Anti-îmbătrânire swiss roll turf. Follow the Author

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In the Soviet days, when everything was communal and didn't belong to anyone, theft was not a problem. Like everything else, it was communal: everybody stole, and nobody lost. Now only the richest stole, and they made sure the poor couldn't, by inventing property. Property was an invention against ordinary people, who owned nothing.

That was Misha, in Russian. Yet they don't pride themselves, don't write down their history, preferring their legends, folktales, fables passed from generation to generation, their "once upon a time" instead of, say, "on the thirteenth of December of the aforesaid year in Copenhagen.

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I look for the Gypsies—as in Slovenian Prekmurje—and am disappointed when I don't see them, feel that I've strayed too far and it's time to go back. I am related to them, in an illegitimate way: I learned how to put words together, and my words survive somewhere, and yet I cannot create a credible account. What is travel, anyway, if not spending, then reckoning what's left and turning your pockets inside out?

Whatever stops in half stride because it lacks the strength or will or imagination to continue. Whatever gives in, gives up, does not last, and leaves no trace.

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Histories that live no longer than the relating of them, objects that are only when someone regards them. This is what haunts me—this extra being that everyone can do without, this superfluity that is not wealth, this hiddenness that no one explores, secrets that, ignored, are lost forever, memory that consumes itself. March draws to a close, and I hear the snow slipping off the mountains in the dark. The world like a snake sloughing another skin.

The same feeling each year, and it deepens with each year: the true face of my region, of my corner of the continent—precisely this changing that changes nothing, this movement that expends itself.

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Some spring, not only will the snow melt, everything else will melt, too. The brown-gray water will wash away towns and villages, it will wash away animals, people, everything, down to the naked skeleton of the earth. Meteorology and geology will join forces, ruling in a dubious coalition with history and geography. The permanent will seize the transitory by the throat. The elements will resume their places on Mendeleev's eternal table, and no more tales, no more narratives anti-îmbătrânire swiss roll turf be needed to interpret existence.

There should be a to-be-continued, which may have nothing to do with the beginning, so long as the story is nourished by the same substance, so long as it breathes the same albeit somewhat stale air.

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I tell myself it doesn't matter if I find nothing. Thus I set out for Ubl'a, east of the volcanic mountains of Vihorlat, mountains no one in his right mind would venture into, as they are haunted by the ghosts of field officers and front-line soldiers of the Warsaw Pact, and by pallid ghouls, deserters, who sell arms and uniforms as souvenirs.

I drove through the town of Snina, where among weeping willows stood two-story garrison buildings with red roofs, all looking as if they had been thrown together that same day and had aged and fallen apart just as quickly.

On benches in doorways sat women with children.

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Soldiers' wives, widows of the officer ghosts? Snina was a dream dreamt at the edge of a country that had lost all its enemies.

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As if everyone, exhausted by the everyday, was taking a nap, hidden behind curtains, behind rambling roses in gardens, behind the windows of furtive cars, in the stuffy interiors of gray homes, and only these dark-skinned and cursed people were surrendering themselves to life, making use of the world and their few minutes in it like a winning ticket.

White folk, lazy, rooted, fearful, stay in their homes, as one does on a Slovak Sunday.

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You see only the Gypsies, walking in their solitude, in twos and threes, on the roadsides from village to village, and the green countryside closes after them like water. It's as if they could not live without space.

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Freed from the workings of time, they are indifferent to the nothingness that will claim Gönc and all the other places we have given names to, because only by naming can we grasp the world, even as we condemn it to destruction. A cart in Transylvania hitched to two horses, and in the cart a frightened foal, a couple of neostrata ser anti-îmbătrânire recenzii old, its legs splayed, a child embracing its neck affectionately, face in the brown fur, as if the child had found a creature smaller than itself and more defenseless.

Red Kalderash petticoats on the road to Mount Moldoveanu, bare feet covered with yellow dust. A smoldering dump in ErdŐhát; small, slender figures plucking metal, plastic, and glass from the smoking rubbish.

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A dump in Tiszacsécse, by the road that winds above the river, where an old man with a pipe in his mouth pulls long pieces of wood out of the hills of junk; he ties them in bundles and sets them beside a relic bicycle I assume Codreanu visited Valea Grecului too; he was a young man on the move. He hated the Communists, who believed in the future, as much as the Jews. His dull, provincial mind probably had trouble telling them apart. Basically, he never stopped being a prophet from the sticks.

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The world was divided into Romania and the rest, and the rest had no value because it wasn't Romania, let alone Huşi. La mort de ma tratament antirid frunte, Albert Cohen Gallimard, "Mets ton chapeau de côté, mon fils, et sors et va te divertir, car tu es jeune, va, ennemi de toi- même.

Mais tout ce que j'ai de bon, c'est à elle que je le dois. Et ne pouvant rien faire d'autre pour toi, Maman, je baise ma main qui vient de toi.

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Elle perdait tout jugement quand il s'agissait de son fils. Elle acceptait tout de moi, possé- dée du génie divin qui anti-îmbătrânire swiss roll turf l'aimé, le pauvre aimé si peu divin.

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Avec ma mère, je n'avais qu'à anti-îmbătrânire swiss roll turf ce que j'étais, avec mes angoisses, mes pauvres faiblesses, mes misères du corps et de l'âme.

Elle ne m'aimait pas moins.

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Amour de ma mère, à nul autre pareil. C'est notre spécialité maison, le malheur.

Note Doctorat Foarte Importante | PDF | Psychanalyse | Névrose

Il ne faut surtout pas comprendre un délire. Attention, il ne faut pas chosifier. Et ça a, comme tu le dis, un effet de compagnie. Au moindre défaut de vigilance, on fabrique des malades-symptomes.

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Ni avec les autres ni seul, nulle part. Donc, Dieu a inventé les névroses, toutes formes possibles de névroses. Sur quelle strate arrivez-vous? Vous pourriez au moins vous le demander. Ramasser Dieu qui git dans le détails, comme tu dis.

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Quel est donc le role du psychanalyste? Comment cet etre humain fait comme les autres, issu de la meme population, a-t-il éte formé de sorte que son écoute produise de tels effets de vérite? Identifiés tour à tour au père ou à la mère -victimes- ou -ratés. Sans doute, il est pris dans tout un ensemble de jugements moraux : mais cet horizon ne modi e que très peu l'appréhension médicale de la maladie 2.

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Fait curieux à constater : c'est sous l'in uence du monde de l'internement tel qu'il s'est constitué au XVIIe siècle, que la maladie vénérienne anti-îmbătrânire swiss roll turf détachée, dans une certaine mesure, de son contexte médical, et qu'elle s'est intégrée, à côté de la folie, dans un espace moral d'exclusion. Enfermé dans le navire, d'où on n'échappe pas, le fou est confié à la rivière aux mille bras, à la mer aux mille chemins, à cette grande incerti tude extérieure à tout.

Il est prisonnier au milieu de la plus libre, de la plus ouverte des routes : solidement enchaîné à l'in ni carrefour.