Cheap Brazilian Wax Misissauga

Under the starry sky ... Evil

Hans Bellmer, Illustration for the eye of History (1947)

"Literature is the key, or nothing" ( Georges Bataille, foreword Literature and Evil ).

There are works in which one enters with a curiosity mixed with apprehension, and sometimes even with the remorse of a morbid curiosity, the feeling - or intent - to break a final limit. Georges Bataille, born of a tumultuous generation, that of Surrealism (which he quickly distanced himself and rejects), is a strange guide. His works range from scholarship and eroticism. But Eros, here is unexpected masks. Love is not easy: the feeling, even, grants the ritual body looked, touched, caressed, bruised in the search for an ecstasy that would be flirting with death. The word "ecstasy", moreover, combines the enjoyment of land to religious enlightenment ...

Read Story of the Eye is an unsettling experience and dangerous. The book was published clandestinely in 1928, under the pseudonym Lord Auch (Battle identities sometimes malicious use, as, later, that of Pierre Angélique for the release of Madame Edwarda 1937). This very short novel borrows amazing ways, focusing on the lives of two teenagers of sixteen, the narrator and Simone, in a quest for the absolute that passes through the experience of body, love and cruelty crime. A book "severe," warns Battle. The eroticism here verges on pornography, obscenity as often exposed in these short chapters, many "scenes" with titles at once simple and enigmatic at the beginning ("The cat's eye," " The cabinet Norman "," A spot of sunshine "...), then more and more explicit (" Eyes of the Dead, "" Simone's Confession and Mass Sir Edmund "...). The pursuit of happiness is doomed to failure. Almost two children, whose ordinary meeting quickly turns into a confrontation sexual united first under the banner of black (the apron Simone) and white (milk in a plate), these objects become pretexts for more games more shameless. Immediately, the sex is accurately named. The first games, however, dare not touch the body, replacing the light touch and caresses. Soon, in the fusion of body, the protagonists feel the need for an external perspective, the mother of the girl, first, that, rather than hinder, the incentive to play more indecent again, then one of Marcela's teenage girlfriend, shy and naively pious "who becomes a witness and unwitting accomplice of these antics. But innocence has no place in this universe, and the girl goes insane at the same time, molten involuntary with the two lovers, she indulges in an unwanted orgasm. This madness becomes sexual frenzy. However, pleasure is an agony, culminating in the suicide of Marcelle.

Egon Schiele Die Umarmung, 1917

Story of the Eye, in fact, constantly reminds us that love and death are inseparable, including the mechanisms of desire and pleasure. The word "death" is present throughout the text to the point of invading. During a wild journey to find Marcelle last time the narrator realizes that his destiny lies between hell and the desire for absolute

"The wind was a little fallen, a part of the sky is starred; I came to the idea that death is the only way out of my erection, and I killed Simone, the universe of our own vision in place of the pure stars, making cold which I think is the term of my debauchery a geometric incandescence (coincidentally, among others, of life and death, of being and nothingness) and perfectly dazzling. "

This fugue also ends on a bicycle by a mock accident, Simone, in her voluptuous race, fell and his companion a moment's thought dead. In a previous chapter, The young man driving a car, overturned "a pretty young cyclist, whose neck was almost torn off by the wheels." This vision of horror in a way symbolizes the love that unites the two characters. Despite the seeming incongruity of this feeling, yet it is invoked when the narrator, in the same pages, he defines his relationship with Simone

"Thus began between us relations love so close and so necessary that we remain hardly a week without seeing us. "

Gold purity is no place, because of the ambiguity of human nature ... It recalls that the mention of Simone

"It is big and beautiful, nothing hopeless in the eyes or in her voice. But she is so hungry that disturbs the sense that the smallest appeal gives her face a character evoking blood, sudden terror, crime, all that endless ruin the happiness and good conscience. "

Pleasure is close to the horror and despair; and the two young people commit themselves on a path that can only lead to the crime.

Pablo Picasso, La Corrida

deaths punctuate their journey of madness. After the tragic suicide of Marcela, the narrator has "loved without crying," they choose another flight that takes them to Spain. They travel with an English plus age, Sir Edmund, a witness and instigator of their debauchery. The choice of this destination Significantly, as the country's image is associated with rituals of love and death. These are embodied perfectly in a show, the bullfight, which refined and ritualized violence operates as a synthesis of their relationship. Here a key scene takes place in the novel: the death of Granero, inspired by a real-number which attended Georges Bataille. Witnessed the accident (Manuel Granero is defeated in the arena by a bull which pierces the eye), it gives this experience a symbolic dimension by using it in the narrative. Sir Edmund Simone is wearing "two balls naked "in the first bull defeated by Granero:

" these glands, the size and shape of an egg, were of pearly whiteness, rosie blood, similar to that of the eyeball ;.

This offering foreshadows the disaster to come, which takes place exactly when Simone is attributes of the beast sex objects. Here again, orgasm coincides with the death

"Granero, overturned, cornered in the balustrade, the balustrade on the horns the fly struck three shots: one of the horns thrust his right eye and head. The clamor appalled arenas coincided with the spasm of Simone. Lifted from the ground, she tottered and fell, the sun blinded him, she was bleeding from the nose. Some men rushed in, seized Granero.

The crowd in the arena was entirely upright. The right eye of the corpse was hanging. "

The eye is thus explicitly associated with these glands ... It is transformed thus organ of pleasure, as the reader senses from the beginning of the text, through mother's involuntary voyeurism, exhibitionism assumed Simone and his companion. "With open eyes of the dead" (Marcelle) remain witnessed the debauchery of the two heroes, his gaze is pure defiled by Simone "[flood] the calm face" of the young suicide. The eyeball is symbolically or directly, present throughout the novel, in eggs that Simone gets into sex, it also gobbles it as if it "[drinking] the eye [Her boyfriend] between his lips, "the farm of a white breast ... But young people are troubled by these symbols they still do not understand and even banish" the word egg "from their vocabulary ;; revelation is offered at the end of the novel only.

Under the eyes of their souls damned Sir Edmund, Simone and her lover come in a church in Seville at the entrance to which is "the tomb of the founder of the church, that is said to have been Don Juan. Repented, it would be buried under the front door, to be trodden under foot of the lower beings. "The story is a troubling result, hallucinating. In the church takes place the last transgression, one that crystallizes the triumph of evil ... The meeting with "a priest blond, still young and beautiful, her cheeks thin and pale eyes of a holy" causes contempt supreme in an orgy in which the priest gives himself almost raped by Simone but taking this crime gladly martyr, and he breathed his last in an enjoyment ultimate sacrilege, since in the ciborium, the body of Christ is desecrated. The eye, at that time, egg becomes the object of desire and pleasure, look that takes place inside the body to look more closely at the mechanisms of enjoyment in devoting a sinister apotheosis symbiosis of body and mind.

Hans Bellmer, Illustration for History of eye

"To go after the rapture when we lose in the enjoyment, we must always ask the immediate boundary: it is horror. Not only the pain of others or my own, approaching the moment of horror I will raise, can send me to the slippery state of joy in madness, but it's not a dislike which I can discern the affinity with desire. Not that the horror never to be confused with the attraction, but if it can not inhibit, destroy, reinforces the attraction of horror! "Georges Bataille wrote in the preface to his book he gives, under the tutelage of Hegel. This is about love and death, the latter, whatever happens, always prevails. To retain some of its freedom, human beings must always keep in mind, without fighting, "Death is what is most terrible and maintain the work of death is this which requires the greatest strength. "Simone and the narrator represent sort of the death at work, under the starry sky of Kant - but the moral law, she is still in us? Story of the Eye confronts us with evil that we carry, dark revelation of our inner darkness. Support this reading reveals undoubtedly challenging ourselves, human prey to violent conflict and eternal ...

____________________________________________________________________________

Georges Bataille, Story of the eye , John Jacques Pauvert, 1967

____________________________________________________________________________

Unlimited Money In Vba Leaf Green

history upside down and the summer flew

My parents arrived in France in winter, and ironically have been installed in a holiday village by the sea I do not like to return there before the grass is thick and the dunes swings in car tire squeal in unison. Few images of these few months if not through the prism of their memories. The first snow, feeling unknown and seafood served with finger bowls, highly exotic. I wonder what my parents dreamed without money and without a word of French.
The first "real" housing was on the floor of a large house with blue shutters. The rent was not worth much, the price of one room where they huddled on the couch at three in bottle green velvet. There, I remember Saturday nights, because there was Jean Rochefort Disney Channel I loved watching sitting on the floor with a bowl of rice soup. I was (and still am) a fan of Jean Rochefort absolute!
I also remember the owner who lived on the ground floor, a kind of cantankerous grandmother who came for the rent still too early and had two monster Collies barking tremendously strong. I remember my parents started to work, incredible stuff, like pasting red and blue stripes on model aircraft landing in their hundreds in cartons or sort thousands of caps of perfume bottles in excluding those who had a default. My mother made me promise to do a job a little more chic, doctor it would be nice, especially since I always wanted more books and she was convinced that the doctors had books from floor to ceiling.
One day we had to make new boxes, which were eventually few, and we moved into a new apartment they told me to shut up address when possible because they were ashamed to live in a squalid housing project. I had a pink room, they bought me the white furniture, I loved my desk drawers and outdated. There was a blue kitchen, blue a bit dirty, a little sad, a blue that is now my mother hates that color. I had my first Christmas tree in the room, my mother began working, she went in the evening, returned in the morning and made me recite poems and multiplication tables on the way to school she traveled with me hand in hand and eyes half shut from exhaustion. But they were happy to buy one for my library birthday and a market (with a scale, a cash register, fruits and vegetables in plastic and even a roast chicken!) at Christmas.
My father started to work as he was able to replace the two horses with a cream-colored metallic R5, but he was very unhappy at work, he had to renounce his scientific aspirations, it has never been able to resume his studies interrupted in Cambodia and he choked back his pride every morning with his coffee he drank black.
All this was not without reward. One day they began to see small houses, not too far from the college where I was going back in sixth, and in early summer, we were able to leave the kitchen blue, really murky stairwell and balcony in concrete to settle down in a white house with a garden, a terrace, a quince before the kitchen window and roses at the entrance. My parents were delighted by the details quite touching the end, as the ceilings papered rooms, bathtubs and tiles in the bathroom. They were really happy, they invited friends, what they had denied for years, and my mother made mountains of spring rolls, waffles and beef skewers with lemongrass on the barbecue terrace. I started
keeping a journal in that house, in a purple book early. I was telling the boys were certainly very complicated, that the braces were a Satanic invention and really, it was not just, A. was much prettier than me, even if it was a beauty a bit empty. Concerns were finally futile.
When I returned to my parents, even if I am a little sad when I think back to my hesitation and my teenage boredom and endless noise, although I am not always agree with biases of their decoration, I am infinitely reassured to see them installed there, the ones who landed in France in the middle of winter in the 80, never imagined one day owning a small space, a piece of land.
The last hours spent in the old apartment on the quays Rennes were a bit difficult. Following our chronic lack of organization, there were still some thirty cartons to transport ourselves after the passage of movers, and then he had to clean up. At three o'clock in the morning, after a kebab sitting cross-legged on the floor of the desert, it became necessary to go to the dump, ahem. I forgot that in my old office cabinets, closets in height, those I never opened, there were all the books, all notes, records, files, schematics, feverishly stacked to the boarding . A mountain of a hundred pounds of paper. I kept small tinkering, for resale and for the memory (including the directory where I had very thick compiled everything that we should absolutely not forget) but the rest ended up in large bins, between a restaurant and a bicycle shop. It spun me chills to throw it all these hours, those dirty memories.
I look forward to empty the boxes into which we zig-zague perilously, to paint the boards of my office to cover the paper tray of the piano stool retapisser, choose the magnets for the fridge! And then I'll show you ... The road was long! ****

Bonus! Because there are girls who take their lover to Biarritz in the fall, my favorite (in one of my favorite cities).
Addresses and links at the end of the ticket.


A Hotel Beaulieu , perfectly located between the beach and the center of the Basque town, think to ask for a room with view and balcony, because they are larger and is always nice to sit a bit to watch the waves on the rock of the Virgin and children surf club who train on the tiny beach right in front of the hotel. I do not bathe there because there are too many people, families, but I love the big clock just above the stone columns.
If we have often discussed with the night watchman, who is a former piano tuner, we never took breakfast at the hotel. If the day looks calm and voluptuous, there was no hesitation, he must go Miremont , order a hot chocolate, toast (bread sandwich house) coming grilled and buttered, and jam. I like to do this before a trip to the lighthouse example. Once arrived there, we take photos of hydrangeas, we observe the fishermen at the foot of the cliffs and I am able to spend hours watching the scenery. If the program is loaded (like Well if you went to Bayonne? or you want to go to Guéthary? -actually I do not like Guéthary. Neither Saint Jean de Luz), drink coffee or tea bottom of the hotel and we bought pastries on the way always Miremont.
In general, when we go to the lighthouse, we likes to stop at Bookstore to buy a book you read in the afternoon on the beach. They also have a very nice selection of Children and booksellers are enough riders.
Sometimes we go to the cinema because it is Art and testing, and there is always a good film program. Pending the meeting, you can munch on buttons Adam on the site (but I'm not a fan of their pastries) or drag the Naked Lunch , subversive bookstore in a small street opposite the cinema, where they had the good idea of installing a sofa. In talking with the boy who was working there this afternoon, we decided to go cool off in Lulu Nantes , a tearoom, antique XXth century, where smoothies are delicious, spicy ginger when you order an orange-carrot-apple. Just next to a nice store wooden models with a lamp-fish impressive.
In late afternoon, when the film for the Diana F + is complete, you can always sourcing to In the middle , which offers lots of models Lomo of which also sells designer clothes pretty sharp in the middle of must-haves of the moment (a stack of Bensimon Liberty this summer). The owners of the store is super nice. Other adorable clothes await you Lily of the Valley , pretty shop in the front Cerulean. There are bags Polder, jackets Isabel Marant , pretty nice shirts and skirts. In the basement, vintage clothing in the middle of old fashion magazines and antique radios. Again, the vendors are very friendly. On the way
des Halles, if you go to the market, three stops possible. The first The round water for wooden trays, lamps Jieldé green water, Scandinavian dishes, seating designs, placemats Robert hero and a bunch of pretty objects. The second home Arostéguy where I almost come away with a huge canned tuna belly with case was the most beautiful effect, but there are also foie gras, pâtés Espelette, the Basque sausage, jams, shortbread local fruit juices in attractive bottles ... And Mariage Freres tea if you forgot your bags at home! The third call has nothing to do, that Denim Gallery for different jeans and tee shirts screenprinted chic and mischievous.
Les Halles are obviously unavoidable and I always dreamed of having a kitchen to prepare Biarritz beautiful fish and fresh vegetables arch. For consolation, there are refueling in Basque cheeses and meats for a delicious picnic. Right next to Les Halles, an institution in the early evening, the Comptoir du foie gras , which not only fatty liver, far away, but great tapas Tarama urchin or cheese and black cherry jam or just Pata Negra, finally there are twenty, it is very pleasant to nibble around large barrels that serve as tables to receive the sangria, the Basque cider, orange or pressed glass of champagne. Full of regulars, pretty cardigans, floral dresses and arty glasses kissing and exchange tips. Just next door, with an antique cookbooks from another time and Bar des Halles when the counter fatty liver no longer of places available. The selection of tapas is extensive, and they are delicious but the atmosphere is more family.
In the Rue Gambetta, next, there is a very nice grill and under the porch, if one goes a little tea room that I never could try but the decor is like and they are cheesecake and clafoutis.
To eat, to change a little, to also avail of the opportunity to cross the city when it is no longer in the center and enjoy the architecture of the villas Biarritz, there is always one evening during the holidays when we will dine at the Taj Mahal which, as its name does not indicate, is a restaurant held by Sri Lankans. Meet there lovers who love to travel, big teens before dancing, locals who know that the cheese naan and chicken Taj Mahal are too good. On returning, we can go have a dessert on the beach, such as a grapefruit and coconut ice at Dodin then settle on the sand a little off and enjoy the beauty of the night on ocean. We can not return right away and around the hotel to see the lights of Spain and the mountains a bit fuzzy on the Basque Coast, I can not count the number of evening strolls along the beach to speak without end. Sometimes
for a return of Anglet when you spend the afternoon at the beach (besides the ice cream truck Anglet is highly recommended, with an ice cream yogurt simple but so good, a bit tart) and this case, the return, we hurry to put the bags at the hotel and go down very quickly in the small cove of the Santa Maria , bar and restaurant just interesting for its wonderful view and tables in rocks. It's always nice to drink a mojito at night.
I do not know if the terrace is still there in the autumn but in August it is very nice dinner on the harbor in the Casa Juan Pedro . We stood in line while nibbling tapas and then dinner at the waterfront of simple things, squid and prawns, grilled squid in ink or monkfish English. A little later in the evening, if you're feeling peckish, you can make a chocolate crepe Little pancake and eat it while thinking of the delicious day just past.
I'm sure I forget the places I like but I know that if one is guided by his desires, people crossed the Native councils, we come inevitably to the coolest places. I love Biarritz it is both modern and obsolete, there is the spectacle of huge waves that do not always see in Britain and the nights are beautiful.


Hotel Beaulieu 3 Esplanade du Port-Vieux 05 59 24 23 59
Miremont 1 bis Place Clemenceau
Adam House 27 place Clemenceau
Bookstore 27 place Clemenceau
Naked Lunch 2 rue Jean Bart
Lulu Nantes 8 avenue Jaulerry
In the middle 11 rue Alcide Augey
Lily of the Valley 2 rue Simon Etcheverry
The circle in the water 6 rue Victor Hugo
Arostéguy 5 avenue Victor Hugo
Denim gallery 6 rue Victor Hugo
The counter foie gras 1 rue center
The bar market 8 rue des Halles
Santa Maria Old Port
Casa Juan Pedro on the dock of the Petit Port
Dodin Quai de la Grande Plage
Taj Mahal 10 avenue station
The little creperie Street Mazagran

Gall Bladder Or Stomach Flu

fall gently ...

I did not see coming, I have not heard him enter. It only takes a few drops of rain to its powerful scent of wet earth undergrowth gets up my nose through the door ajar. Yet there were signs. The cool morning that I thought was still there at noon on my fingers numb and my throat cleared. I had to cover a little more for the face. Autumn.

Suddenly I needed to get warm. First outbreak dry wood, feet range before the fire ignited in socks that go up a little higher on the leg. Suddenly, I felt like softness. First courses in the fall. Roast pork with milk, mushrooms (chanterelles, morels, mushrooms) to the forest, apple pie ... Nothing is sweeter than the aromatic roast, which is the story.

Roast pork with milk and garlic spiced

Ingredients (for 6-8 people) 1 large roasted

1.5 kg pig farmer rolled and wrapped by your butcher, 1 liter of milk (whole, raw preferred), 1 dozen cloves of garlic, unpeeled , 75 g of bread, 1 cinnamon stick, 1 clove nutmeg, salt, pepper

Procedure

Remove meat and milk from the refrigerator at least two hours before cooking to get them to room temperature.

Later, preheat oven to 160 ° C.

In a ovenproof casserole dish, place the roast in the bottom, the unpeeled garlic cloves, cinnamon stick and cloves. Sprinkle with milk. Add salt and pepper and grate enough nutmeg to flavor the milk and meat. Put in oven and cook slowly - but surely - Heat gently for 1h20.

Return the roast every fifteen minutes during cooking. Watch that the milk does not overflow.

When the meat is cooked, drain it and reserve it in aluminum foil. Broth with milk, make a sauce. Remove the cinnamon stick and cloves, then go to a bowl ladles up some milk and fragrant garlic mash you in Chinese. Add the bread crumbs in milk and mix down until the mixture becomes creamy and fluffy. Adjust seasoning if necessary.

Serve immediately with thin slices of roast sprinkle sauce and enjoy. Serve meat with mushroom mushrooms, sauteed in a large knob of butter, and small baskets of green beans simply boiled or steamed.

For allergy sufferers, do not worry, the garlic does not carry your pallet. The flavors of this sauce is sweet and delicate.

Thereupon, to give freshness to the whole greedy, drink a white Burgundy with a little character (dried fruit and honey), as a Bouzeron for example, or, do like me this Sunday, serve a fantastic wine white table grape from a former Corsican Bianco Gentile 2009, grown by Antoine Arena Patrimonio side. Nose: plum, quince, hazelnuts, in the mouth: the roundness and silk. Season, then!

Sting recalls! Remember there is still time to participate in the competition held in the second International Festival of Photography Culinary Award for Culinary Blogger. As a jury of this contest, I have the pleasure of choosing the winning photographs from Isabelle Rozenbaum, photographer ( Culinary Ear), Damien and Head (750g ). To participate is simple, you have until October 15, 2010 to send us your entries, as detailed in the previous post . In case of difficulty in delivery of your accomplishments, please contact the organizers of this contest on the site 750g (Marie-Rose: mrdomingues [at] 750g.com). And they will validate your entries.

soon,

What Happened To Denise Milani Homepage

Elsewhere, soon-mapo doufu-

Right now, the hair well tucked on top of the skull (but I to know to make a braid that goes around), New Wave in the background, a reserve not far from Italian cookies and gallons of tea in cups that line I do not rank, I am employed to put our lives in cardboard. In the morning, at breakfast, you blink before the shelves waiting to be dismantled. Five
years in this apartment have been given time to accumulate enough to fill hundreds of boxes of books, magazines, DVDs, letters, paper cut, notebooks filled to the brim with texts and drawings, photographs by thousands gray-gray, soft toys, lamps reported in suitcases, teapots mottling, postcards never sent, expired medicines, dictionaries (architecture, psychoanalysis, authors, film-film-directors, opera, musical instrument kitchen-its terms, conventional-, Turkish, Chinese, German, Arabic, English, English. The weight of a fridge), exhibition catalogs like so many holiday memories in Paris, London or Lisbon, Christmas ornaments, posters hoping someday framed packs of chocolates and biscuits, this jacket that you had purchased for your thesis, that life happens.
Each day a new object is a bit fragile sent by us to the current apartment for the next (two streets up, not very complicated), which therefore allowed the lamps, a Chinese terra cotta, cameras, Swedish food (the supermarket shelves were quite staggering in terms of attractive packages. I have not even been able to resist a box of couscous), a magazine holder, a ice bucket pear-shaped black lacquer and then an office chair the 50 carefully livened up by expert hands and delicate girls madamemademoiselle and chairs from the same period unearthed in our favorite antique and remind me topolin in autumn Trouville.
As there are many practical things that we occupy the mind, simple meals and downward are required. Club sandwich with fries plump, steaming lasagna, chocolate mousse and powerful at once sweet, pizza, noodle soups, kebabs , cheese-grape ice vanilla-chocolate crunch, and for the evenings festivities, Mapo doufu!


This dish is absolutely irresistible with steamed rice while hot. The scents that play in the kitchen during preparation are already traveling. Read a little about how Gracianne talking! Should I try her recipe even though I am very convinced by that of Mengwe where I would just (it is surely heretical but hey remember that I was a fan of bread and Laughing Cow Banana ) put that much pork tofu. It is also a surprising dish for those who, like me, find it flabby, tasteless and usually without interest.
The crucial point is to taste after cooking to adjust the amount of soy sauce, sugar and pepper to make that very statement. Try! (Even if you do not move)

Mapo doufu of Mengwe
-500g good quality tofu diced
-500g minced pork belly-
about 6 tablespoons soy sauce-about
3 tablespoons soy sauce with mushrooms
-1.5 tsp caster sugar
-2 cloves garlic, crushed pepper-

-a pinch of crushed Sichuan pepper
-2 sprigs chopped scallion
3cc-starch potatoes watered down 3CS in water
3CS-sesame oil-
20cl chicken stock
-neutral oil

Place tofu cubes in a saucepan, cover with water, bring to boil, drain and set aside.
Heat a neutral oil in a wok and fry the garlic then add the pork and chili pepper, soy sauce, sugar and sesame oil (the best is to prepare everything advance in the cups). Mix well.
Pour the broth and simmer for ten minutes before adding the tofu. Mix gently.
Finish with the cornstarch and cook until the sauce takes a little consistency viscous. There he must try (G. likes this time it is he who occuppe) and adjust seasoning if the need arises.
Remove from heat, add half the onions and stir and pour into the dish and sprinkle
the rest of the scallions for garnish (this was the chive second heresy).
is a dish that leaves no leftovers!
(I wonder what I cook first in the next apartment ... Maybe empanadas?)

Student Discounts Gyms Nyc

From threshold to threshold, the etchings of Arlt overwhelm the tavern ... Marc

. ..

From threshold to threshold, the etchings of Arlt overwhelm the tavern .. .

C.: While the novel Seven crazy just rebound Belfond The translation of the novel portena etchings, published by all young editions Asphalt is a boon to the potential reader of Arlt, as well as for the unconditional Argentina.

This raises an rediscovered late retrospective: to understand how a work so important, so powerful, having left his mark an epoch in South America, could go unnoticed for so long on the Old Continent . Unlike that of his contemporaries, Borges and Bioy Casares, who are interested in literary themes substantially less rooted in their century, writing Roberto Arlt impulsive wife jolts Argentine society undergoing a revolution at different points of view. Could be found in the specificity of his art the grounds of breach of the French public against him.

AF.: You mean reaction ... In fact there is one word that struck me in the book, which is used repeatedly: "idiosyncrasy" , that is to say, the idea that man sometimes react without thinking to its environment, to society, that this reaction, this adaptation is epidermal in some way: there is therefore a possible interaction between a place, a city, and the man who moves there.

I noticed a phrase that seems to be a kind of shorthand of the spirit of the book:

" And you find something that is not happiness but its equivalent. The emotion. " (p. 198).

It appears in a chapter that does not initially enchanted me, I tended to consider as a bit preachy, and then this phrase struck me summarize what I '... had read

C.: Certainly we're dealing with a peerless observer approaching the mystery hidden behind the actions of his peers, earning a formidable acuity the peculiarities of its environment. A qualification immutable, he prefers the description of the moment.

AF.: Yes, exactly. That's why this world has something amazing, both moving and yet always consistent and true to himself. A question of emotion, exactly. And I know that sometimes reading, I could not help but smile (which happens very rarely when I read, especially since I do not necessarily smiling fun things). You must think me mad.

C: So, so say, I must be crazy too. Above all, I admit I was shocked by the sight of Roberto Arlt visionary, all the more striking in these etchings, which spring from the caustic sketch taken from life, conciseness, acidity journalist associated with the mood of vagrant. Like no other, he seems to sense the imperceptible changes in society, as if he could intercept it in its irreversibility.

AF.: Yes. The look is Arlt of original, disturbing, almost. But what I like in this book is that the author introduces an open dialogue with the player (when he addresses a "you" anonymous, I could not help but feel directly concerned, although, unlike some - nameless - I've never set foot in Buenos Aires). What I like is the constant back and forth between popular literature (the sketches that you evoked) and references to the "great" literature (I think this time to Foma, the hero of a novella by Dostoyevsky, The village and its people Stépanchikovo to Quevedo, other ...)

C: Actually, this approach is quite atypical in the works of Roberto Arlt. Keep in mind that this is primarily intended to chronicle newspaper El Mundo. The author draws from these images captured during the day the material to revive in familiar situations heart of his people, stressing its voluntary nature, enhancing the flavor and aroma characteristic of the moment. They stress the entertainment, and Arlt affix their reflective power.

AF.: I think you're absolutely right. What is surprising, also in this book is that these texts were not supposed to form a whole, and that their juxtaposition arises a world that I find extremely strong, with a true unity in diversity (although are recurring themes - marriage or engagement, finding a job, lazy and all their variations - that, I loved it ...).

C.: Yes, these notes can be read over water or independently of each other. They are sort of the literary bent of Palermo, Recoleta, Flores, neighborhoods of Buenos Aires. Micro-cited disparate Motley everything seems to oppose and which are carried by a common love of his countrymen.

Over time, there arise here or there, the community changes, generating behaviors and habits picturesque symptomatic of modern society. One of the major Arlt talent is being able to seize on the ongoing development, capture, without knowing it can be a photograph of gestation.

AF.: Yes, and I do not know if you agree with that, but I think there is a character that condenses quite the idea, and found several times: the man on the threshold (no wonder I like it, is not it?).

In fact, it is neither inside nor outside, this is not a perfect husband or a husband fickle, it does not really work but does not drag either - he does not know where place, does not place itself, as you say it is an individual who can not register any kind of stability.

C. The man is a threshold to be residing on the platform of the company, somewhat undecided on what direction to take, skeptical about the destination to follow. He is absorbed in a typical nonchalance Argentina the citizen who has attended so many upheavals in his country than it is with caution and perplexity he scans the outside world, hidden from view.

AF.: Actually, this man of the threshold, do you think it could be a kind of allegory of the Argentine man? It is at the threshold of so many things (from different cultures, social changes, as you said: it is a bit on the edge of everything, and dare not stay at home or out). So, it is a witness, just as elsewhere Arlt himself, reflecting does it participates.

C.: You are not wrong, it represents to me the epitome of Argentine meditative, the ancestor of the gaucho somewhat melancholy has spawned an entire segment of the country's literature. He is a man on the edge of an era and become a bygone era.

At the same time, I told myself that Arlt was equally disappointed lover of the national specificity. These etchings are bathed in a sense empathy. The author gives way to this gallery of eloquent enough to feed the reader's imagination, and that it substitutes the author himself, he surreptitiously interfering in the streets of Buenos Aires, he undergoes the charm of those directly and quadras esquinas, their timeless atmosphere.

AF.: Yes it's true, so much so that the author seems sometimes splitting and treat as a character, like the silhouettes cross the streets of Buenos Aires. And you're right, it's a book atmosphere. Me, I have not had the chance to go there, but I feel I know some of those streets as the book is bursting ...

C: Going back to what you said Anne-Francoise, I would point out that certain ingredients of everyday life, lunfardo, mate or Tango plunge these etchings in an atmosphere recognizable. It has often been treated as the founder Arlt of "urban literature". Even if it is representative of its proximity with citizens, I find the term somewhat pejorative.

Obviously the Lunfardo, the slang of the streets of the capital, a major part in these texts. Here it is nuanced, explained several times, giving rise to chronic for less crispy. The arltien glossary, found at the end of the book, we also offer a brief overview

As such, do not miss this column offers a sensational plea the jargons being undermined by reactionary mired in outdated and use of foul language. Arlt displayed his ardent defender of modernity, proclaiming loudly that it must be equipped with all the tumult of people employing them, all the impetuosity of porteños. Must emerge between language and the one that appropriates a substantial collusion.

AF. Yes, the chronicle of which you speak is just after the question on the sincerity as an alternative to happiness, as I mentioned before, I think you're better than me to even comment.

I thought before when we were talking about the threshold language Arlt is also a language of the threshold ... earlier I had a sentence under the eyes, which seemed quite representative.

C.: I hope you can, before the tavern closes its doors, we do enjoy that memory does not betray thee point. That said, parties like us, may impose a result of our conversation.

In my humble opinion, the language of Arlt would not be as dramatic without the feat of the translator, Antonia García Castro, who performed the feat of returning all the immediacy of the language of the author, without obscure the latent poetry. When I read this, I am reminded of the slogan of the editions of The Last Drop which you evoked the recent work on your Blog :

"The last drop like the verb, words which smack , which fuse , which slap and claw and bite . Tales cruel, dialogues acids. "

For myself, I must say that I like words that smack ...

AF. : "The plate pushes a sumptuous mouth" ... Here it is, this sentence slap!

You know, Christopher, I do not speak English. But what is really obvious here is that there is a very special language which I manage, I think, to grasp the rhythm, between nostalgia for a past that is no, anxiety about a future that does emerges not really (as in this island of Maciel whose contours seem to have disappeared).

I sense a rhythm to both slow and swaying, sad, beautiful and sensual

"You were sitting at a café table. You take your foot and do nothing. Your soul was brimming with equanimity upgradeable to the humblest creatures of the earth, and absolutely cushy, you said: "We can do nothing, life is beautiful".

... "This was worth another half ".

I love the combination: "equanimity" with "cushy"

C: And a "half" with "cushy" is a nice walk nose too.

AF.: The publisher moved playlist Translator flap on the inside back cover: I definitely should the listening ...

C: It will take, the One of these days together in the shade of a patio, a cedar or eucalyptus, sipping maté, or enjoy a good booze Cafayate. A chorus of Cuarteto Cedron, or a verse of the French duo that has taken over the name of Argentina, then invited us to relive one of those scenes referred to in these etchings. Why not one of sadness Saturday holiday, the narrative imagination of those windows still lit at three o'clock in the morning, or history, melancholy desire, Don Juan and the ten cents which are sorely lacking?

AF.: I dream ... It's true!

Have you also thought that what is striking in style, it is this juxtaposition of a highly refined language with a language very popular: it is also a language in these texts very scholarly, sensitive, that of a scholar ... and references to works that are far from being serialized novels. The surprise is in every sentence ...

C.: Every syntactic esquina so to speak. And indeed, this collection is teeming with references to historical, popular, literary, musical, burlesque ... The mixture of all these, associated with the tampering, the tampering of these various vocables only serves absolutely no consistency in the set. Being aware of the difficulty under the translation of a particular author, it is no exaggeration to speak of prowess beneficial for the language. And yet, god knows we have a common misconception that just as wrong, accused the son of Prussian immigrants, abusing the syntax in every sense of the term. Pushed to its climax, the sincerity of his writing is sometimes likened to virulence. Unquestionably, it is part of those authors who have a pressing need to do, through their prose, their rage explode. A palpable urgency that led to a speech delivered without frills or mannerism. Art by Arlt gross ...

AF.: It goes back to the idea of etching (I wonder if there is no link between this etching process and vitriol? The vitriol is sulfuric acid, the etching is etched with nitric acid. I am a little confused ...). But it is a language that has all the features of the world she wants to create. This idea is developed in preface by the translator offered . That's why for me, Arlt is a great writer is what makes the richness of these texts together. Personally, I feel I'll read at times, enjoy them again, the grind, the mix in every sense ... Anyway, the syntax should be triturated, mixed, tortured to become interesting ...

C.: I appreciate your comparison anatomical syntax, if I may say so. It makes me think somewhat as the preface September crazy of his translators, and Isabelle Antoine Berman, who pay homage to the idea of invention, so dear to the novelist:

The originality of this writing (which) must be located in what Arlt himself called a "prose polyfacétique. Prose made of coagulation, the stirring, mixing, fusion of several "languages" heterogeneous: the talk of Buenos Aires of the 30s, Argentine slang, lunfardo, English classical, glossary of translations (...) and all the literature of second hand formed by the serial novels, popular magazines, etc..

The academy and the sacrosanct tradition of subjecting a descent (we talked about recently) is perhaps precisely what entangles European literature. Conversely, the youth of Argentine literature (and a fortiori, South American) can encourage emulation by diversity, by the invention. In a continent where ideas flow, creation is considered in its original sense, not as part of a mold complacent infringing language demanding, requiring them to reproduce a route over and over borrowed.

AF.: For me, words are as real as flesh. This may sound strange and I can not explain it ... But back-to Arlt and you are absolutely right when you mention the essential link between the vibrancy of a literature and its relation to tradition, the way she also uses words like a paste (it reminds me of the paint, everything) - I was thinking about a column that I find beautiful, that called "contemplative life" (p. 215). I think it is a synthesis of many things we have said tonight.

In fact, this relation of man to action - he chose not inaction, but is swayed by the weariness that made him an actor rather than but again the man of the threshold, which will be a witness, but few involved ... The end of the column is extraordinary in both humor and reason, with this idea of eternal afternoon ... that is to say there still will-the one you mentioned above-namely that capture something of freezing time, and suddenly, this lazy - this "fiacún" is perhaps the only one to escape this perpetual motion.

It's a bit like children who are born old (I think it's one of the first texts) - Time is what goes against us, and try some porteños of Arlt share of escape time.

C: You put your finger on a key point for me: the fiacún is not a nihilist, or any lazy. Despite his nonchalant approach, it strives to cultivate a spirit

philosophical well deeper than it seems.

Moreover, it is futile to point out that this column Arlt concludes by stating that:

"In India, these would be the perfect lazy followers of Buddha, they are the only ones who know the secrets and delights of the contemplative life. "

AF. Yes, I love this - that perfectly illustrates what we have said, First with this flip style (strong language after language rather "green") and this philosophical spin

.

C.: From my side, I must say I was very touched by many texts, but particularly by the cranes Maciel , you evoked earlier.

Through this tangle and Urban inform humanity seems to have been eradicated, as if we were witnessing the description of a post-apocalyptic world. Incidentally, this text is reminiscent of an extract Flamethrower (following September Fools ) , during which there is powerless to describe a city swamped by the proliferation advertising posters, oppressed by the erection of a whole armada of skyscrapers to be hideous. The final appearance here is poignant and consider leaving an island of left-to-day, citizens engulfed by a sprawling machinery. The city in the work of Roberto Arlt is beating like a wild beast, it insinuates itself as a presence devouring beast somehow. At this point, I recommend you to go for a ride on the blog ioro the .

AF.: But I want to tell you why I'm glad that you speak of cranes abandoned ... You know how I'm obsessed with this idea of a threshold. Well, I noticed, reading this column, it almost made this idea practical. It affected me a lot too, because this island is a place where all mix and nothing more consistency own, it seems.

You know the "Stalker" Tarkovsky, the intermediary between two worlds ... I asked myself while reading this column if Tarkovsky knew her, which seems highly unlikely. But there are some strange kinship between very different worlds behind ...

C., Alas, I have not had time to discover Russian filmmaker, apart from Ivan's Childhood, a film and photography itself staggering. But who knows?

I also must say that I like to invent affiliations between artists unsuspected distant by distance, by time, more than anything close by a timeless genius. And besides, sometimes, by being aware of all these artists that I have not had time to explore the work, I'm dizzy.

Cranes, for they symbolize to me the workings of a failing company and unstoppable momentum at a rapid pace, progress towards which she imagines the scope but it is not capable of measuring what it offers. They embody the transition of that company, in hopes that they bring, and in despair they relate.

By Christophe (Edwood) and Anne-Francoise (interview to follow ...)

The art of lounging by Arlt, by Bartleby

           

Hack Someone Knowing Their Username Club Nintendo

boys are like - Apple and blackberry crumble beach-

He never warned me I live with someone . Thus, each reunion
was a meeting between the shelves of a bookstore or behind the windows of a cafe.
At home, I had built a square room crammed with crumpled clothes, medical courses and magazines.
For me, it does not come often, I did not find it quite well. It sounded just the end of Thursday afternoon and brought chocolate croissants. I lived in an apartment
small, dark and icy winter. The floor was very nice, there were wooden beams and a fireplace but the windows were tiny, not open or opened onto a wall. It was very crowded, filled with books, posters, videotapes, postcards and chocolate bars. It was the time on my answering machine, people were received by the introduction of a song Radiohead. It was also the time when I was wearing jeans rolled up on Clarks brown leather tired than when I had a wallet in striped fabric and a duffle coat. That was when I was expecting that life begins.
the ground floor of my building there was a bar, which often changed its name. One day in February, it was not a Thursday, it had sounded, he had something important to say. I learned traits because it was a harsh winter. We decided to go for coffee down (I never drink coffee) and, while I wondered if I would rid my red scarf or not, he said Maybe we could live together .
Many winters have passed since then and last Friday, something came sealed, not just old memories, shared and happy, but also those to come, and we do not suspect.
To celebrate, he had planned a Sunday lunch at Olivier Roellinger , and on the road that winds up Cancale, the excitement was at its height.
This meal full of good feelings, I will keep in mind especially the arrival of the dessert trolley and its three floors filled with sweets reassuring yarrow, vanilla profiteroles, strawberries, Paris-Cancale (praline and pistachio), tart with figs or apricot-chocolate chocolate or caramel and salted butter, stewed nectarines Kampot pepper, meringue, nougat, marshmallow and orange powder Equinoccial ... I can not remember everything. What I found terrible, it's back to the waitress, once the plates removed, and his question miraculous Have you had enough desserts? As I'm shy and I have the idea that something was missing do with pleasure, I have not gained profiterole, though it was just insane.
Then there was a long walk into the wind (change of shoes pinch, but you know , I am always equipped) and we talked about focus, botanical gardens, hotels in Paris, a jacket with cuffed sleeves striped and celebration that we do in the new apartment, years after the coffee I had not even drank in the bar downstairs from my building.
You'd think that after the feast roellingeriennes, we would have gone to dinner. It was not counting the very long walk, during which our hands to pick up wounded dozens of beautiful ripe and had closed the purchase of any salad spruced granny who held a mini-vegetable stand at the roadside, seaside (j ' you might have about the charm of picking blackberries, the eye becomes increasingly vigilant to identify the larger fruit, the brightest, and the hand that extends to detach the ripe carefully while the other hand removes the thorns unwelcome, but I have little experience, I would not say anything).
While in the car all lights on, we made suggestions impossible, given the time and robbed the state of the fridge the night before to make a meal worthy of the name after the session Uncle Boonmee (not the film by Apichatpong Weerasetakhul my favorite but it was good anyway). There would be no Caesar salad, or pork with ginger (mummy's recipe) but the idea of the club sandwich was diverted to the kebab! Not because you see, when I go there is always a queue at the mad kebab next to the press. So I looked and they announced that the meat is home, once I know, you could try ...
(I know there are those who disappear at the mere idea but I assume, I like-good-kebabs!)
At home, while he was setting the table, I got off at full speed and at the bar recently renovated, I asked a large tray of meat, a small basket of fries (that's unusual and heretical but you see, I do not hide anything), white sauce and some bread. A sort of deconstructed kebab. In the elevator, before crossing the front door of the apartment, I crossed my fingers that it is not worse than Royal Kebab (next to the SBT, my favorite. And Also, the boss's wife book sometimes chicken thighs stuffed) because they are really nice there and I do not like infidelity.
ceremonial tasting and fun.


In the end, it was very good: the meat was well grilled and had a taste of sweet pepper, white sauce was really extra fresh, with micro-diced cucumber BUT it was not as regressive at Royal Kebab ! Salad granny had about it the taste of his kindness.
Anyway, I like the idea that I live with a boy who can unfold a napkin at lunch on his knees and feast on dishes in the sophisticated fine china and dinner eat a kebab with a glass of amber beer.
The next day, after a summit meeting, it was decided that would eventually mature into crumble. True to himself, in the same way he prefers the cheesecake crust thick , he also likes crumbles with lots of dough. Blackberry and apple have a happy marriage.


simplissible and rapidissime Recipe: mix 120g of flour with 100g rapadura and 75 g of almond powder sand then there 100g salted butter very cold . Mix in a dish ripe (about 200g), six small apples (rather tart), peeled and cut into cubes and a tablespoon of vanilla sugar (get the vanilla pods whose seeds have only been used, place them in a jar and fill it with powdered sugar and wait). Pour the crumble topping and bake (35min at 180 °)
This quaint architecture to serve it with ice vanilla, but it's also good architect!