Book: Plague. Page 2

I too spent a lot of time in hospitals, so I was seduced by the idea of collective retribution. But you know, Christians sometimes like to talk on the subject, though they really don't believe it. They are better than they seem at first glance.

They still did business, was preparing to travel and had their own opinions. How could they believe in plague, which at once cancels the future, all trips and debates? They considered themselves free, but no one will never be free until there is a natural disaster.

Natural disaster made man, because-and it is believed that a disaster is something surreal that it de a bad dream that will soon pass. But not the dream ends, and from one bad dream to another over the people, first and foremost humanists, because they neglect the precautions.

When war breaks out, people usually say, "Well, this may not last long, it's too stupid." Indeed, war is really stupid too, but that does not prevent her to last long.

Natural disaster and actually quite normal, but believe in it with difficulty, even when it collapses on our head. The world has always been a plague, always has been war. And yet, plague and war, usually caught people by surprise.

In the evening appointments that Rie was expecting a guest and looked at his mother, sitting primly on a chair in the far corner of the dining room. It is here, in this place, she finished with the chores on the farm, spending all her free time. Hands folded in her lap, she waited. Rie wasn't even quite sure what she is waiting for him. But when he entered the room, the mother's face changed. All that long work life was reduced to silence, it seemed that at once it came alive. But then she again plunged into silence. This evening she looked out the window at the already empty street. Street lighting has been reduced by two thirds. Only rare and weak light still pierced the darkness of the night.

My mother was the same, I loved it this ability voluntarily to this neglect, and most of all, I would like to be with her. It's been eight years, but I can't bring myself to say she died. Just take a back seat a little more than usual, and when I turned around it's gone.

He squeezed her wrist. So it was decided to get married. The end of history, according to the verge, was very simple. Same as everyone: getting married, still love a bit of each other's work. Work so much that they forget about love. Jeanne too was forced to enter the service, because the chief did not keep their promises. <...> Grand from persistent fatigue once wilted, rarely spoke with his wife and failed to support her belief that she is loved. The husband, consumed with work, poverty, slow akrivastina the way to the future, the heavy silence hanging in the evenings over the dining table - there is no such place for passion. Obviously, Jeanne was suffering. However, she did not. ... The years went by. Then she left. Not alone, of course. "I really loved you, but I'm too tired... I'm not so happy that he was leaving, but because in order to begin life over again, not necessarily to be happy." That's about what she wrote.

For it is a sense of exile should be called the state of nezaposlenosti in which we were constantly, you can clearly feel, a reckless desire to turn back the clock or, conversely, to speed it up running, all of these burning arrows of memories.

Indeed, who will venture to assert, that the ages of heavenly bliss can pay for at least a moment of human suffering?

When an innocent creature is deprived of eyes, a Christian can only or lose faith, or agree to also remain without eyes.

Ah, if only an earthquake! Rock good - and that's the end... Count the dead, the living, that is all. But the bitch plague! Even those who are not ill, still carries the disease in their hearts.

Who is he, a Saint? Yeah, Holy, if Holiness is the totality of habits.

The only thing valuable to me is to die or live what you love.