What I often tell myself, in my soul and his inner optimist always a bit messy anyway, is that with the literature, given everything that was written from the beginning that human beings knows about listening to something other than hodgepodge protean and sticky in a culture that does its hearings and turnovers as shameless talents of entire cohorts of writers who toil through wage shameless us believe that selling a book and a yogurt, a car and a Wagner opera, it's the same thing, comma (phew) no one is ever in the whole of his short life free to discover the wonders.
So it's not worth all strive to read between 15 and 25 years, especially if it does nothing to better understand and please the teachers, whatever their sex, save some for the road ... You'll need it.
So I come in, after this introduction, penetrating about who leads.
I had never read anything by Mr. Gracq what happiness is in store for me I not tell me later I still myself while writing these lines. And what luck! Since this gentleman wrote lots of books. And as for yet I have read that!
"At Castle Argol": if writing is building, getting lost, paint, play music elements, to live extraordinary beings we instinctively can find the mirror in us, then this writing is well both heaven and earth, and the substance of the flesh, and simmer the most subtle and most secret. If writing is a moment, cover a world of a unique look, which never looked upon anything, and never look over anything, the time to raise some lives above everything and to make this jewel burning of which is falling hands on the last page, we have reinvented what there is most precious in solitude, ie, its necessity as the need of the world, then this button to write a form of perfection. If writing is cut, slide after slide, transparent and filled with the designs of the spirit, the fates of people in the most unlikely we familiar with, familiar with the requirements of the happiest of our imaginations, so that writing is a wonder .
And I weigh my words.
"At Castle Argol" Gracq:
First paragraph: Though
the campaign was still warm from the sun all afternoon, Albert embarked on the long road that led to Argol. He took shelter in the shade already grown hawthorn and set path. He wanted to give
another hour to enjoy the agony of the accident. He had bought a month earlier mansion Argol, woods, fields, outbuildings, without the visit, on the enthusiastic recommendations - rather mysterious - Albert remembered this strange accent, throaty voice that had decided - a very dear friend, but a little more than is proper, amateur de Balzac stories of chouannerie, and also crime novels. And without further deliberation, he had signed petitions for clemency foolish to chance.
Last paragraph:
In the midst of the long December night by the stairs deserts, through the deserted rooms, with torches extinguished, torchlight spilled, he left the castle under the garb of the traveler. Soon his footsteps led him (for he hurried into the cold night) went to the Magic Albert and Heide had followed a fatal day. The skirts of his coat floating surrounded him as black wings. And behind him, and his brain they reached in areas where acute serve the heightened senses, not sounded the depths of the cold night - its not? They came to him from the depths of the night - and he recognized them as if he had ever expected. But it did not turn toward the mysterious traveler. He did not return. He ran in the middle of the fairway, very quickly, and not followed. And, losing breath, he felt that now would not join him, and in the all-powerful failure of his soul, he felt the icy flash of a knife sinking into his shoulders like a handful of snow.
>>> Go and feast on what is between these two paragraphs. Now, later on, but if possible before dying.
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