. Proud J is amazed to be so far away, the one who gets so many offers (1). Embarrassed because H does not hesitate to rob his place, fat G grunts with rage, and all the time in you there you are here, T and U enjoy the pleasure is not separated. All this reclassification has a reason: to make it easier for anyone who wants to try to communicate directly with me. The system is pretty rudimentary. My interlocutor mocks in front of me the alphabet version of ESA ... until, with a wink, I stop it in the letter that you need to write it down. Then the same maneuver resumes for the following letters and, if there is no mistake, depression we get the whole word, the segments of sentences are more or less clear. It's a theory, an instruction manual, an explanatory note. But there is practice, thoughtless by some and common sense of others. Not everyone acts the same in front of the code, as this method of translating my thoughts is also called. Who usually does crossword puzzles and play stir-mishes gets a shot. Girls are better than boys. From such practice, some know the game of color and do not even use a sacred notepad, half a souvenir to remember the order of letters, half a notepad where all my phrases are written down as oracles of pythia. In fact, I wonder what conclusions the ethnologists of the year three thousand will reach, if by chance they flick through these notepads, where they are, folded, on the same page, phrases such as: Fisiois pregnant, especially in the legs, It's Arthur Rimbaud, and France played bad for the donkey. All this embechest with incomprehensible paws, poorly composed words, lost letters and syllables of desarremadas. The. N.do 11. Emotional ones that get lost most quickly. With their voice in mute, they guess the alphabet for a thousand hours, write down several letters at once, and in the face of the result without a foot or head, they exclaim with the greatest behavior: I nullity! After all, it's kind of peace because they end up taking over the whole conversation, asking questions and giving answers without me having to be instigating. I'm more afraid of evasive people. If I ask: How are you? They say, well, I'm already playing the act. With these, the alphabet becomes a dam shot and you have to have two or three questions ready in advance to not so'sobrar. These are manantins that are never wrong. They write down all the texts, scrupulously, and never seek to penetrate the mystery of the sentence before it is finished. There's no way I'm finishing the word. From their necks to the gallows they will not add on their own initiative melo on the koga, myco, which follows the ato and imposed, without which there is no way to put an end to inters, nor agomi. This slowness makes the process boring, but at least countersenses, in which impulsive ones narthus when they are unable to confirm their intuition. However, I understood the poetry of these puns on the day I asked for glasses (lunettes), someone asked me with great elegance what I wanted to do with the moon (moon)... 12. EMPRESS no longer has many places in France where the memory of Empress Eugenie is cultivated. In the large gallery of Burke Hospital, a vast and sonorous space through which five carts or wheelchairs can roll side by side, the showcase reminds us that Napoleon III's wife was the godmother of the institution. The two main rarities of this micromuseum are the white marble bust that restores us, in our youth, to viano, it is the fallen height, which died at the age of ninety-four years, half a century after the end of the Second Empire, and a letter in which the station's deputy chief Burke tells the director of the Corresponding Maritime Short Imperial Visit on May 4, 1864. You can even see the arrival of a special train, the bustle of young women accompanying Eugene, crossing the city through a cheerful procession and, in the hospital, presenting young patients to his famous protector. For a while, I have not missed a single opportunity to fulfil my obligations under these relics. Twenty times I've reread the railroad narrative. I mingled with the chatter of a bunch of bridesmaids, and as Eugenia went from one pavilion to another, I would follow her hat yellow ribbon, her taffeta umbrella and the footprint left by the colony water court perfumer. On a very windy day I had to come up and bury my head in the folds of her white gauze dress, with wide satin stripes. It was soft as beaten sour cream, had the freshness of morning dew. She's not pushing me away. He ran his fingers through my hair and said quietly: Courage, my son, you must be very patient, with a Spanish accent, like a neurologist. She was no longer the Empress of the French, but a comforting deity in the style of Saint Rita, the patron saint of lost deeds. After that, one afternoon, when I entrusted my sorrows to his portrait, an unknown figure intervened between us. In the reflection of the showcase appeared the face of a man who seemed to be overnight in a dioxin barrel. The mouth was crooked, his nose crumpled, his hair dishevelled, the look in horror. One eye was sewn and the other rolled like Cain's eye. For a moment I set that extended pupil without realizing that it was just me. strange euphoria. Not only was he banished, paralyzed, dumb, half deaf, devoid of all pleasures and reduced to the existence of a jellyfish, but he was also horrified to see himself. I was overcome by the access of nervous laughter that the accumulation of catastrophes always ends in provoking when we decide to treat the last blow of fate as a joke. My good-naturedness at first confused Eugene, until she gave in to the contagion of my fun. We laughed until we cried. Municipal fanfare then started playing waltz and I was so cheerful that I would even get up to invite Eugenia to dance if it was mouldy. We'd go back miles of tiles. Since then that 13. events, when I go through the big gallery, I seem to see the Empress right a little arzinho. 14. CineCITT for noisy ultralights that fly over the cat d'Opale, a hundred meters above sea level, Berck Hospital offers a fascinating spectacle. With its massive and complex shapes, the tall brown brick walls in the style of the northern houses seem to have fallen in the middle of the sand, between the town of Burke and the grayish waters of the English Channel. On the pediment of the most beautiful facade you can read: City of Paris both in public baths and in public schools of the capital. Created in the Second Empire for sick children who could not count on the regulatory climate in Paris hospitals, this application has retained the status of extraroorality. If the reality lies in Pes-de-Calais, for state aid we are on the banks of the Seine. United by endless paths, buildings form a real maze, and it is not uncommon to cross with the patient Menard lost in Sorrell, the names of two famous surgeons who serve to designate the main pavilions. The unfortunate scare sit in my mother's arms and, shivering on crutches, they say pathetically I'm lost!. I, who is Sorrel, as the bakers say, here I navigate very well, but this does not always happen with friends who tow me, and I have already caught the custom of staying impassive before stumbles neophytes when we get in the wrong direction. It can be an opportunity to discover an unknown new, see new faces, steal the smell of the kitchen in passing. That's how I stumbled upon the lighthouse one of the first times they pushed my wheelchair, right after I came out of a fog coma. He appeared at the turn of the stairwell where we were lost: screeching, reliable and protective with a livery of red and blue stripes resembling a rugby net. I immediately put myself under the protection of this fraternal symbol that sails for sailors and sick, these shipwrecks of solitude. We are in constant contact, I often visit you whenever they take me to Cinecitt, an important region of my imaginary hospital geography. The Sinecitts are always the deserted terraces of the Sorrel Pavilion. Facing south, these huge balconies give a panorama where the poetic and lay lame charm of movie sets emanated. Berka's Sarrabaldes looks like a model of an electric train. At the foot of the dunes, some tents give the illusion of a ghost town far to the west. As for the sea, its foam is so white that it looks like it's coming out of the special effects studio. I would spend whole days at Cinecitt. There I am the greatest director of all time. On the city side, I re-film the foreground sign of evil. On the beach, I redid travel during due diligence, and on the high seas I re-enter the storm smugglers Moonfleet. Or I'll dissolve 15. in the landscape, and I have nothing to connect to the world but a helping hand to caress my sleeping fingers. I am Piero le Fu, with his face painted blue and rosary dynamite wrapped around his head. The temptation to scratch a match passes at the speed of a cloud. What's more, it's the time when the day drops, when the last train departs for Paris, when you have to get back in the room. I'm waiting for winter. Well-dressed, we can stay until night, watch as the sun sets and the lighthouse takes its place, throwing flashes of hope on all horizons. 16. After receiving the small victims of the last devastating impact of tuberculosis shortly after the war, Burke gradually gave up his childhood vocation. It can be said that today he fights more the suffering of old age, the inexorable deterioration of the body and spirit, but the geriatrics is only part of the mural that must be laid out to give an accurate picture of the clientele of the institution. At one end of the picture is about twenty permanent comas, the poor devils are immersed in an endless night at the gates of death. They never leave the room. However, everyone knows they're there and they weigh strangely on the team like a heavy consciousness. At the opposite end, next to a colony of dispossessed old men, are some obese furious appearances whose considerable size medicine hopes to reduce. In the center, an impressive battalion of stropiados makes up the bulk of the troops. Rescued from sports, roads and all sorts of possible and imaginable domestic accidents, they transit through Burke for as long as necessary to repair their broken limbs. I call them tourists. Finally, if we want the picture to be complete, we will need to choose a corner for us, flying with broken wings, the voiceless parrots, the evil birds foreshadowing that we made our nest in one of the dead-end corridors of the neurological sector. Obviously Landscape. I know very well the mild malaise that we cause when, rigidly and quietly, we cross the circle of less disadvantaged patients. To observe this phenomenon, the best position is the physiotherapy room, where all patients who perform rehabilitation exercises are mixed. This is a real yard of wonders, noisy and colorful. Amid the bustle of tires, prosthetics and more or less sophisticated appliances, there's a boy in an earring who broke down on his bike, a fluorescent sports sweater who re-learned to walk after he fell off a stool, and a semi-beggar who no one else understood how he got the subway to pull his leg. In perfect alignment, this humanity shakes hands and feet under relaxed observation, while I get attached to a sloping plane that gradually fits vertically. Thus, every morning I spend half an hour suspended, in a hieronymic position meaning reminiscent of the appearance of the statue of the commander in the last act of Mozart Don Giovanni. Downstairs, laughter, jokes, interpela'es. I wish I could be a part of all this joy, but as soon as I land my only eye on them, the boy, grandma, beggar, everyone has seen their heads and feel the urgent need to contemplate the fire detector that is attached to the ceiling. Tourists must be very afraid of fire. 17. Salameh Every day, after a verticalization session, the baker takes me out of the physiotherapy room and parks me in a room where I wait for some chaperone to put me to bed. And every day, noon spiked, the same patron makes a good appetite with calculating fun, a way to say goodbye until the next day. Obviously, this equates to wishing Merry Christmas on August 15 or Goodnight in broad daylight! After eight months I swallowed no less than a few drops of water with lemon and half a spoonful of yogurt, which was noisily lost airway. The food test, as this banquet was strongly baptized, was not satisfactory. But don't let anyone worry, so I'm not hungry. Through a probe that reaches up to the stomach, two or three vials of brownish matter feed my daily calorie needs. As for pleasure, appealing to the living memory of tastes and smells, an inexhaustible reservoir of sensations. Wasn't there the art of good use of the remains? I grow to cook souvenirs on a low heat. I can sit at the table at any time, without a label. If it is a restaurant, there is no need to book. If I cook, everything goes fine. The bourguignon is soft, the steak en gel is translucent, and the apricot pie has the right degree of acidity. Depending on the mood, I suggest myself a dozen escargots, sauerkraut garni and a bottle of golden gevurtztramin Kuve Vendanges on nerves; or I degusto a simple hot egg where I dip bread sticks with salted butter. What a treat! yolk invated the sky's mouth and throat into its long, cool rash. And I've never had a digestive problem. Of course, I use the best products: fresh vegetables, freshly caught fish, very good to season meat. Everything should be prepared as the costume dictates. For extra security, a friend sent me a recipe for real andouillette Troyes, with three different meats in thin encrusted. I also scrupulously respect the pace of the seasons. At this point, I can freshen up my pine trees with melon and red fruit. Oysters and meat stay in the fall if you continue to feel like it because I get moderate, you might say, ascetic. At the beginning of this long post, the absence I felt had hunted me constantly to visit my imaginary food guard. It was a real bulimia. Today I could almost be satisfied with the hand salami, which, tied to his string, is always clicking in the corner of my head. Rosetta Lyon's wrong shape. I allow each piece to soften a little on the tongue before chewing to extract well all the flavor. This delight is also a sacred object, a fetish whose history dates back almost forty years. I was still aged balinhas, but I already preferred cold cuts, and my maternal grandfather's nurse noticed that, with each of my visits to the sinister apartment of Raspail Boulevard, I ordered salami with a charming ceceio. Skilled in the art of flattering gluttony of children and old people, the diligent governess eventually killed two rabbits at once when she gave me salami and married my grandfather, who soon after his death. The joy of receiving a gift from those was proportional to the annoyance of that 18. surprise wedding called in the family. From my grandfather, I kept only a vague image, a silhouette lying in a semi-cu with the stern face of Victor Hugo's notes of five hundred old francs, in use at the time. I view inc'ngruo salame much better in the middle of my toys and my children's books. I'm afraid I'll never eat better again. 19. GUARDIAN ANGEL On a badge quilted to Sandrine's white apron, he says orthophonist, but must be a guardian angel. She created a communication code without which I would be isolated from the world. What a pity! If most of my friends have learned and accepted the system, here in the hospital it is practiced only by Sandrine and a psychologist. So most of the time, I only rely on a thin arsenal of misms, winks and meneios from the head to ask them to close the door, release some drain, lower the sound of the TV or lift the pillow. I'm not always successful. Within a few weeks, it allowed me to acquire a certain stoicism and to understand that the hospital humanity is divided into two types. There are most who won't go through the sandstep door without trying to capture my SOS, and the other, less conscientious, who overshadow themselves by pretending not to see my signs of despair. Like the lovely one who turned off the TV in the middle of the Bordeaux-Munich match, delighting me with a good night without appeal. In addition to the practical aspects, this incommunicado weighs a bit. No one can imagine the consolation I feel twice a day when Sandrine knocks on the door, puts a red squirrel in his face and banishes all evil spirits at once. The invisible woods that close me all the time seem less oprupised. Orthophony is an art that deserves to be known. No one imagines gymnastics, which language does mechanically produce all the sounds of the French language. Now I stumble about L, the poor editor-in-chief who no longer knows how to formulate the name of his own newspaper. On the happiest days, between the two cough accesses, I find breathing and energy to sound some phonemes. On my birthday, Sandrine managed to get me to pronounce the alphabet in an understandable way. They couldn't have made me a more beautiful gift. I heard twenty-six letters torn out of nowhere by a hoarse voice from the depths of time. This strenuous exercise gave me the impression that I was a caveman on the way to the opening of the speech. The phone sometimes stops working. I stand to hear the voice of some family members and thus catch in the air fragments of life like who hunts butterflies. My daughter Celeste talks about her pony trips. In five months, your ninth birthday will be celebrated. My father explains how hard it is to stay on his feet. You're going through your 933-year life. It is the two extreme links of the chain of love that surrounds me and protects me. I often wonder what impact these dialogues have on my interlocutors. They're transforming me. I would like so much not to answer these affectionate phone calls only with silence. Which for some people, by the way, is unbearable. Sweet Florence won't talk until I breathe noisily next to the phone that Sandrine keeps glued to my ear: Jean-Do, are you there? Asks the restless Florence on the other side of the line. I have to say every now and then I'm not too sure. 20. THE last time I saw my father, I shaved him. It's been a week of this accident. Because he wasn't feeling well, one night I slept in his little apartment in Paris, not far from Tieles, and in the morning, after making coffee with milk, I decided to rid him of his beard for a few days. This scene was recorded in my Buried on a red sofa, where he has a habit of dissecting newspapers, Dad bravely encounters a razor fire that attacks his stretched skin. I put a wide towel on his bare neck, spread a thick cloud of foam on his face, and try not to irritate his striped epidermis too much, here and there, fillets of broken capillaries. Fatigue has lowered his eyes into his orbit, his nose seems more reliable among the depleted features, but the man has lost nothing from his pride, with a bundle of white hair always crowning his great stature. In the room around us, memories of his life were accumulated in layers until they formed one of these old cacarnauns, whose secrets only they know. It's a mess of old magazines, records that no one listens to anymore, time trails and photos from all times tucked into the frame of a large mirror. There dad, dressed as a sailor, pushes the wheel at the end of the stick before the 14-year war, my eight-year-old daughter dressed as an Amazon, and I, in black and white, is beaten on a junior golf course. I was eleven years old, ears flapand air a good student half stupid: horror mainly because I'm already a gauzeded gazeteiro. I end my barbershop haircut on the author of my favorite lotion. Then we immediately tell ourselves, without talking to me, even once, in a letter stored on his desk in which his last wishes are sent. We haven't seen each other since. I do not leave this meanness in Burke, and he, at ninety-two years old, no longer has the legs that would allow him to descend the majestic stairs of his building. We're both locked in a syndrome, each in its own way: I'm in my carcass, it's on the third floor. Now it's me who needs to shave every morning, and I often think of it when the attendant faithfully grate his son's cheeks with an eight-day blade. I hope I was more careful with Figaro. Every now and then he calls me, and I hear his warm voice shaking a little on the phone, that some valet hand is sticking to my ear. It can't be easy to talk to a child making sure he's not going to answer. He also sent me a picture of miniature golf. At first I didn't understand why. And the mystery would have continued if someone had not had the idea to look at the verse of revelation. On my indoor screen began to avenge the forgotten images of the spring weekend, in which my parents and I went to take a new ether in a windy and not very cheerful village. With his texts working and regular, The Pope simply noted: Burke-sur-Mer, April 1963. 21. ANOTHER COINCIDENCE If they asked the readers of Alexandre Dumas, in which of their characters they would like to be reincarnated, the voices would go to or Edmond Dantes, and no one would have the idea to quote Noirtier de Wilfort, the sinister figure of The Count of Monte Cristo. Described by Dumas as a corpse of a living look, a person almost completely loves the grave, this deep disabled does not make a dream, but trembles. The powerless and blunt keeper of the most terrible mysteries, spends his life prostrate in a chair with wheels, and communicates only blinking: wink means yes; Two, no. In fact, Daddy Noirtier, as his granddaughter calls him with love, is the first case locked into the syndrome, and to this day only one to appear in literature. Ever since my spirit came out of the thick fog that this accident was plunging into, I've been thinking a lot about Dad Hirthier. I just reread the Count of Monte Cristo, and behold, I saw myself at the heart of the book, in the most deplorable situations. This reading was nothing accidental. I fueled the project, of course, iconothic, writing a modern transposition of the novel: revenge will remain the engine of intrigue, but the facts will unfold in our time, and Monte Cristo will be a woman. So I didn't have time to commit this crime lese majeste. As punishment I would rather be metamorphoses into Baron Danglars, in Franz d'Epinai, in Abbot Faria or to shorten the conversation, copy ten thousand times: one does not play with a masterpiece. The decision of the gods of literature and neuroscience was different. Sometimes I get the impression that Daddy Noirtier comes to patrol our corridors, with his long white hair and his old chair with wheels that counts for a century and needs a drop of oil. To divert the course of decrees of fate, now I mean the great saga, the key witness of which is a marathon runner, not a paralytic. You never know. It might work. 22. DREAM In general, I do not remember dreams. In contact with the afternoon, I lose the filament of the sinuses, and the images inexorably dissipate. So why are these December dreams imprinted in my memory with the precision of a laser beam? Maybe that's one of the rules of the coma. Since we don't return to reality, dreams don't wane in time to evaporate, but they crowd and eventually form a long ghostly ricochet as the chapters of the novel. Today, one of these episodes is code in my opinion. The snow of my dreams. Thirty centimetres of snow covers the car cemetery that I cross with my friend. Three days ago, Bernard and I tried to return to France, which is paralyzed by a general strike. At the Italian winter sports station where we ended up, Bernard found a railway extension that was to take place in Nice, but at the border the attacker interrupted our journey and forced us down amid the storm wearing shoes and clothes in the middle of the season. The scenery is gloomy. The overpass passes over the car cemetery, and it looks like these vehicles are dropped from the highway, fifty meters above, mounted there on each other. We have a meeting with an influential Italian businessman, who set up his headquarters on one of the pilasters of such a bridge, away from prying eyes. We have to knock on the yellow iron door, which has a warning: DANGER life, with relief circuits of electric shock. The door opens. The entrance resembles the stocks of a sewing factory: dresses in racks for clothes, stacks of trousers, boxes with shirts. To the ceiling. From the cockpit, I recognize c'rbero in military clothing, which greets us with a machine gun in hand. This is Radovan Karadzic, the Serbian leader. My friend can't breathe, Bernard tells him. Karadzic makes me a tracheotomy in the corner of the table, and then go underground on a luxurious glass staircase. Bright leather walls, deep sofas and veiled lighting give the office the air of a nightclub. Bernard argues with the owner of this place, a clone of Gianni Agnelli, the elegant owner of Fiat, while a flight attendant with a Lebanese accent sets me next to a small bar. Cups and bottles have been replaced with plastic tubes hanging from the ceiling, such as oxygen masks of planes, in distress. The bartender is waving at me so I can get one in my mouth. Obey. The amber liquid with the taste of ginger begins to drain, and I invade the feeling of heat that goes from tiptoe to the root of the hair. After a while, I would stop drinking and come off the bench a bit, but I keep swallowing long sorvo, unable to gesture at all. I cast hallucinatory glances at the bartender to get his attention. He answers me with a mysterious smile. Faces and voices are deformed around me. Bernard says something to me, but the sound coming out of his mouth is incomprehensible. Instead, I hear Bolero Ravel. I was completely drugged. 23. Eternity later, I notice the battle noise. A flight attendant with a Lebanese accent puts me on my back and carries me upstairs. We have to leave, the police are coming. It was night outside, and there was no more snow. The glacial wind is cutting my breath. On the viaduct they put a projector, a ray of light which scours the abandoned carcasses. Give me back, you're surrounded! A megaphone is screaming. We managed to escape, and for me it is the beginning of a long wander. In a dream I would like to run away, but as soon as I have a chance, an incredible stupor prevents me from taking at least one step. I'm petrified, mummified, glazed. If except for freedom, I can't open the door. But that's not the only pain. Hostage of a mysterious sect, I fear that my friends will fall in Trap. I try my best to prevent them, but the dream is perfectly in phase with reality. I can't say a word. 24. VOTE IN OFF I had mild awakenings. When I regained consciousness that late january morning, a man leaned over to me and sewed my right eyelid with a thread and needle, as if to patch a pair of socks. I was struck by irrational fear. What if in it, ophthalmology also sews me my left eye, my only connection to the outside world, the only ventilation of my prison, the visor of my forests? Luckily I wasn't immersed in the night. He carefully packed his little material into cotton metal boxes and, with a prosecutorial manner that required exemplary punishment for a repeat offender, sent: Six months. With my actual eye I have multiplied the signs of the investigator, but the little man, even spending his days peering into the disciple of other people, has not yet learned to read glances. It was a prototype of the doctor Ke-se-ferre, flashy, stern, arrogant, who urgently calls patients for consultation at eight, arrives at nine and leaves at nine and five, devoting every forty-five seconds of his precious time. Physically, he looked like a mint, a round head in a short, agitated body. Already untalked about common sick, he became literally running away with ghosts of my type, not having the saliva to spend giving us the slightest explanation. I found out why it got my eye within six months: the eyelid no longer played its role as a moving and protective awning, and my cornea was in danger of ulcers. For weeks, I've been pondering whether the hospital would inadvertently use such a deduling-type catalysis deaf distrust that the medical body would end up awakening in long-term patients. A scapegoat, let's say. If he leaves, as you say, what kind of peppercorn can I enjoy? To your eternal question, Do you see a double?, I would no longer be a lonely and innocent pleasure to hear me answer, in my intimate forum, yes, I see two, not one. As much as breathing, I feel the need to be touched, loved and admired. A friend's letter, a picture of Baltus on a postcard, the page of Saint-Simon give meaning to the passing clock. But to remain vigilant and not to sink into indifferent resignation, I hold a certain dose of rage, detention, not more or less, just as the pressure cooker has its own safety valve so as not to explode. Let's do it! Pressure cooker! This could be the title of a play that I could write one day based on my experience. I also thought about the name of the eyes and of course Scaffolding. Everyone already knows the plot and scenery. The hospital room where Mr. L., the father of the family in his prime, learns to live with locked-in syndrome, sequels a severe stroke. The play tells the adventures of Mr. L. in the medical universe and the evolution of his relationship with his wife, children, friends and partners, who are 25 years old. in an important advertising agency, of which he is one of the founders. Ambitious and somewhat cynical, not yet bitterly failed, Mr. L. learns what suffering is, observes the collapse of all the certainities that he has been shaded, and discovers that his relatives are strangers. This slow mutation can be seen out of the box thanks to an unconventional voice that reproduces Mr. L.'s inner monologue in all situations. All that's left to do is write a play. I already have the last scene. The scenery plunges into darkness, except for the halo of light that surrounds the bed in the middle of the stage. Night, everyone sleeps. Suddenly, Mr. L., inert, as the curtain rose, pulls out sheets and lids, jumps out of bed and walks on stage, under unreal lighting. Then everything gets dark, and you hear the last time the voice, the inner monologue of Mr. L.: Hell, it was a dream. 26. LUCKY DAY Today the day is barely dawn and bad luck is already enclosed in room 119. Half an hour ago, the alarm system, which serves to regulate my power, began to sound in the void. I know nothing stupider and more desperate than this squeauly-pee beep that blows my brains out. From lambuja, sweat removed the glue that closes my right eyelid, and sticky eyelashes painfully pin on the pupil. Finally, to crown everything, the tip of the urinary tube was released. I was completely flooded. Waiting for help, humming here with me the old choir of Henri Salvador: Viens donc, babe, tout the grave c'est p's (1) In fact, the nurse arrived. Machine, it turns on the TV. Propaganda. The Minitel server, 3617 Milliard, offers to answer the following question: Are you the type that gets rich? 'I. (T.N.) 27. TRAIL FROM SNAKE When, jokingly, someone asks me if I plan to make a pilgrimage to Lourdes, I reply that I have already done. It was in the late seventies. Josefin and I lived a relationship complex enough to try to take a tour together, one of those organized pericles that contain as many germs of discord as minutes a day. Who leaves in the morning, ignoring where he goes to sleep at night and not knowing which way one reaches this unknown place, of two: either too diplomat or infinitely unscrupulous. Josefin, like me, fell into the second category, and within a week his old convertible turned into a theatre of mobile and permanent marital drama. From Ax-les- Thermes, where I had just completed the stage of hiking, inc'ngruous brackets in existence devoted to everything but sport, to Chambre d'Amour, a small beach on the Basque coast where Uncle Josefina was a villa, we singa a turbulent and magnificent route through the Pyrenees, leaving behind us for a start-I-never- said-it. A significant motif of the size of desconchavo was a thick volume of six hundred or seven hundred pages, with a black and red cover, from which stood out a very flashy name. The snake's trail was considered the actions and gestures of Charles Sobraj, a kind of road guru who charmed and beat Western travelers from Bombay or Kathmandu. The story of this snake of Franco-Indian origin was true. Also, I would not be able to give any details, and it is even possible that my resume is inaccurate, but I remember even well it is the domain that Charles Sobraj carried over me as well. If after Andorra, I still agreed to raise my eyes to the book to admire some of the scenery, when we reached the peak of Midi I just refused to get out of the car to go for a walk to the observatory. It is true that that day a thick yellowish mist enveloped the mountain, reducing the visibility and interest of the tour. Despite this, Josefin left me seated there and went to tie the donkey two hours in the clouds. Was it to humiliate me that she made a point of passing through Lourdes? Since I've never been to this wonder capital of the world, I'm not a nuisance under anesthesia. Anyway, in my opinion, elevated by reading, Charles Sobraj took himself for Bernadette Soubirous, and the waters of Adura mingled with the Ganges. The next day, after we passed through the gorge, which integrates the French bike path, the ascent to which seemed to me tense even by car, we entered Lourdes under a sweltering heat. Josefin was driving, and I was on the bench next door. And the snake trail, thick and deformed, pompous in the back seat. From that morning I did not dare to touch him, as Josefin decided that my passion for such an exotic saga was a demonstration of disinterest in it. As for the pilgrimage, it was the peak of the season, and all over the city only read crowded. Even so, I made a real comb of fine operation stocks of 28. to only see people shrugging their shoulders with contempt or saying we are very sorry, according to the institution category. Sweat put my shirt on his back and - importantly - the spectre of a new fight was already hanging over our team when the doorman of a hotel in England, Spain, in the Balkans, I did not know where, reported the withdrawal with notary who announces to the heirs the unexpected death of his uncle in America. Yes, there was a room. I refrained from saying what a miracle!, because instinctively I felt that no one there was playing with these things. The elevator was huge, the size of a padiolas, and ten minutes later, taking a shower, I would have realized that our bathroom was equipped to get disabled. While Josefin, in turn, did some of the necessary ablution, I rushed, dressed only with a towel, over the sublime oasis of all thirsty: the bar. First, I emptied one sip of half a bottle of mineral water. Oh bottle, I'll feel forever that glass neck is yours on my dry lips. Then I made a glass of champagne for Josefin and a gin and tonic for me. When I was performing my role as a bartender, I was already furtively rehearsing the strategic resumption of Charles Sobrage's adventures, but instead of the planned sedative effect, champagne returned to full force to Josefin's tourist fiber. I will see Our Lady, he repeated in a leap, with the same fury of Catholic writer Francois Moriac in the famous photograph. And so we went to a holy place, under a heavy and menacing sky, climbing on the oncoming row of wheelchairs, operated by merciful ladies, who, as all this indicated, were not in their first quadriceps. If it rains, everyone in the basilica! Proclaimed a hospitable sister, who opened the procession with power, a hat in the wind and a rosary in her hand. I watched sick, deformed hands, closed faces, small bags of life, staring at myself. The look of one of them crossed with mine, and I sketched a smile, but he showed me his tongue as an answer, and I felt the blush bluntly up to my ears as surprised by guilt. Pink sneakers, pink jeans, pink T-shirt, Josefin advanced dazzled mid-dark mass: French priests who still dress up as priests seemed to have all arranged a meeting there. She kissed ecstasy as this chorus of cassocks chanted Soyez la Madone qu'on prie and genoux, the song of her childhood. Just the size of the place, an unattentive observer can believe that in the vicinity of the Parc des Princes on the night of the European Cup. On a large esplanade, before entering the cave, a queue of one kilometer was glued to the excruciating rhythm of marys hail. I have never seen such a line, except, perhaps, in Moscow, in front of Lenin's mausoleum. - No, I'm not going to get the whole line! It's very bad, Josefin retorted, it would be good for an unbelieving like you. None of it! It's even dangerous. Imagine a healthy guy and the nearest one in the middle of a phenomenon. A miracle happens, and he is paralyzed... Some leaders turned to me to see who had uttered such iconoborical phrases. Idiot, Josefin whispered. The storm changed the subject. Thousands of umbrellas in the spontaneous generation sprouted in the first drops, and the smell of hot dust floated into the atmosphere. We allow ourselves to be dragged to the underground basilica, where they pray for Mass from six to midnight, changing priests every two or three offices. I read in the manual that a concrete ship, more extensive than St. Peter of Rome, could house several Jumbo jets. He followed Josefin down the Ismlamia, where there were loose benches, under a neat one of the countless speakers who passed the ceremony with a bit of echo. Thank God in the heights.., heights.., tours... During the elevation, my neighbor, who was a visionary pilgrim, took peat binoculars from his backpack to closely monitor the operations. Other believers sometimes behaved like periscopes, such as those seen on July 14 during the parade. Josefin's father told me several times how he started making a living selling such a facility at the exit of the subway. Which didn't stop him from becoming a famous announcer. From there, he continued to use his street vendor talent to describe princely marriages, earthquakes and boxing bouts. Outside, the rain stopped. The air was cooler. Josefin uttered the word shopping. To cope with this possibility, I have already discovered a wide street where souvenir shops crowded adjacent, as in the eastern bazaar, with their showcases from the most extravagant collection of religious pantry. Josefin collected: bottles of old perfume, pictures of rural scenes with a cow alone or in a herd, dishes made from artificial food that sometimes makes menus in the windows of Tokyo restaurants and, more generally all you could find more kitsch in its many trips. It was a real passion at first sight. In the fourth store, the left sidewalk seemed to be waiting for Josefin amid a mysterious blessed medal, Swiss cuckoos and cheese dishes. It was a lovely plaster bust with a flashing halo like Christmas decorations. Look at her, ladies! said Josefin, the crane dancing. I give you as a gift, I said soon, without imagining the amount the seller was going to extort from me, claiming that it was an exclusive play. That night we celebrated such an acquisition in our hotel room, illuminating our pantomime with its intermittent and sacred light. There was a stretch of shadow on the ceiling. - You see, Josefin, I think when we come to Paris, we better split up. And you think I didn't understand it anymore! But I... I've already fallen asleep. When the situation did not please him, he had the gift of being able to plunge into sleep And protective. He took a license to exist for five minutes or a few hours. For a moment, I stood watching the wall above the headboard, in its in-and-out darkness. What the hell could lead someone to fill the whole room with an orange jute? 30. When Josefin continued to sleep, I dressed discreetly to devote myself to one of my favorite activities: night wandering. It was my personal way of dealing with bad winds: to go straight ahead, to exhaustion. On the boulevard Dutch teenagers noisily embossed beer cane. By making holes in garbage bags, they made waterproof for rain. Heavy railings prevented access to the cave, but through them you could see a flash of hundreds of candles that were simply consumed. Much later my wander took me back to the street souvenir shops. In the fourth window, the identical Maria has already taken the place of our owners. Then I went back to the hotel and from afar saw our room window flashing in the dark. I went up the stairs, making sure not to disturb the night watchman's dreams. The snake trail was on my pillow like a gem in his case. Look at it, I muttered: Charles Sobraj, I completely forgot it. I recognized Josefin's handwriting. Huge E took the entire 168th page. This was the beginning of a message that also covered several chapters of the book and made it completely promiscuous. I love you, stupid. Don't make your Josefin suffer. Luckily I've been in the past for that point. When I denigrated Our Lady, the day began to dawn. 31. CURTAIN collide in a chair that their mother pushes through the corridors of the hospital, I watch my children sneak. If I become a semi-zombie father, Theophilus and Celeste, on the other hand, very real: restless and scolding, I can't get enough of looking at them as they go, they just walk, beside me, camouflaging with a confident manner of malaise that bends their tiny shoulders. With paper towels, theophil napkins, no prara walk, fillet saliva that live out of my clenched lips. His gesture is secretive, both suit and fear, as if he were in front of an animal whose reaction is unpredictable. As we slow down, Celeste frames my head between her bare hands, closes her forehead with sonic kisses and repeats: This is my dad, it's my dad, as if it were a charm. It's Father's Day. Before such an accident we did not feel the need to include this forced meeting in our affective calendar, but this time we spent all this symbolic day together, I am sure to demonstrate that the sketch, the shadow, the piece of the father, is still the father. I am torn between the joy of watching them live, move, laugh or cry a few hours and fear that the spectacle of all this suffering, starting with mine, would not be the perfect distraction for a ten-year-old boy and his eight-year-old younger sister, even if we made the wise decision not to sweeten the pills as a family. Let's go to the Beach Club. This is what I call a piece of dune exposed by the sun and wind, where the administration has been kind enough to place tables, chairs and umbrellas, and even soaked some golden buds that grow in the sand, among native grass. In this kind of seaside castle, between the hospital and real life, you can dream that the fairy godmother will turn all strollers into sailing carts (1). Will we play the gallows? You're an executioner, theophil says, and I'd like to say that it's enough to be paralyzed if my communication system doesn't stop the replica in the can. A subtle joke dulls and a mountain when we lose a few minutes to hit it. When it arrives, we don't even quite understand what seemed so funny before the laborious saying, letter by letter. The rule, then, is to avoid these untimely sharpness. At the same time, the sparks of conversation are lost, those confident words that go back and forth like a ball in a Basque peloton game; and I include this lack of forced humor amid the inconveniences of my state. Anyway, let's go gallows, the national sport of seventh grade. I find one word, another, and I crash into the third. In fact, I'm no longer in my head for the game. A wave of sadness invaded me. Theophile, my son, there, sits, with his face fifty centimeters from mine, and I, the father, do not have 'I.' (T.N. 32. Plus the simple right to pass your hand on these hairs, just pinch that velvety cangote, narrow to leave a breath to that soft, cool body. How do you describe it? Is it monstrous, evil, disgusting or horrible? Suddenly, I don't hold it anymore. Tears flow, and a hoarse spasm that overwhelms Theophilus slips away from my throat. Don't be afraid, baby, I like you. Continuing to hang him, he finishes the match. Two letters, and he won, and I lost. In the notepad corner he simply drew the gallows, rope and begged. When Celeste makes convertibles on the dune. I don't know if in what I'm going to say, I should see the phenomenon of compensation, but since the rise of the eyelids began to look like weightlifting to me, for me it has become a real acrobat. He walks from foot to foot, banana factory, makes an upturned bridge and chains dangerous twepers and jumps with the flexibility of the cat. To the long list of professions that are arita for the future, he even added balance, after a teacher, a top model and a florist. Conquering the audience of the beach club with their pyroudas, our project show-woman begins the sung part of the show, to the horror of Theophilus, who above all hates to appear. Closed and shy as much as the exhibitionist sister, he hated me heartily the day I asked and got permission to call in his school's opening call. No one can predict whether Theophilus will live happily, but he will undoubtedly live in a shelter. I wonder how Celeste was able to assemble this repertoire of songs of the sixties. Johnny Hallyday, Sylvie Vartan, Sheila, Clo-Clos, Francoise Hardy, no star from this golden age does not meet the requests. Aside from the great successes that everyone knows is useless garbage like the train of Richard Antony, who after thirty years has not really stopped honking in our ears, Celeste sings forgotten successes that leave as a trace of dust of memories. Since the time I put in no time tiring that forty-five rotations of Claude Francois in Teppaz my twelve years I think I have never heard of the Poor Rich Girl. However, as soon as Celeste trauteia (well not in the spirit, by the way) the first steps of this song, all the notes, all the stanzas, all the details of the vocal and orchestral accompaniment, to the noise of the hangover, which lasts the time of introduction, come back to me with incredible accuracy. I'm looking at the album cover, a picture of the singer, his striped shirt with a buttoned collar, which seemed like an inaccessible dream to me, because my mother thought it was vulgar. I was considering Ed until Thursday afternoon when I bought a drive from my father's cousin, a nice big guy who had a tiny shop in the basement of North Station and lived with a bagana stuck in the corner of his mouth. If one is on this beach, poor rich girl... Time passed, and people began to disappear. My mother was the first to die, then Clo-Clo died from an electric shock, and a gentle cousin, whose business was a little dangerous, spied on the shins, leaving a inconsolable tribe of children and animals. My closet is full of buttoned-up shirt collars, and I think the point of the record shop went to 33. Chocolate seller. When the train to Burke leaves North Station, one day I can ask someone to check in by passing through it. Okay, Celeste! Sylvie exclaimed. Mom, I can't take it anymore, growls Theophilus. It's five o'clock. The chime, whose usual sound seems so friendly to me, acquires the tone of the double end when it announces the moment of separation. The wind picks up some sand. The sea has taken off so far that bathers are nothing more than tiny spots on the horizon. Before they're on the road, the kids will look their feet on the beach, and we'll be alone, Sylvie and I, silent, her squeezing my inert fingers. Behind sunglasses that reflect a clear sky, she meekly cries over our explosions of life. We're meeting again in my room for the last effusion. Okay, mate? Theophilus asks. The plaque has a knot in the throat, sunburns in the hands and sbodegadococx being so much in the chair, but had a wonderful day. And you guys, what traces will you keep from these excursions through my endless loneliness? Left. The machine is probably already running through Paris. I dive into the contemplation of a drawing brought by Celeste, which was soon hung on the wall. A species of two-headed fish, with eyes fringed by blue eyelashes and multi-colored scales. However, the most interesting thing in this picture is not these details, but its general form, which alarmingly reproduces the mathematical symbol of infinity. The sun comes and floods the room. This is the time when your twinkling rays hit my bed. In a excited farewell, I forgot to signal them to close the curtain. There's got to be a nurse until the end of the world. 34. PARIS I'm leaving. Slowly but decisively. Just as a sailor sees the coast disappear from where he sailed to the crossing, I feel that my past is disappearing. My old life still falls on me, but it increasingly comes down to the ashes of memories. Since I repaired the house aboard these forests, I made two lightning trips to Paris, always through the hospital Wednesday, to hear the views of medicine. The first time I succumbed to emotions, when by chance an ambulance drove in front of a state-of-the-art building, where I once performed the reprehensible activities of the editor-in-chief of a famous women's weekly. First I recognized the neighboring building, the antiques of the sixties, the destruction of which was announced on the poster, and then our facade, the only mirror where the clouds and planes were reflected. At the front were some of these famous figures with whom we crossed every day for ten years without being able to give them a name. I almost untied my head to see if any more famous faces would pass by, behind a woman in a birote and a gray apron. Fate didn't want to. Who knows if someone from the office on the fifth floor didn't see my stroller pass? I shed a few tears in front of the bar where I sometimes eat the dish of the day. I can cry unnoticed. Others think my eye is watering. The second time I went to Paris, four months later, I was almost indifferent. The street was already dressed in July, but for me we continued in the winter and it was a movie setting that projected me behind the windows of the ambulance. In the cinema it is given the name of transparency: the hero's car is moving along the street, which is paraded on the wall of the studio. part of Hitchcock's poetry is the use of this technique, at a time when it was still imperfect. My transition from Paris itself left me neutral. And yet everything was there. Housewives in floral dresses and teenagers on roller skates. Snoring bus engines. The inaccuracies of the bikers. Place de l'Opa way out of the picture Dufy. Trees take assault facades and cotton in the blue of the sky. I was somewhere else. 35. LEGUME June 8 six months ago my new life began. His letters pile up in the closet, his drawings on the walls, and without being able to answer at all, I had the idea to resort to these samizdats to tell my days, my progress and my hopes. At first I wanted to believe that nothing had happened. In a state of semi-consciousness, which follows the coma, I saw myself in a Parisian vortex, accompanied only by a pair of crutches. These were the first words of the first correspondence, which in late spring I decided to send from Burke to my friends and acquaintances. Addressed to some sixty recipients, this missive had some resonance and few noticed the harm of other rumors. The city, a monster of a hundred mouths and a thousand ears, who knows nothing but everything says, decided to play along. In Cafe Flore, one of these strongholds of Parisian snobbish, from where gossip is thrown as if they were the carrier of pigeons, close friends heard from some unknown cacklings the following dialogue, uttered with a rumble of vulture that detects a gazelle gutted. Did you know that BA has become a vegetable? said one. Of course I'm on the inside. Vegetable, this, vegetable. The word vegetable should seem tasty to the palate of these crows, as it was repeated several times between two bits of Welsh rarebit. As for the tone, I could understand that only an idiot would not know that now I have stripped more of the vegetable trade than the company of men. We lived in peacetime. Fake news media were not shot. If I wanted to prove that my intellectual potential still exceeded the potential of the salon, I had to rely on myself. This is how the collective correspondence was born, which I continue month after month, and it allows me to always be in touch with people that I like. My sin of pride has paid off. Apart from some of the irreplaceables who maintain stubborn silence, everyone understood that it was possible to meet me in my forests, although sometimes it leads me to the ends of uncharted lands. I get great letters. They are open, turned and exposed before my eyes in accordance with the ritual that time has fixed and which gives the coming of fasting the character of a quiet and sacred ceremony. I read in person letters with great zeal. Some of them are even very serious. They talk about the meaning of life, about the superiority of the soul, about the mystery of every existence, and, curiously, the phenomenon of inversion of expectations, these are the people with whom I have maintained the most useless relationship, who deal with these important issues with more familiarity. Their frivolity concealed deep interests. Was I blind and deaf or was the light of shame necessary to illuminate a person's true face? Other letters take into account small facts in their simplicity, distinguishing between the flight of time. These are roses collected at dusk, laziness of a rainy Sunday, a child who cries before going to bed. Captured alive, these patterns of life, these dregs of happiness move me more than anything else. Whether they have three lines or eight pages, they come from the distant Levant or Levalloi-Perret, I keep all these letters as a treasure. One day I would like to insert them all, one by one, to make one kilometer ribbon that will float in the wind like auriflama to the glory of friendship. It's going to scare the vultures off. 37. LEAD Heat RIDE. I'd like to leave anyway. It's been weeks, maybe months, that I haven't left the hospital boundary for a ritual ride along the seaside esplanade. The last time it was in winter. An icy vortex lifted clouds of sand, and before the wind some rare zanzadores went oblique, encased in thick coats. Today I want to see Burke in summer clothes, on the beach, which I met deserted and said to be a crowded, relaxed July crowd. To go outside, leaving the Sorrell Pavilion, you need to cross three parking lots, rough and irregular coating which gives the buttocks hard evidence. I forgot twelve of that cuts on a route that has sewer slabs, jacks and cars parked on the sidewalk. Here's the sea. Parasols, windsurfing boards and a bathing barrier complete the postcard. It is a sea of rest, docile and well behaved, nothing to do with the endless space of waxing reflection that is provided from the terraces of the hospital. However, these are the same concave and ridges, the same misty horizon. We walked along the terrace, back and came cups of ice cream and yams. I think licking a ball of vanilla ice cream out of young, tanned skin. No one pays attention to me. In Burke, a wheelchair is as banal as a Ferrari in Monte Carlo, and everywhere it intersects with the poor devils of my kind, clumsy and squealing. This time Claude and Bryce are accompanying me. The first one I have known for two weeks, the second for twenty-five years, and it is strange to hear my old accomplice tell me a young woman who comes every day to accept the saying of this book. My temperament wick my passion for books, my immoderate taste for a good table, my red convertible, all considered. You look like a storyteller exuding legends about a flooded world. I didn't see him like that, says Claude. My universe is now divided between those who knew me before and others. What kind of figure do you think I was? In my room I don't even have a picture to show you. We stay at the top of a huge staircase that leads to the beach bar and the beautiful alignment of pastel bath cabins. The staircase reminds me of the front entrance to the Port d'Antey subway, where, boy, I passed when I returned from the pool, with the eyes blurred with chlorine. The molitor was destroyed a few years ago. As for the stairs, for me they just bag now. Do you want to come back? Bryce asks. I protest vigorously, shaking my head in every way. There's no way I'm going to turn around before I get to the real end of this expedition. We quickly passed from the old-fashioned carousel which reejo torments my ears. We crossed paths with Fangio, the curiosity of the hospital where he is known by this nickname. Rigid as Justice, Fangio 38. Can't sit down. Convicted to stand or lie down, he moves face down on a cart that he himself rides at an amazing speed. But who really is negr'o with a sporty size that opens its wings proclaiming: Attention, here comes Fangio!? He's slipping away from me. Finally, we reached the extreme point of our pericles, right at the tip of the terrace. If I wanted to go all the way, it was not to discover any unheard of panorama, but to eat me with the outflows that come from a modest tent on the way out of the beach. They park my chair outdoors and I feel my narins vibrate with pleasure as they tend to vulgar, sickening and absolutely unbearable smell to ordinary mortals. Wow! Says the voice behind me is that the smell of burnt fat. As far as I'm like, I can't get enough of the smell of fries. 39. Two to one That's all. I recognized the name of the horse. His name was Mitra Grandchamp. Vincent must be crossing Abbeville. For those who came from Paris by car, that's where the journey begins to look long. The deserted and super-fast highway runs along two manual roads, where a smooth line of cars and trucks is formed. During this story, more than a decade ago, Vincent, myself and a few others had the unprecedented luck to manage the missing morning. An industrialist in love with the press, the owner has made the ultimate courage to entrust his son to the youngest team in Paris, at a time when a dark political and banking conspiracy is already underway to strip him of the title he created five or six years ago. Indefatigable, he played his last card with us. Vincent now passes through intersections where you need to leave the testimony of Rouen and Krotoy on the left and walk the narrow path that leads to Burke, passing through a small metropolitan area. These rotating scans confuse those who are not used to it. Vincent, however, does not lose his way because he came to visit me several times. To the sense of guidance, it adds, quite, that of fidelity. So we were in action the whole time. In the morning, late at night, on weekends and sometimes at dawn, we were five runs with unconscious tramp joy for a dozen. Vincent had ten great ideas a week: three excellent, five good and two disastrous. My role was in a way to get him to do screening, contrary to his impatient temperament, which I would see achieved at the same time with everything that went through his head. From here I hear him teasing at the wheel and conjures up Viaes e Obras P'blicas. In two years the track will reach Burke, but so far it is only a construction site, which passes at low speed, hooking the trailers. In fact, we wouldn't let go. We lived, ate, drank, slept, loved, heard only about the newspaper and the newspaper. Who had the idea to go 40. that same day at the meadow? It was a beautiful winter Sunday, blue, cold and dry, and In Vincennes there were races. None of us were peatlands, but peatland had us in sufficient consideration to invite us to his table in the racetrack restaurant and reveal a magic formula that opens the doors of the mysterious world of racing: stable utensils. According to him, it was the first course, a guaranteed product, and as Mitra-Grandsham left with favoritism twenty after another, the thing promised an interesting little prize, much more than the income of his father' father. But Vincent arrives at Burke's entrance and, like everyone else, is wondering for a moment, with pain, what the hell have come here to do. It was a fun lunch in the big dining room that replenishes the entire racetrack and gets, in endomingados groups, gangsters, pimps, parolees and other good boys who gravitate in the peat universe. Satisfied and fed up, we eagerly sucked long cigars as we waited for the fourth race in this warm atmosphere where the criminal records grow like a greenhouse plant. When he comes across the sea, Vincent turns and climbs onto the large esplanade, not acknowledging behind the crowd of verists, deserts and icy landscapes of the sleeping Burke. In Vincennes we waited so long that the race ended with what started without us. The betting counter was closed on the nose before I had time to take out of my pocket a wad of notes that people on he trusted me. Despite the recommendations of discretion, the name Mitra-Grandsham traveled through all sectors, and, from an unknown outsider, the rumor turned him into a legendary animal, which everyone wanted to bet on. All that's left is to watch the race and hope that... At the entrance to the last curve of Mitra Grandchamp began to flare up. On the way out he was already five bodies ahead and we saw him cross the finish line like a dream, leaving the nearest competitor almost forty meters behind. A real plane. In the paper, it's got to be an exaltation right in front of the TV. Vincent's car goes through the hospital parking lot. The sun is very strong. That's where visitors should have their chests to cross, with a knot in their throats, the last meters that separate me from the world: glass doors that open automatically, elevator number 7 and a scary little corridor leading to room 119. Through the doors adnaised, only deposits and entredos that fate relegated to the end of life are visible. In the face of this show some are losing their breath and need to first lose a bit to get to my 41. room with a firm voice and less watery eyes. When they're in a hurry, they finally look like apnea divers. I really know someone who lost his strength there, before mine soon, and chilled his career in Paris. Vincent knocks and comes very quietly. When I look at others, I'm so used to it, I barely notice the slight flashes of fear that run through it. Or, anyway, they don't cause me any more problems. With my features atrophied by paralysis I try to compose what I would like to be a welcoming smile. To this Esgar Vincent responds with a kiss on the forehead. It doesn't change. With this crown of red hair, these frowns, chunky body dancing on one leg and the other, has all the jeit'o of the Gallian Unionist who came to see a fellow victim of an explosion in the mine. With a guard half low, Vincent advances like a parrudo-fragile boxer category. On the day of Mitra-Grandsham's failed victory, he vented: Donkeys. We're stupid. The people in the paper are going to knock us out. It was his favorite expression. To be honest, I forgot Mitra Grandchamp. The memory of this story has just come to my memory, leaving a doubly painful mark. Mitra-Grandchamps are women we didn't know how to love, chances we didn't want to enjoy, moments of happiness that we missed. Today it seems to me that my whole existence was the whole theme of these little fiascos. A race whose result we know but whose race we are unable to pocket. By the way, we get out of the way that repocketing all bets. DUCK HUNTING In addition to the many inconveniences inherent in being locked into the syndrome, I suffer from severe deregulation of my butt carriers. On the right side my listener is completely broken, and on the left my Eustace horn amplifies and deforms sounds more than two and a half meters away. When the plane flew over the beach pulling the advertising banner of the amusement park area, I could believe that I had been grafted a coffee grinder into the eardrum. But it's a fleeting stun. Much more urticante is the constant layout that comes from the corridor when, despite my efforts to raise awareness around the world about the problem of my abanos, someone stops closing the door. It's heel shoes hitting linoleum, it's stand bumping, it's conversations coming together, it's people questioning each other with a voice bag agent on the day of the settlement, it's radio that no one listens to, and, covering it all, electric wax is a sonic expectation of hell. There are also terrible patients. I know one whose only pleasure is always listening to the same tape. I had a very juven'issimo neighbor to whom they gave a gift of stuffed ducks with a sophisticated detection system. It will eit sharp, lanzing a little song whenever someone has broken into a room, i.e. eighty times a day. Fortunately, the little patient came home before I started implementing my plan to destroy the duck. However, I still carry it up my sleeve because we never know what cataclysms desoever families can provoke. The prize of the most extravagant neighbor, however, lies with the patient, whose feelings have been transferred by coma. She bit the nurses, grabbed the attendants for the manly part of their anatomy and couldn't ask for a glass of water without screaming fire!. At first these false alarms caused real military maneuvers, but then surrendered, the staff eventually allowed her to scream at ease at any time of the day or night. These sessions give the neurology department of the house orat up exciting, and when they told our friend to scream in other groups of her help, they kill me!, until I was upset. Away from this terrible, unconquered silence, I hear butterflies flying in my head. It requires a lot of attention and even some memories, because its lot is almost invisible. Stronger breathing is enough to shake them. It's amazing, by the way. My hearing is no better, but I hear them more and more. In fact, butterflies should listen to me. 43. Sunday through the window, I see the facades of ohra brick lighting under the first rays of the sun. The stone acquires a pink hue of Greek grammar Rat, a reminder of school time. I wasn't a brilliant lyenterist, not even but I like this warm and deep hue that still opens up the universe of exploration where I live with the dog Alcibiades and with the heroes of the thermopylay. Color merchants give it the name ancient rose. Nothing to do with the pink puppet in the hospital corridors. Much less with the evil that covers the skirting boards and bandages from my room. Which is more like a bad perfume package. It's Sunday. A terrifying Sunday in which, unless a single visitor is accidentally announced, no event will come to break the brazen sequence of hours. No physiotherapist, no orthophonist, no psychologist. Crossing the desert, having as its only oasis an even more concise wash than usual. These days, the delayed effect of Saturday night libations, coupled with longing for family picnics, dish shooting matches or crayfish fishing, is impossible because of debt, immerses service classes in mechanical stupor, and washing session has more than hydrotherapy. A triple dose of the best lotion is not enough to mask reality: it stinks. It's Sunday. If so, when you ask them to turn on the TV, you can't miss the target. It's a highly strategic topic. Yes, because it can take three or four hours before the return of a good soul, able to change channels, and sometimes it is better to abandon an interesting program, when it follows a tearful novel, tasteless game and a round table full of screams. Applause, not even that they break their ears. I prefer to make documentaries about art, history or animals. I look at them without hearing comments like those who contemplate the fire of the fireplace. It's Sunday. The bell is bad chimes hours. On the wall, a small calendar of state aid, whose leaves are ripped off day by day, already indicates that it is August. To what paradox is the time, still here, running there unbridled? In my shrivelled universe, the clock is swollen, and the months pass like lightning. I can't agree on Aug. Friends, women, children dispersed in the festive wind. In thought, I sneak into the stalls where they are buttoned up for the summer and it's bad luck for me if it spin tears my heart a little bit. In Brittany, a wave of children arrives by bike from the market. All faces are lit with smiles. Some of them have long reached the age of great care, but in this order of the path of rhododendrons everyone can once again find the lost innocence. This afternoon they will be going around the island by boat. The little engine will have to fight the currents. Someone will lie in front of the boat, close their eyes and 44. Let the hand drag into the taste of cold water. In the south, it is necessary to be hospitalized in the hollow of houses tormented by the sun. Teh Fill with watercolors. A broken-footed kitten looking to shrug the priest's garden and, further, in Camarga, a cloud of rudders crosses the bathed from which the smell of anise emanates. Everywhere accelerates preparation for a large family gathering, which in advance provokes yawning despondency in all mothers, but this for me suggests a fantastic and forgotten rite: lunch. It's Sunday. I look at the volumes that accumulate on the windowsill and form a small library completely useless, because today no one will come to read to me. Seneca, zola, Chatobrian, Valery Larbo are within a metre of the hotel, cruelly inaccessible. I've got a black fly landing on my nose. I squirm my face to put her down. But she gave it back. The matches of Roman wrestling, which had already been seen at the Olympic Games, were not so violent. It's Sunday. 45. GIRLS HONG KONG Loved to travel. Fortunately, over the years I've managed to save enough images, effects and sensations to be able to get out of here on days when a slate of sky colors negates any prospect of walking. It's a strange journey. The rancid smell of a New York bar. The spirits of the market suffering Rangoon. Pieces of the world. A white, glassy night of St. Petersburg or the incredible glow of the sun stream in the Nevada desert. This week is a little different. Every morning, at dawn, I fly to Hong Kong, where a seminar of international editions of my newspaper takes place. I keep telling my newspaper, although this formulation has already become offensive, as if the possessive constituted one of those weak threads that connect me to the world that moves. In Hong Kong I have some difficulty finding my way because, unlike many other cities, this is one I have never visited. Whenever I offered myself the opportunity to leave, a malicious death kept me away from that fate. When I was not sick on the eve of departure, I lost my passport or history called me to other heavens. Chance, at the end, closed its doors to me. Once I gave way to the Ian-Paul K., who for several years did not spend in the Beirut dungeon, the recitative classification of the faces of Bordeaux, so as not to go mad. His eyes smiled behind round glasses as he brought me a wireless phone, which at the time was the height of modernity. I loved The Jan Paul, but I never considered a Hezbollah hostage again, I'm sure I was ashamed to have chosen for me, at the time, an additional role in the universe of feathers and sequins. Now I'm a prisoner, and he's a free man. And since I don't know all of Medoc's locks, I had to look for another little guy to fill the most empty clock. I count the country where my newspaper is edited. There are already twenty-eight in this UN By the way, where are you, my comrade son, the tireless ambassadors of our French touch? All day, in the hotel living room, you were on a Saturday in Chinese, English, Thai, Portuguese and Czech, trying to answer the most metaphysics questions: who is this Elle woman? Now I think they are scattered all over Hong Kong, through the streets crammed with neon, where pocket computers and soup tigelinhas are sold, following in the footsteps of our CEO and his perpetual bow tie, the one who rides all in a forced march. Half Spirou (1), half Bonaparte, only stops in front of the tallest skyscrapers, measuring them from top to bottom with air so presumptuous that anyone will say they will swallow them. Where are we doing it, General? Let's jump aboard a seaplane that leads to (I am) this kind of scarlet livery. (N.doT.) 46. Macau go burn a few dollars in hell, or how about climbing up the Felix Bar Peninsula Hotel, which was decorated by French designer Philippe S.? The attack of narcissism forces me to choose a second alternative. I, who don't like to be photographed, have a portrait in this luxurious air pub, reproduced in the back chair among dozens of other Parisian figures whose photographs were taken by Philip S. Apparently, this operation was carried out a few weeks before fate turned me into a scarecrow sparrow. I don't know if my chair is more or less successful than the others, but please don't let anyone tell the bartender the truth. These people are very superstitious, and then none of these stunning little Chini in miniskirts will sit on me. 47. MESSAGE If this corner of the hospital has the false Anglo-Saxon air of the college, cafeteria goers do not leave the Circle of Missing Poets. Girls have a hard look, boys have tattoos and sometimes rings on their fingers. They gather in their chairs to talk about fights and motorcycle, lighting a cigarette in another. Everyone seems to carry a cross on their already curved shoulders, dragging a pitiful fate in which passage through Burke is nothing more than a periparacia between the childhood of a beaten dog and the future of an excluded professional. When I walk around this smoky lair, there is sacrilege silence, but I cannot read in their eyes neither pity nor compassion. Through an open window you hear the heartbeat of the brass heart of the hospital, a bell that causes the sky to vibrate four times an hour. On the table, crammed with empty cups, is a small typewriter, with a sheet of pink paper inserted from the end-to-end crossbar. Although at this point the page is a virgin, I am sure that a day or another will post in my I'm waiting. 48. At THE GRGWIN MUSEUM Tonight I visited the Grevin Museum in my sleep. It's been pretty changed. There was still an entrance in the style of belle, warped mirrors and a fantastic closet, but the galleries of the current characters were eliminated. In the first room, I didn't immediately recognize the statues on display. As the person in charge of the wardrobe put them in a walking suit, I had to examine them one by one and mentally dress them in a white apron before I realize that these guys in t-shirt, those girls in miniskirts, that petrified housewife with her supermarket basket, that boy in a biker helmet were, in fact, nurses and maintenance staff of the two sexes who succeed in my morning. All were there, fixed in wax, gentle, cruel, sensitive, indifferent, active, lazy, those in whose hands I am no more than one sick. At first, some people scared me. I saw them, but prisoners of my prison, accomplices of a heinous conspiracy. Then I hated others when they twisted my hand, when they put me in a wheelchair, they forgot me all night in front of the TV, they left me in a painful position, despite my complaints. For a few minutes or a few hours, I'd kill them. Then, when time eventually swallows even the coldest grievances, they become familiar beings who well or barely accomplish a delicate mission: carry our cross a little when it weighs too much on our shoulders. I decorated them with nicknames that only I knew, so that I could punctuate them with my tonitruante inner voice when they entered my room: Hello, blue eyes! Hail, the great Duduche (1)?! Obviously, they don't know anything about it. The guy who dances around my bed and takes on rocker poses ask: How are you? This is David Bowie. Fessor makes me laugh with my head like a gray baby and a serious air that affects always unload the same sentence: So far nothing happens. Rambo and terminator, as you can see, are not exactly models of tenderness. I prefer Miss Thermometer, whose devotion would be exemplary if she did not systematically forget this object in the folds of my armpit. Wax sculptor Grevina unevenly imprinted the gloomy and faces of these northern people, who for generations were inhabited between the winds of cat d'Opale and the greasy lands of Picardy, who, once they alone, did not fail to speak their language. Some of them look a little like real. He will take the talent of one of those miniatures of the Middle Ages, whose brushes gave life as charm, in the crowd on the streets of Flanders. Our Artist ( This is the view невинных машину-ответ. (N.doT.) (N.doT.) o escafandro ea borboleta livro download pdf. o escafandro ea borboleta livro pdf. o escafandro ea borboleta livro sinopse

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