Author of quotes: Julio Cortazar. Page 1

Every time amazes me, every time you care about someone... looking for me to see, and if someone will say that I am thrilled with false modesty, I will answer that: the Jackal howls, the bus rides - no, you can see, I am destined to remain sobachenka, which devours the grateful eyes of those who love him is above my paygrade, so to point and paragraph.

... Could well happen that the Baker on the corner - the new incarnation of Napoleon, he does not know, because the order was not violated, because he never will descend the revelation on the bus, but if somehow he managed to locate the truth, he would understand what was and is the same way that Napoleon and his leap from busboy to owner of a thriving bakery in Montmartre - the same as a jump from Corsica to the throne of France, and that digging in the events of his life, he'd gradually found a situation matching Egyptian campaign, the Consulate and Austerlitz; and he even would have understood that in a few years something's going to happen to his bakery and he ended his days on St. Helena, in the small room on the sixth floor, too defeated, too, surrounded by the waters of loneliness, is also proud of his bakery, this eagle rise. Well, catch?

I am pleased to own you (as before, slowly, with ritual refinement), carefully bending the reed your hands, adjusting to the bliss of trembling body, wide eyes, until finally you don't calm down in a smooth moire rhythms, bubbles from the bottom of me lifting, I tenderly run my fingers through your collapsed on the pillow hair, surprised to see the way in the green twilight you flows through my hand, and I already know that you just got out of the water, of course, it's too late and now you lie on the stone embankment, in the framing of the Shoe and the screaming, lying face up, naked, and wet your hair, and open your eyes.

You sleep and in her sleep slightly move my leg, giving the sheet new shape, looks like you irritated or probably upset, and your lips, saturated with contempt, fatigue and bitterness, almost to hinder respiration, impetuous as the wind, and if I wasn't bitter because of the eternal your empty threats, I would consider you beautiful, as if in a dream you again would be almost welcome, returning us to the lost closeness and the former feelings so far from disturbing this morning, aselective tires and zagolosili bondage cock screams.

You deserve a man who will not leave your words without response, you gradually grow into the perfect couple, in a gradually stinking male and female, decaying, looking into each other's eyes, to ensure insignificant delay, and to live again and again plunge into the assertion of the truth of the undivided piece of land and the bottom of the pan.

Well, suppose you went away, promising to finally jump into the Seine or something of the same sort, the usual nonsense that can only be recited in the dead of night, on the crumpled bed sheet, cotton tongue, and I barely hear them, despite your attempts a light touch to get my attention, so long as such deaf to your words, sliding across my closed eyes, on the other side of sleep dragging me down somewhere.

I touch your lips with your finger on the lead edge of the mouth and draw it like he came out from under my hand, as if your mouth is opened for the first time, and enough for me to squint, so he was gone, and then start all over again, and every time I make reborn your mouth I want your mouth, which is selected and drawn on your face with my hand, your mouth, one of all chosen by the Supreme freedom, I elected to paint it on your face with my hand, mouth, which will clean the case (and I'm not trying to understand how it happened) turned out to be just exactly the same as your mouth that smiles at me from under the mouth, drawn with my own hand.
You look at me, look at me close, closer and closer, we play Cyclops, we look at each other, bringing together the face and the eyes are bigger, and everything is closer together, screwed each other: look Cyclops in the eye, breathing breaks down, and our mouths meet, poked prakusya each other's lips, slightly pushing his tongue in his mouth and tickling each other's heavy, irregular breathing, smelling the ancient, familiar smell and the silence. My hands are looking for your hair, immersed in their depth and caress them, and we kiss as if our mouths are full of colours, exuding a vague, dull flavor, or alive, fluttering fish. And if it happens to bite, the pain is sweet, and if it happens to gasp in the kiss, suddenly swallowing at the same time and subtracting the air from each other, then the death-moment beautiful. And saliva we have one two, one two this taste of the Mature fruit, and I can feel you shaking me, like the moon, shivering in the night waters.

Life is marking time in a circle whose center is everywhere and circumference nowhere.

We roamed the streets and were not looking for each other, knowing: we go to meet.

And how easy it is to build a suitable circuit, to restore order in thought and in life, organize harmony. Common enough hypocrisy, enough to build past the rank of life experience, removing the sense of wrinkles on the face and experienced with what he learned to smile or be silent for more than forty years of his life. And now you're wearing a blue suit, a carefully combed silver whiskey and appear on the exhibition or are included in the "Garden" or "Richmond", being reconciled with the world. Discreet skepticism, the kind of person returned from afar, decently entry into adulthood, marriage and the path fatherly teachings over lunch or a journal with unsatisfactory marks. I'm telling you because I've lived the life. I saw the world. When I was a kid. They all, as one, identical, I tell you. I'm telling you from experience, son. You don't know life.

Mate - as a paragraph. Drank - and you can start with the red line.

Sjatoi me the Blues.

Most of all he feared the most subtle form of gratitude which turns into a canine devotion; he didn't want freedom, the only outfit that was the Mage-to-face, disappeared in the Babi compliance.

I, getting captured nights levavcha music and tobacco, petty mischief, and all sorts of antics, regardless of whether I fall under their power or remained his own boss, I never wanted to pretend like those worn by the fans of Bohemia, narikawa pocket chaos of the highest spiritual order or hanged on any other labels are equally rotten; I didn't want to agree, if a shred of decency would be enough to get out of this utterly filthy little world.