When I tend to look like the best or perhaps more immediate option to suggest readings, I provide details of what I have finished reading in recent days, stories, novels, poetry, blogs. Everything usually like, but when he has come to me seems to achieve a total agreement of my suggestions draw on my card up his sleeve, the novel that caught me many years ago and since then it became a common place for my eyes.
Hell, I say, with ease "satanic" crossed out to me. Yes, Henry Barbusse's Hell, the best novel you've been to portray the life, choking, sensitivity and ease of a voyeur. For while we live through observing others' lives (and especially when we lost means nothing whiteness without tearing) the minutes advance more slowly, our accelerated heartbeat and suddenly we become addicted. Addicted to the observation, to live through others, through their actions, to rejoice to dementia in morbid delight to feel that we are those other, unknown, and we ignore that deep little we care about your existence, but its action immediately to entertain.
I, continued and so far I give up my status as voyeur. I see, I guess, I translate the immediate reality of my fantasy back. Couples, lonely women walking a trail, chasing after something similar, before touching ignorance of all (or nearly all), offering secrets to two (the sender and the voyeur). Barbusse
taught me that "violates his solitude with my eyes, but she does not know, and it is not violated." And that "Others are killed with a gun or poison, I killed me with the minutes and hours."
I am not alone. I am part of a legion. Greetings brothers wherever they are.
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