Halle Berry Haircut Catwoman

against

in contrast to all my friends who migrate in cold places like England, Holland and Germany, Nature, wisely, is:

Penguins coast soteropolitana .. .

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Coelho ... roasted with olives

is the third (almost fourth) I read about him. "Eleven minutes".

Preceded by "Veronika Decides to die, "" The Alchemist "and" Manual of the warriors of the Light "(which I read in bits and pieces because they already can not stand aphorisms and maxims, so messianic in versions later, just can not for).

not I know because I have four beds. usually happens to me that if I like a book, I read everything possible in the bibliography of the author. If I do not like a book, however, I have no shame to close it in half and remove the names of ' author from the list of possible readings (not from memory, the concept is the same as the phone: do not delete the contacts of the worst number in order not to respond, if necessary).

by Paulo Coelho, Brazilian writer praised, there is was not a text that I liked.

I can not explain why he has so many awards, but I suspend the proceedings because I always read in translation (which can be extremely harmful, if wrongdoing). From

translations reflected a superficial intellectualism to reality, which translates into an endless series of cliches and phrases aseptic absolutely not related to the climate / environment of the story.

books I normally do-gooders, smelensi more than ten put together my posts, highly "constructed".

There are no smells, the colors are no shades, all roads are well paved.

And there's that sense of superiority, atmosphere of a poet-prophet, wisdom, granted that it is extremely annoying.

The first read it because the protagonist had my own name, and then the book I was given. A story that looked interesting, which was destroyed on its way from the redundancy of language and communication of thought, and ended without mercy by a final trivial, obvious and diabetic.

The second - "The Alchemist" - I read it because my husband asked me to read it. For him it was a very important text and had given it to me. I hope that in Portuguese is more polished in the Italian translation because I found some syntax errors even really annoying.

The "Manual" I gave it to a friend felt very warrior of light. It has a nice edition, and all blue baby. Sin is the Kingdom of Common Place and Wisdom by two soldiers.

of "Eleven Minutes" (gift from my brother who has no idea what they are good and bad literature, but I wanted to please: "Like my sister, my sister likes to read + + if you ask Brazil a book by a Brazilian author Coelho = anyone tells me is the perfect gift! ") told me that was different from the others. The author himself believes differently, in the preface to the book.

Now: I do regret the way in which the self and the vainglory of a writer who introduced one of his books through the narration of a meeting with one of his "fans", but perhaps digress. Anyway, I already did. And since I already did add that, in the book, Coelho is to tell the protagonist that one of its fundamental books was "The Alchemist"! Not explicitly, of course, but those who have read the book recognize him. Well, since it is the true story may well be that "The Alchemist" has really been a basic text for a Brazilian studies from just above the inside. But the taste was still unwritten rules rather clear on this.

The cover I had alarmed (Bompiani in the A5 hardback in glossy and removable top: Hell editorial aesthetics) but the number of input of "revolution Coelhana" led me to avventurarmici.

And I wondered what on earth we have found different.

The narrative is always there: tank, without peaks and without changes, the linguistic register constant and unchanging: far away from the road, from local, country. Suffering and joy only as described in a picture story without pictures. The pearls of wisdom scattered abundantly as grainy benevolently by a wire jewelry suddenly broken.

have defined a novel raw because it's about prostitution and sadomasochism. Or maybe because it's about human relationships and difficult patients, and raw buckets as there are in the real world. But it is not cruel because it speaks so far, without emotion, without a heartbeat, without even the contrary, without the coldness of who becomes cold and asocial to the bitter experience, without the cynicism of survival.

is a sleek way of writing that relies on the raw object and its colors, its sounds.

Mindful of this, my opinion is not very satisfactory, very unbalanced and absolutely summary I would say that for me, "Unique minutes" is a bad book. Yet another bad book.

Maybe one day I will read something in Portuguese to make sure there is a particular misfortune Coelho in the choice of translators.

Basically I like Coelho *, I love it: baked, with olives.

Coelho * Rabbit in Portuguese means

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Travel & Returns

is a certain thrill that comes over me at the thought.

or see it portrayed in photos and video.

Salvador Queen, the royal and magnanimous gesture to welcome you at the airport with his robe and precious ancient bamboo fronds.

Salvador ... She decides that if be known or not. Personality and a strong stomach does not allow intruders. If it gives you is the drug of the spirit, strong in its magic, in his heart of drums, in its capricious gods, powerful Chameleon in its beauty that makes Lady and Slave, haughty and friendly, smiling and vindictive.

Once again explore my spirit by placing the backpack pending departure. Oh

Salvador three years ago I had no hurry to leave ... abandoned between the sheets of love and sweat, tears and fear and endless joy.

Today account of the minutes to lie down on your land alive, to breathe the bamboo at dawn and leave the voltage to your white sands.

voltage three years away, three years of changes and battles, three years of a great love, now, waiting for me with you.

are the roads of destiny, the links I found that large and powerful frungandomi shoes and in my heart.

of my soul Salvador, El Salvador of my fingers, my eyes, my smile. Salvador lens of my past, my full years of lessons, my projects, my past. Salvador and emotion of saudade, Salvador music and smells already known before to hear them.

Salvador words and sing sweet sound of the language, Salvador bad music and wonderful music, Salvador respect, deep understanding.

Salvador forest and Africa, dressed in white cloth and work and glass beads and pottery.

Salvador

of my heart.

"Debaixo dos Caracois of Your Hair "(Caetano Veloso - Lyrics Roberto Carlos)
One day the white sand

His feet will touch

And will wet your hair

The blue water of the sea

un giorno i Tuoi pied

la sabbia bianca toccheranno
l'acqua azzurra and del mare
Bagner i capelli Tuoi
windows and doors will open

To see you come

And to feel at home

smiling will cry

Finestra and poise itself apriranno
vederti per arrivare nel sentirte
and home
sorridendo Piangerai
Underneath the curls of her hair

A story to tell

In a world so far

Underneath the curls of her hair

A hiccup and will

To stay a moment longer

Sotto ai Tuoi Riccioli
una storia di un
of raccontare mondo davvero far
Sotto ai Tuoi Riccioli
singhiozzo un e la Voglia di
starsene ancora un p the '
lights and colorful

What you see now

On the streets where you walk

In the house you live

Le luci ei colori che vedi
adesso nelle strade dove
Cammin
dove vivi nella home
You look at everything and nothing makes him
be happy

You only wish now

back to its people

You and guardian tutto niente ti fa felice

Desideri soltanto tu
tornare tra la your people
You walk in the afternoon

And his sad look

Let it bleed chest

A longing, a dream

You attraverso il pomeriggio e il tuo sguardo
sad nel cuore
sanguinare
Lascia una nostalgia, un sogno
Um dia vou ver Você

Chege num smile

Pisando in Areia Branca

Que seu paraíso

One day you'll see a smile coming to


trampling on the white sand that is your Paradise

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home

the fact that I do not go back for the simple fact that you're not here, unequivocally demonstrates that
home for me is you.

and humming an old song
that reminds me that a room is empty and quiet when
,
is only an empty room and quiet.

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The Cathedral

The white marble shines light overhanging tourists dazzled.
is a unique beauty that enchants with God and leads to violence. It goes to the flash of tourists, in contrast to the reflection.
The summer heat beats on the pavement and the numbing haze of alleys and streets around.
The square seems a whole, the city swallowed by the whiteness.
The temple of the clamor of the Church in its preciousness, its pride, its vanity of glory land. People are flocking to the
exclamations, poses in front of the rigid lenses, glasses clinking coins in sweaty hands. But I
that I was born here, I love twilight. When the square takes a breath in the cool of the evening that reaches the small intestine. When tourists and quickening his pace expected by the abbot of the evening resting and beggars in the wine. At this time the Cathedral
deflate the chest and breathing.
White clears, as if stripped, and shows the details: the colors and shades of marble, the expressions of saints and prophets, the glitter of gold charming details, the wink of windows.
White clears and makes room for shadows of the alleys and stone chipped, the fatigue of the Exhibition buildings, to sneak into the streets of the Palazzo della Signoria.
And you feel a gentle God, which penetrates all things. The heart, naturally.
The temple of the people, almost pagan in all this his frail humanity.
This is my cathedral: naked, sweet and beautiful.
almost transparent in the delicate whiteness, the square is almost empty, the evening almost overnight.

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ramblings about books, book covers and titles nocturnal adventures

was the distant 1998. At the time of the Cascine summer amphitheater was a place of meetings and events or otherwise "things organized" were these markets, various events or theme parties.

The idea was the most common: we ANFE, drink a beer, two barrels and we do that in peace there, no one breaks the bales, and feels a bit 'of music.

Now, I might say that: to me the beer made me considerably more disgusting, the barrel is not the son I never made and even gave me (and damage) boredom well as cigarettes, and about my musical tastes c 'has little to say since I'm not an intellectual nor un'intenditrice of sound. I like the stuff more or less simple musically and then choose the message consistent or extremely danceable. In short, things rarely found in a place where he reigned as the ANFI techno, punk-rock of uncertain origin and the terrible jazz, soporific for me no less ignorant of the stench of weed.

short, a white fly. Even in my small circle of friends to accompany me. One of

ANFE endless nights for me, God, apparently to reward them for such a sacrifice, offered me a shed library.

We made a turn and suddenly I was attracted by a book with the cover and simple with a catchy title. It was "blue flowers" by Raymond Queinau in the beautiful and essential EINAUDI edition with translation of Italo Calvino.

I opened it, curious.

"I the twenty-five milleduecentosessantaquattro September, at daybreak, the Duke of Auge climbed on top of the tower of his castle for a moment to consider the historical situation. He found it unclear. Remnants of the past in bulk is still dragging here and there. On the banks of were camped near a stream Hun or two and while away a rooster, perhaps Edueno, daringly dipped their feet in the cool current. It drew on the horizon the silhouettes of some untrimmed Roman Law, buckwheat, old Franco, unknown vandals. The Normans bevevan Calvados. The Duke of Auge sighed without interrupting the careful consideration of those phenomena worn. The Huns cooked steak tartare, smoked Gitanes the Gaulois, the Romans drew Greek, the French played lire, the gate valve closed shutters. The Normans were drinking calvados . "

was obviously love at first sight. In a completeness of emotions: curiosity of the unknown, the guarantee of 'intermediary' Calvin the simple elegance of the edition, the crackling of the incipit diversity.

And it was a complete and satisfying love story: of Queinau I read (and given / recommended / loaned) almost all readable, in which forces quell'afflato crazy and desperate to go neatly and methodically across the road traveled by the writer at the time. Well

of perfect joints so there was only this in my life.

Yesterday I went, after so much time in bookstores. Since the old suppressed Marzocco go to the library always seems a coitus interruptus. The old

Marzocco find anything. I've got kid bought the biography of books and texts The Doors and a little 'later those of Dante criticism. The old

Marzocco small booksellers were a little 'bent who knew her inside out. And not only that the books would sell them but they read them, deeply. And they knew all about them: possible new editions, color cover, place on the shelf, introductions, time of arrival. Everything. A vice

wonderful to see them move skillful and safe.

That could not last, we agree. The closed set (or just before) the other libraries of Florence: Le Monnier, for example. Today "Mondadori" in Via San Gallo. Immediately after the inauguration I went to buy the trilogy for a friend of Calvin. I was a boy meeting offered his help. I asked her to be not too expensive edition of this trilogy. I carry "The path of the spiders' nests." Beautiful text. But it is one, not three.

So I decided to take refuge in the cold while Feltrinelli poinfine was the only one to have been wishful thinking (albeit limited) cultural heritage.

Yesterday I left work at 18.30 and I walked toward the center. And the center is beautiful in summer at that time. So I lost lingering in the marble and stone in the warm sun. And when I arrived by Feltrinelli, I found it closed. An unbearable disappointment.

little farther than Feltrinelli is MelBooks Store. The upside? open until midnight.

purists were horrified, but maybe for me it made my day and I appreciated.

Inside, the library is not even cold air conditioned wine cellar in the desert. The order book is logical and immediate. An initial screening "best sellers" in my ear that suggested a malignant type stuff "on courage, read all these books, you really need to look further? Who do you think you are?". I'll be paranoid, but so be it.

step further. My goal was to buy something that I enjoy so much Jo Soares.

even contemplated.

I hoped then the economic model "Blue Flowers". I picked up dozens of books which

A) I do not remember the title and author (and this is significant)

B) had covers or pretentious or just bad (I know that the content is what matters but also the eye wants its part!)

C) had opening words of the type "she said ..."

In exchange, the staff is courteous and the books are cheap, as are all decorated with bows of discounts.

And this is a good thing. As the close to midnight, and give me a chance, despite working hours, walking through the books waiting for the thunderbolt.

I found Izzo's books, which I just finished "total mess". I stopped watching them. What curious is that I loved "Casino Total" (for which I thank James ) so as to be anti-social with the people around you until I finished, but despite this, I could not take away anyone. And I do not know why. Perhaps because his is a way of writing that you drain a bit, 'so dry and sharp. Perhaps because it seems always on the side of repetition of self. Or maybe for the titles (not excellent, I would like this ...) or perhaps even the gloom of the covers (although the editions are aesthetically impeccable Feltrinelli at least in most cases).

I eventually bought an edition of the apocryphal gospels always Einaudi (I have the habit of aesthetics Einaudi!) as well as the copy of "The Gospel According to Jesus Christ" by Saramago (who was so much that I wanted to read) aesthetics terrible Mondadori edition of the Gnostic Gospels (But it was cheap) and other bullshit before concluding with the satisfaction of at least bring home the small but precious "love story" by J. and Guimaraes Rosa. Feltrinelli (single blind copy on the shelf nda), editing simple and beautiful even if slightly questionable choice of colors of binding.

Guimaraes Rosa is uncontainable emotion language adapted to the heart, that twists and then get s'inasprisce girl, sweet and almost languid for Speaking of the Sertao, the Brazilian desert and its people.

I carry a song that made me move (and to think that it is in translation!):

"Because, first, slobbering all over a fossettino, a stream coming down the slope, a little stream, hopping in hurry to go down, well down in the Torrent of Stone [...] A slender rivulet, pure, shade, liveliness and gaiety with defined and all its din - ah, this was not the economy: the top quality water to drink. So they decided to make the house there, looking to combine with the bank of the stream [...] However, just-in-chief for a year that were there, and when least expected, the stream stopped. It happened one night, coming in the morning, everyone was sleeping But everyone felt, suddenly, in the heart, the outbreak of the little silence he said, the lack of sharp chatter of little noise. They awoke, they spoke. Even children. Even the dogs barked. [...] "He has lost his voice ..." Sad certainty: deeper, farther in silense, had gone away, the trickle of all. "

I started reading it on the bus, as of duty, leaving behind a cathedral that was like alabaster.

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still die at work

The Official Journal of 19 February 2008, n. 42 was published the decree of January 21, 2008 by which the Ministry of Labour adopted the form itself to resign.

That? That
from 5 March following the resignation would have validity only if the party had gone to the Employment Centre and had asked a build operation. This course

to stem the blackmail of blank resignations, an instrument with which employers have always been the good and the bad weather: you want to be taken? well, firmami resigned in white. I want you fired without just cause, but not I want to be a cause union? No problem: I fill the resignation and that's it. Clearly in the case of workers the situation was worse and worse: anti-pregnancy resignation, resignation anti-rejection of advances and so on.

Good.

The electronic form was short-lived.

The Government has obviously broken the decree.

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work

With a little 'of the chronological gap, I publish a little something I wrote on the meanness of a certain type of entrepreneurs. I had asked for a character that I admire very culturally and politically. I agree ...

CONSTITUTION OF THE ITALIAN REPUBLIC -
FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES Article 1.
Italy is a democratic republic, founded on work. [...] Art
2.
The Republic recognizes and guarantees the inviolable rights of man [...] Art
3.
All citizens have equal social dignity and are equal before the law, without distinction of sex, race, language, religion, political opinion, personal and social conditions [...].
Article 4.
The Republic recognizes all citizens the right to work and promotes conditions to fulfill this right.
Every citizen has a duty to perform according to their potential and individual choice, activity or function that contributes to the material or spiritual progress of society.

does not matter to go beyond the reading of the Constitution to say with certainty that there is no article about the death duty, the duty of humiliation, violence duty to dignity, feelings, duty to besmirch the name of innocent people dying.
Yet today allows a contractor to violate the fundamental rights of Italian citizens or those who like their living and working in Italy, the cause of death and finally to trample their families destroyed and their name. The holder of Umbria
oils did seek compensation of more than € 35,000,000 to the families of the four workers who died two years ago in an explosion on his farm. Four workers
like many, with so many families like, constantly struggle for a dignified life, to ensure their children the few guarantees that the system of work today can have.
Why it's not easy to keep two small children. And not even guarantee a peaceful day to a young man and a young woman.
Whether you're Italian or foreign matters little. We have to work. Even on Saturdays. Have much or little experience makes no difference. Who wins is cheaper, though. And on Saturday
Joseph, Maurice, and Vladimir Tullio climbed on the huge silos.
probably have looked at the valley from there.
The valley so beautiful that you are tempted to believe in God
A really good show, it should be.
But not beautiful enough to be the last. Not enough to take the place of the look strong and full of love of a woman who greets your return, or that of a child full of adrenaline just man on the go-kart or even indispensable to a daughter who has nine years or nineteen a day did you get the arms and, for you, you did not look to change it.
A good show, the Valley, but not enough to die. A beautiful
our Constitution, but not enough to be respected.
A great story to St. Francis but not enough to recurrence. Because if that Saturday
beautiful had nothing, now the request of one man is not only beautiful but remove its ability to exist.
weighs Shame on our society. Already, the shame of the names of Joseph, Maurice, and Vladimir Tullio deaths in the exercise of a constitutional right and duty. Now
shame to request this company, which kills the dignity of every worker and every family, the dignity of Fiorella, Morena, Anila, Catia, Yuri, SAGM, Branjola, Enrica.
And this shame so heavy, so dramatic leads us to condemn the company Umbria Oils and its representatives, for shame that have not tried and do not prove that today. This
shame that reveals how those who are capable of shame is still a man, so different from those who, without shame, contempt and mud of our civilization.

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Fingerprints

I was 15 years and a lot of good hopes for the next change in the world. After a year to do after school in a district "social problem" of Florence decided to make the experience of summer camp. How educatrce, of course.

I was 15 and 15 years have almost always young and unprepared because you do not know anything about the reality if you have not up to their ears.

Milan I was 15 and had 7.

Our first approach was fantasy: I am a bit 'awkward but already quite strong in the Peruvian bent knee overalls and barefoot, armed with lice shampoo and soap.

him in cotton panties, the same one hundred other children. Fearful and aggressive

gazed at the shower, behind me.

convince him that it was really cool was at least as hard to drag it out from under the water.

Milan was the classic terrible child that no teacher would take.

Except maybe a little girl and idealistic manfana of 15 years. A table

played the dishes, threw him to the other kids, climbed anywhere.

It was a fight and you could rubbing in any place seem a floor.

the evening was afraid of the dark. But there was me and he explained:

"The darkness hides everything: dogs, mice and rats and dogs are especially dangerous if you have a little brother." Small

like you?

"Noooooooo, really small, I am great.

The darkness comes early and leaves the camp at dawn.

The darkness hides holes and stones and rocks and holes are dangerous especially if you have little brothers.

I little brother do not know how to walk and run and sometimes not even weigh a lot but if you have to go a bit 'away and the mother can not come.

Why a good thing the darkness has it: which also hides the people.

Why

darkness brings the greatest danger, the worst thing but then we hide because we could not take it.

Mom may never come, has to pretend not to have seen. I take my sister who is smaller and we hide in the dark.

I always do: get the car has headlights that seem to look for strong children.

Many children remain in the camp because their mothers do not know that darkness can hide them.

The machine always comes in the dark.

down a man, now we know. We call him the man of the dark even if it is white more than my sister. Before the machine stops, we must be far away. Sometimes the mother is able to warn us before we return to the field so we must not hide among the rats and dogs.

Some say it smells as good as a scent that women use but we take the girls back and sometimes not, sometimes you and they're silent for a long time and then cry and then beat everyone and then the great beat them.

The dark You never know what hides. Dogs, rats, holes and rocks and the man who smells.

Or me and my sister who is smaller.

My mother works always says that one day we go on.

But what is difficult is that she has four gold teeth.

In my gold teeth are beautiful but my mother says that those who employ gold teeth do not like. "

The story is true, I wanted to keep the style in which I started but it has run the vein closed.

but you know who would take the fingerprints I?

not make me say anything wrong ...