so I read 'a little of everything', disorderly, but books, in specie, philosophy. They weigh much, and yet, those eating it and put them in body, lives in the clouds.
When I smoked my head, I closed the library and I went for a steep sentierucolo, a lonely stretch of beach.
The view of the sea made me fall into a stunned dismay as it became intolerable oppression. I sat on the beach and prevented me from looking at him, lowering his head, but I felt the thunder for the whole coast, and slowly, slowly, I slid in the sand between your fingers thick and heavy, murmuring
Cosi ', again until his death, without any change, ever ... The property is' the condition of my life that I suggested then thought suddenly, strange almost flashes of madness. Sprang up, as if to shake it for him, and I used to walk along the shore, but then I saw the sea send restless, there at the shore, waves his weary drowsiness; saw that sand there abandoned; shouted angrily, shaking his fists:
- But why '? but why '? And I
bagavo feet.
(Luigi Pirandello, The Late Mattia Pascal )
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