Dacă ne gândim că acest om al înțelepciunilor nu ține nici măcar una din cele zece porunci, mai degrabă ar trebui numit homo pecattum sau homo furor, omul păcatului sau omul nebuniei. De asemenea acest om al înțelepciunii nu are nici măcar o credință adevărată, este incapabil de credință.
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Viciul, vițiul, este ce-l caracterizează de pe vremea Eugeniei Grandet și din vremurile vechi. Dacă un Suflet se dedică la observarea lumii, a umanității, a roiului de popoare ale pământului, cu răbdare și industrie, poate vedea Nebunia sălășluind în palatele țărilor, în băncile trusturilor, în tronurile bisericilor.
Nebunia atotputernica Nebunie, mai vorace asupra bietelor creiere omenești decât pe vremea lui Erasmus și William Penisuri decrepite. Urăsc această lume, spune D-zeu. Descopăr în mine Axa Dickens, Sabato, Gorki Păclișa, penisuri decrepite aprilie Because I know now that You love me, sweet Eliza, I will begin tell You the story of my family because it deserves to be told, of story of tragedy through life and love through tragedy, generation after generation ever since the times of the Round Table Enchantresses.
As you probably saw I haven t managed to write any real book for years now because of my excessive sinapses, but I will try to sing this Medieval ballad of Love and Torture to You and penisuri decrepite to my F book page again and again, day after day, month after month, by grace, seeking beauty and truth. It all starts with my family. As I can say writing the book of Death, short-circuited my brain, because of the intense pain and work, and for years I believed I reached my epic climax.
But I will try again. Penisuri decrepite must understand that I am haunted by three spirits just like old Ebenezer Scrooge.
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I will tell you about them. The first is the Ghost of Christmas Past, my Mother. I don't know what to tell You about Her.
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Probably all I know about Her is that She loved me very much. I was blessed as they would say. Yes, She loved me, truly, madly, deeply, with unconscious Catholicism and mysticism, this was her life, Love. For me mostly. I was the reflection of the third Spirit, but I will tell you about Her. It's Her book.
Who was in between? Hamletian question -- The Ghost of Christmas Present, with roast apples and roast chicken, with food and drink, and women, and joy, far from home.
A demon Spirit, a deceiver, not a man, nor beast, but a monster of logic. One day he left and the next day we knew Nothing of him. This is the story of the Scrooge of the postcommunism. I, this masonic Scrooge, payed in full the debt of Communism and camaradery. I payed But I don't know for who. I payed for a few pictures, a name, and this body that I have, and for this blank space I have in my brain when I think of Him.
And for my all-life ignored cousins.
I don t know. And I had her, for the most, until the years of madness came and of rising son. Pozițiile penisului is my biggest regret. Well, my Friend, I penisuri decrepite close the manuscript now, because I cannot write.
For the first time in penisuri decrepite life, I believe, I asked myself now how would have been if Ana, my, were happy instead of a Buddha, but we all were, and maybe this is Cora's destiny. I know that you love the Bible, and I know it is true, in the simple perception of the universe, I know because She loved Him until sudden death. This is the secret I believ of my obsessive faith unvanquished not een by the hedonist psychyatrists.
You all my life I asked why I suffer, and answers came only at old age.
I would like to make of this an English novel but it's not, it's Romanian, and black, and catholic. The wife faithful with her whole body like the holy relics until the other Lover comes to take Her to the Palace Sans-Souci. And it's true that we see the calvary and not the Angels. We all carry stories with us. We hold them ĂŽnghiocate in our brain, like unripe nuts, and this are our Torahs like Rabbi Mark Bloom says, our truth, the truth we do not know what to do with.
With our death this truths will return to God and History, and millenia will pass over our tombs, but I maybe the stories are more important than us. They are our models, we are have at least one, but for you Montague Ana was a pagan You have to understand me, Beatrix, for years I believed I found the truth, in the arms of the Bishop and before at the table of Hermits, but when Death came I thought for the first time of a banned church in a faraway unvisited village, where She went penisuri decrepite She was like You.
But there câți ani are penisul unei persoane nothing wrong with it. It is just that for me Saints are real and Mary is God.
But I am not a preacher, I am just a Mary worshipper. Where was Mary when God created the world, I think. Where were You and Me.
And yes I lived my life thinking of Ana. These pages are feminine, I know, because I have both brains, but maybe my message is what beautiful would heve been if She lived and we had had known her.
My Mom died too, and now I am Catholic. I no longer depend on churches. Mary is with me. My dream - is to make a church for Mary and women here in your village. Penisuri decrepite I am not holy, I am just a pilgrim, a Russian pilgrim. Penisuri decrepite am sorry if I have haunted you penisuri decrepite years. I am sorry. But you are the way back into love for me. I wandered for centuries and you are Mademoiselle Pogany.
And yes maybe I am a demon too, but I didn't want to be. And maybe always I believed we need to fiind an instinct beyond instinct. If I spoke to You, would you be mad?
There is a tear in Christianity. You go and speak, use your brain, to get to God and grace, we, to speak truth for once, go humbly kerouacs and worker-women, and penisuri decrepite our love, or profess our love, or just try to yoga our love to God, Jesus and Mary, that s all we do. Aren't we Christians? This is our hurt, after been the traitor of the gint. We sing, the ones who can, as you would have sung to me.
Maybe more than sing, we return home, to the beautiful icons and ancestors, the white walls of Calvary, and the meek priest which we love. We are not that educated, but believe our mothers, don't you? Just we go to our Church, and maybe one day penisuri decrepite die, maybe, or maybe other generations will love Mary.