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Refresh and try again. Open Preview See a Problem? Details if other :. Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. The Enigmatic Greek by Catherine George. Her toughest assignment yet…? Getting an interview with mediahating billionaire Alexei Drakos was never going to be easy, but Eleanor Markham is nothing if not resourceful! But the feisty Eleanor appeals to him, and it has been too long since a beautiful woman has warmed his bed. He strikes a deal: an exclusive interview in return for a few nights in his exclusive company… Get A Copy.

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« La Guerre et la paix » épisode 1 de Léon Tolstoï

Sort order. Jun 23, Naksed rated it it was ok Shelves: cold-aloof-hero , commitment-phobe-hero , greece , harlequin-romance , insta-love , insta-lust , i-didn-t-feel-the-love , island-romance , ow-is-hero-s-1st-love , pathetic-heroine. This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it, click here. A holiday fling between an English journalist and a reclusive Greek tycoon on the Cretan island likely to have inspired the myth of the Minotaur complete with spooky network of underground tunnels and caves, and an annual festival recreating the myth with dancers in loincloth and bull mask takes a sinister turn when the heroine is haunted by the flesh and blood beast or is it just an apparition?

I didn't get why the commitment-phobe hero suddenly went after the heroine. He is the one who kept re A holiday fling between an English journalist and a reclusive Greek tycoon on the Cretan island likely to have inspired the myth of the Minotaur complete with spooky network of underground tunnels and caves, and an annual festival recreating the myth with dancers in loincloth and bull mask takes a sinister turn when the heroine is haunted by the flesh and blood beast or is it just an apparition?

He is the one who kept repeating that their holiday fling would end when they both returned to the "real" world. He didn't really pinpoint how, when or why he fell in love with the heroine in two days after years and years of playing the field and pining for the one Greek girl who got away and dumped him for someone else in his ILY declaration either, except to mention that his parents liked her and thought he should hold on to her. Not my idea of romance! Worst, the ignoble individuals who beat up the heroine quite badly on several occasions, almost drowned her, almost gave her a heart attack by showing up in the middle of the night in her bedroom with the Minotaur mask on, and would have probably raped her too, get off Scot-free because the family wants to avoid publicity.

For a Harlequin romance, it was a nice travelogue. View all 6 comments. Jan 21, Caro rated it did not like it Shelves: beta-hero , can-t-believe-this-is-a-writer , didnt-work-for-me , dropped , enamorados-del-amor , horrible-book , lack-of-chemistry , my-gosh-not-now-not-ever , non-virgin-heroine , unclear-lovers-before-hero. Jul 27, Andreina rated it it was ok.

But no!

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And yet why does she weep? What evil gnaws her flank so strong and sleek? She weeps because she's lived, and that she lives. Madly she weeps for that. But more she grieves And at the knees she trembles and goes weak Because tomorrow she must live, and then The next day, and forever - like us men.

Et l'on peut pour cela te comparer au vin. Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres? Tu marches sur des morts. Sur ton ventre orgueilleux danse amoureusement. Si ton oeil, ton souris, ton pied, m'ouvrent la porte D'un Infini que j'aime et n'ai jamais connu? De Satan ou de Dieu, qu'importe? Your gaze, divine and infernal, Pours out confusedly benevolence and crime. And one may for that, compare you to wine. You contain in your eyes the sunset and the dawn ; You scatter perfumes like a stormy night ; Your kisses are a philtre, your mouth an amphora, Which make the hero weak and the child courageous.

Do you corne from the stars or rise from the black pit? Destiny, bewitched, follows your skirts like a dog ; You sow at random joy and disaster. And you govern ail things but answer for nothing. You walk upon corpses which you mock, O Beauty! Of your jewels Horror is not the least charming. And Murder, among your dearest trinkets, Dances amorously upon your proud belly.

The dazzled moth Aies toward you, O candie! Huge, fearful, ingenuous monster! From God or Satan, who cares? Angel or Siren, Who cares, if you make, - fay with the velvet eyes, Rhythm, perfume, glimmer ; my one and only queen! The world less hideous, the minutes less leaden? Your gaze infernal, yet divine, Spreads infamy and glory, grief and bliss. And therefore you can be compared to wine. Climb you from gulfs, or from the stars descend?

Fate, like a fawning hound, to heel you've brought ; You scatter joy and ruin without end, Ruling ail things, yet answering for naught. You trample men to death, and mock their clamour. Amongst your gauds pale Horror gleams and glances. And Murder, not the least of them in glamour. On your proud belly amorously dances. The dazzled insect seeks your candle-rays, Crackles, and burns, and seems to bless his doom. The groom bent o'er his bride as in a daze, Seems, like a dying man, to stroke his tomb. What matter if from hell or heaven born, Tremendous monster, terrible to view?

From God or Fiend? Siren or Sylph? Invidious The answer - Fay with eyes of velvet, ray, Rhythm, and perfume! Je respire l'odeur de ton sein chaleureux. Pendant que le parfum des verts tamariniers. Qui circule dans l'air et m'enfle la narine. On which shines a dazzling and monotonous sun ; A lazy isle to which nature has given Singular trees, savory fruits, Men with bodies vigorous and slender.

And women in whose eyes shines a startling candor. Guided by your fragrance to these charming countries. Led by your scent to fairer climes at last, I see a port of sails, where every mast Seems weary of the labours of its cruise ; While scents of tamarind, blown here and there, Swelling my nostrils as they rinse the air. Are mingled with the chanties of the crews.

O boucles! Je la veux agiter dans l'air comme un mouchoir! Comme d'autres esprits voguent sur la musique. O perfume laden with nonchalance! Sweltering Africa and languorous Asia, A whole far-away world, absent, almost defunct, Dwells in your depths, aromatic forest! While other spirits glide on the wings of music. Mine, O my love!

I shall go there, where trees and men, full of vigor. Are plunged in a deep swoon by the heat of the land ; Heady tresses be the billows that carry me away! Ebony sea, you hold a dazzling dream Of rigging, of rowers, of pennons and of masts : A clamorous harbor where my spirit can drink In great draughts the perfume, the sound and the color ; Where the vessels gliding through the gold and the moire Open wide their vast arms to embrace the glory Of a clear sky shimmering with everlasting heat. I shall bury my head enamored with rapture In this black sea where the other is imprisoned ; And my subtle spirit caressed by the rolling Will find you once again, O fruitful indolence, Endless lulling of sweet-scented leisure!

A long time! Aren't you the oasis of which I dream, the gourd From which I drink deeply, the wine of memory? O curls! O scent of nonchalance and ease! What ecstasy! To populate this room With memories it harbours in its gloom, I'd shake it like a banner on the breeze. Hot Africa and languid Asia play An absent world, defunct, and far away Within that scented forest, dark and dim. Mine on its perfume sails, as on the spray. Fil journey there, where man and sap-filled tree Swoon in hot light for hours.

Be you my sea, Strong tresses! Be the breakers and gales That waft me. Blue tresses, like a shadow-stretching tent. Along its downy fringes as I went I reeled half-drunken to confuse the scent Of oil of coconuts, with musk and far. My hand forever in your mane so dense, Rubies and pearls and sapphires there will sow, That you to my desire be never slow - Oasis of my dreams, and gourd from whence Deep-draughted wines of memory will flow.

Madame Bovary (Webster's French Thesaurus Edition)

Et t'aime d'autant plus, belle, que tu me fuis. Et que tu me parais, ornement de mes nuits. I adore you as much as the nocturnal vault, 0 vase of sadness, most taciturn one, 1 love you ail the more because you flee from me. I advance to attack, and I climb to assault, Like a swarm of maggots after a cadaver. And I cherish, implacable and cruel beast, Even that coldness which makes you more beautiful. I charge, attack, and mount to the assault As worms attack a corpse within a vault.

And cherish even the coldness that you boast, By which, harsh beast, you subjugate me most. Femme impure! Salutaire instrument, buveur du sang du monde. Impure woman! Your eyes, brilliant as shop Windows Or as blazing lamp-stands at public festivals, Insolently use a borrowed power Without ever knowing the law of their beauty. Blind, deaf machine, fecund in cruelties!

O foui magnificence! Sublime ignominy! It's boredom makes you callous to ail pain. To exercise your teeth for this strange task, A heart upon a rake, each day, you'd ask. Your eyes lit up like shopfronts, or the trees With lanterns on the night of public sprees, Make insolent misuse of borrowed power And scorn the law of beauty that's their dower.

Oh deaf-and-dumb machine, harm-breeding fool World sucking leech, yet salutary tool! O sordid grandeur! Infamy sublime! Oeuvre de quelque obi, le Faust de la savane. Pour briser ton courage et te mettre aux abois. Dans l'enfer de ton lit devenir Proserpine! By far preferred to troth, or drugs, or sleep. My caravan of longings seeks in drouth Your eyes, the wells at which my cares drink deep.

I am no Styx nine times with flame to wed. Nor can I turn myself to Proserpine To break your spell, Megera libertine! Within the dark inferno of your bed. Like the dull sand and the blue of deserts, Both of them unfeeling toward human suffering, Like the long web of the ocean's billows. Like those long snakes which charmers, while entrancing.

Wave with their wands, in cadence, up and down. Like the sad sands of deserts and their skies, By human sufferings untouched and free. Her eyes Are made of charming minerais well-burnished. Her nature, both by sphynx and angel furnished, Is old, intact, symbolic, and bizarre : She seems, made ail of gems, steel, light, and gold. In barrenness, majestic, hard, and cold, To blaze forever, like a useless star.

De ton corps si beau. Miroiter la peau!

Mer odorante et vagabonde Aux flots bleus et bruns. Belle d'abandon. Et ton corps se penche et s'allonge Comme un fin vaisseau Qui roule bord sur bord et plonge Ses vergues dans l'eau. Quand l'eau de ta bouche remonte Au bord de tes dents. Your eyes where nothing is revealed Of bitter or sweet. Are two cold jewels where are mingled Iron and gold.

To see you walking in cadence With fine abandon, One would say a snake which dances On the end of a staff. Like a stream swollen by the thaw Of rumbling glaciers, When the water of your mouth rises To the edge of your teeth, It seems I drink Bohemian wine, Bitter and conquering, A liquid sky that scatters Stars in my heart! It iridesces Like silk or satin, smoothly-glazing The light that it caresses. Your eyes where nothing can be seen Either of sweet or bitter But gold and iron mix their sheen, Seem frosty gems that glitter. To see you rhythmically advancing Seems to my fancy fond As if it were a serpent dancing Waved by the charmer's wand.

Under the languorous moods that weigh it, Your childish head bows down : Like a young elephant's you sway it With motions soft as down. When, as by glaciers ground, the spate Swells hissing from beneath, The water of your mouth, elate, Rises between your teeth - It seems some old Bohemian vintage Triumphant, tierce, and tart, A liquid heaven that showers a mintage Of stars across my heart.

Les jambes en l'air, comme une femme lubrique. Le soleil rayonnait sur cette pourriture. Les mouches bourdonnaient sur ce ventre putride. Vivait en se multipliant.

Antibes, France, Côte d'Azur. Walk in the Old Town. Early Morning

Comme l'eau courante et le vent. Ou le grain qu'un vanneur d'un mouvement rythmique Agite et tourne dans son van. Etoile de mes yeux, soleil de ma nature. Vous, mon ange et ma passion! Apres les derniers sacrements. Quand vous irez, sous l'herbe et les floraisons grasses. Moisir parmi les ossements. At a turn in the path a foui carcass On a gravel strewn bed, Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, Burning and dripping with poisons, Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way Its belly, swollen with gases.

The sun shone down upon that putrescence. As if to roast it to a turn. The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly, From which came forth black battalions Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid Ail along those living tatters. Ail this was descending and rising like a wave. And this world gave forth singular music, Like running water or the wind. Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion Shake in their winnowing baskets.

Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog Watched us with angry eye, Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass The morsel he had left. Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being, You, my angel and my passion! Then, O my beauty! Legs raised, like some old whore far-gone in passion, The burning, deadly, poison-sweating mass Opened its paunch in careless, cynic fashion, Ballooned with evil gas. On this putrescence the sun blazed in gold, Cooking it to a turn with eager care - So to repay to Nature, hundredfold, What she had mingled there. The sky, as on the opening of a flower.

On this superb obscenity smiled bright. The stench drove at us, with such fearsome power You thought you'd swoon outright. And flowed, like molten and liquescent jelly, Down living rags of hide. The mass ran down, or, like a wave elated Rolled itself on, and crackled as if frying : You'd think that corpse, by vague breath animated, Drew life from multiplying. Through that strange world a rustling rumour ran Like rushing water or a gust of air.

Or grain that winnowers, with rhythmic fan, Sweep simmering here and there. It seemed a dream after the forms grew fainter.

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Or like a sketch that slowly seems to dawn On a forgotten canvas, which the painter From memory has drawn. Behind the rocks a restless cur that slunk Eyed us with fretful greed to recommence His feast, amidst the bonework, on the chunk That he had torn from thence. Yet you'll resemble this infection too One day, and stink and sprawl in such a fashion. Star of my eyes, sun of my nature, you, My angel and my passion! And you go down to moulder in dark places Beneath the grass and clover.

Then tell the vermin as it takes its pleasance And feasts with kisses on that face of yours, I've kept intact in form and godlike essence Our decomposed amours! Toi, Tunique que j'aime. And the other six months darkness covers the land ; It's a land more bleak than the polar wastes - Neither beasts, nor streams, nor verdure, nor woods! Down to a dark abyss my heart has sounded, A mournful world, by grey horizons bounded, Where blasphemy and horror swim by night.

For half the year a heatless sun gives light, The other half the night obscures the earth. No horror in the world could match in dread The cruelty of that dire sun of frost. And that huge night like primai chaos spread. Comme aux vermines la charogne - Maudite, maudite sois-tu! Tes baisers ressusciteraient Le cadavre de ton vampire! I begged the swift poniard To gain for me my liberty, I asked perfidious poison To give aid to my cowardice.

As is a convict to his chain. Or as the drunkard to his dram. Or as the carrion to its lice - I curse you. Would my curse could damn! Both poison and the sword disdained My cowardice, and seemed to say "You are not fit to be unchained From your damned servitude. Je veux dormir!

Dans un sommeil aussi doux que la mort. Dont la ferveur attise le supplice. Je sucerai, pour noyer ma rancoeur. I wish to sleep! In a slumber doubtful as death, I shall remorselessly cover with my kisses Your lovely body polished like copper. To bury my subdued sobbing Nothing equals the abyss of your bed, Potent oblivion dwells upon your lips And Lethe flows in your kisses.

Full text of "baudelaire-fleurs"

My fate, hereafter my delight. I long, in the black jungles of your hair, To force each finger thrilling like a sword : Within wide skirts, filled with your scent, to hide My bruised and battered forehead hour by hour. And breathe, like dampness from a withered flower, The pleasant mildew of a love that died. Lulled in a slumber soft and dark as death. In ruthless kisses lavishing my breath Upon your body smooth as burnished brass.

Like a predestined victim I submit : My doom, to me, henceforth, is my delight, A willing martyr in my own despite Whose fervour fans the faggots it has lit. To drown my rancour and to heal its Smart, Nepenthe and sweet hemlock, peace and rest, Tll drink from the twin summits of a breast That never lodged the semblance of a heart. Et dont le souvenir pour l'amour me ravive.

Obscurcir la splendeur de tes froides prunelles. And I began to muse, by that peddled body. About the sad beauty my desire forgoes. If, some night, with a tear evoked without effort You could only, queen of cruel women! Soften the brilliancy of your cold eyes. And from your cool feet to your great black tresses, Unleashed the treasure of profound caresses. The blazing of your eyes, their icy fuel. Au fond d'un monument construit en marbre noir.

Et tes pieds de courir leur course aventureuse. De n'avoir pas connu ce que pleurent les morts? Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux. Je vois ma femme en esprit. Son regard. Un air subtil, un dangereux parfum Nagent autour de son corps brun. When my fingers leisurely caress you, Your head and your elastic back. And when my hand tingles with the pleasure Of feeling your electric body.

In spirit I see my woman. And, from her head down to her feet, A subtle air, a dangerous perfume Floats about her dusky body. Now while my fingertips caress at leisure Your head and wiry curves. And that my hand's elated with the pleasure Of your electric nerves, I think about my woman - how her glances Like yours, dear beast, deep-down And cold, can eut and wound one as with lances ; Then, too, she has that vagrant And subtle air of danger that makes fragrant Her body, lithe and brown. Roulons-y sans remords, amazone inhumaine. This fencing, this clashing of Steel, are the uproar Of youth when it becomes a prey to puling love.

The blades are broken! But the teeth, the steely fingernails, Soon avenge the sword and the treacherous dagger. In the ravine haunted by lynxes and panthers. And their skin will put blooms on the barren brambles. This abyss, it is hell, thronged with our friends! Let us roll there without remorse, cruel amazon, So the ardor of our hatred will be immortalized! That clinking swordplay was the tender squeak Of youth , when it's a prey to bleating love.

The swords are splintered, like our youth, my darling. And now it's teeth and talons are the fashion. The clash of swords is child's play to the snarling Of hearts adult in ulcerated passion. Rags of their skin flower red upon the gorse. This gulf is hell, and peopled by our friends.

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Here, hellcat! Corne, let's roll without remorse To celebrate a feud that never ends! Que l'espace est profond! Je croyais respirer le parfum de ton sang. Et mes yeux dans le noir devinaient tes prunelles. Et tes pieds s'endormaient dans mes mains fraternelles. Ces serments, ces parfums, ces baisers infinis. You'll remember the sweetness of our caresses, The peace of the fireside, the charm of the evenings.

Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses! The evenings lighted by the glow of the coals, The evenings on the balcony, veiled with rose mist ; How soft your breast was to me! We often said imperishable things, The evenings lighted by the glow of the coals. How splendid the sunsets are on warm evenings! How deep space is! In bending over you, queen of adored women, 1 thought I breathed the perfume in your blood. The night was growing dense like an encircling wall, My eyes in the darkness felt the fire of your gaze And I drank in your breath, O sweetness, O poison!

And your feet nestled soft in my brotherly hands. The night was growing dense like an encircling wall. I know the art of evoking happy moments. And live again our past, my head laid on your knees. For what's the good of seeking your languid beauty Elsewhere than in your dear body and gentle heart?

As rejuvenated suns rise in the heavens After being bathed in the depths of deep seas? O perfumes! Mother of memories, queen of paramours. On eves illumined by the light of coal, The balcony beneath a rose-veiled sky, Your breast how soft! Your heart how good and whole! We spoke eternal things that cannot die - On eves illumined by the light of coal! How splendid sets the sun of a warm evening! How deep is space! When, queen of the adored, towards you leaning, I breathed the perfume of your blood in flower. And as my eyes astrologised your own, Drinking your breath, I felt sweet poisons quicken.

And in my hands your feet slept still as stone. I know how to resuscitate dead minutes. I see my past, its face hid in your knees. How can I seek your languorous charm save in its Own source, your heart and body formed to please. These vows, these perfumes, and these countless kisses, Reborn from gulfs that we could never sound, Will they, like suns, once bathed in those abysses, Rejuvenated from the deep, rebound - These vows, these perfumes, and these countless kisses?

Comme lui, O Lune de ma vie! Pourtant, si tu veux aujourd'hui. Te pavaner aux lieux que la Folie encombre C'est bien! Like him, Moon of my life! And plunge your whole being into Ennui's abyss ; I love you thus! However, if today you wish, Like an eclipsed star that leaves the half-light, To strut in the places which Madness encumbers, That is fine! Charming poniard spring out of your sheath! Light your eyes at the flame of the lusters!

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Moon of my life! Half shade yourself like him. Slumber or smoke. Be silent and be dim. And in the gulf of boredom plunge entire ; I love you thus! Light up your eyes from chandeliers of glass! Light up the lustful looks of louts that pass! Be what you will, black night or crimson dawn ; No fibre of my body tautly-drawn.

Je fais bouillir et je mange mon coeur. Quand il atteint sa totale grandeur. Je reconnais ma belle visiteuse : C'est Elle! Une senteur montait, sauvage et fauve. Et tout semblait lui servir de bordure. De ces grands yeux si fervents et si tendres. De ces baisers puissants comme un dictame. De ces transports plus vifs que des rayons. Que reste-t-il? Qui, comme moi, meurt dans la solitude. Et que le Temps, injurieux vieillard.

Chaque jour frotte avec son aile rude Or the inveterate musk of a sachet? Profound, magical charm, with which the past, Restored to life, makes us inebriate! Thus the lover from an adored body Plucks memory's exquisite flower. From her tresses, heavy and elastic, Living sachet, censer for the bedroom, A wild and savage odor rose. And from her clothes, of muslin or velvet. Ail redolent of her youth's purity, There emanated the odor of furs. An indefinable strangeness and charm By isolating it from vast nature, Thus jewels, metals, gilding, furniture.

Of those wide eyes, so fervent and tender, Of that mouth in which my heart was drowned, Of those kisses potent as dittany, Of those transports more vivid than sunbeams, What remains? Nothing but a faint sketch, in three colors, Which, like me, is dying in solitude. And which Time, that contemptuous old man, Grazes each day with his rough wing Black murderer of Life and Art, You will never kill in my memory The one who was my glory and my joy! In vaults of lone unfathomed grief.

No rosy sunbeams bring relief. With dreamy oriental mien. When fully its own form defining, I recognise who it must be. Sombre yet luminous, it's She! Or smelt an ancient bag of musk? It's by such charms the Nevermore Intoxicates us in the Now - As lovers to Remembrance bow Over the bodies they adore. From her thick tresses as they fume Scent-sack and censer of the room A feline, tawny perfume springs. III The Frame As a fine frame improves a plate Although the graver needs no vaunting - I know not what of strange and haunting From nature vast to isolate Her beauty was conferred by gems, Metals, and gear.

She mingled with them. And swirled them ail into her rhythm As in her skirts the flouncing herns. They say she thought ail things were stung With love for her. Her naked flesh She loved to drown in kisses fresh Of flax or satin. To her clung. What can remain? A fading sketch, a faint three-coloured haze, Which like myself unfriended wanes away, While Time, insulting dotard, every day, Brushes it fainter with his heedless wing Killer of life and art!

Fatigue le lecteur ainsi qu'un tympanon. Statue aux yeux de jais, grand ange au front d'airain! And some night sets the minds of men to dreaming, Your memory, like fables shrouded in the past, Will weary the reader like a dulcimer. Jet eyed statue, tall angel with a brow of bronze! Montant comme la mer sur le roc noir et nu? C'est un secret de tous connu. Et, bien que votre voix soit douce, taisez-vous! Taisez-vous, ignorante! Bouche au rire enfantin! Plus encor que la Vie, La Mort nous tient souvent par des liens subtils.

That's a secret known to ail, A simple pain, with no mystery. As obvious to ail men as your gaiety. So abandon your search, inquisitive beauty ; And though your voice is sweet, be still! Be silent, ignorant! Still more than Life, Death holds us frequently with subtle bonds. Let, let my heart become drunk with a lie; let it Plunge into your fair eyes as into a fair dream And slumber long in the shadow of your lashes. That secret ail men know - An obvious sorrow, with no mystery, shown, Clear as your joy, to everyone around.

O curious one, seek nothing more profound. And speak not, though your voice be sweet in tone. Les Bois morts. Yves se retrouve dans la rue, les deux manuscrits sous le bras. Il pleure. Biographie tome II p. Francis Scott Fitzgerald. Le manuscrit a plus de huit cents pages. Yves Navarre. Et le roman en moins de quarante jours. Biographie, tome II, chapitre Mais, encore et encore, lequel?

Ecris cette histoire. Telle quelle. Encore un roman inattendu. Mai Ta vie. Plus de braises. Rien que des cendres. Juin Mort de Jean-Louis. Une balle dans le coeur. Lundi 1er septembre. Les chats font la sieste. Le calme est revenu. Un jour, je trouve par hasard un de ses livres alors que je suis dans le train, entre New York et Washington. Mercredi 24 septembre. Et sans changer un mot.

Demain matin, au lever du jour, je prendrai le chemin de Condom. Il ne meurt plus! AlbertCamus pic. Site de la Fondation C. Elle va seule, avec son ombre. Je me levai, je longeai le quai. Vent — Direction : Je souhaite dans ma maison une femme ayant la raison un chat passant parmi les livres des amis en toute saison sans lesquels je ne peux pas vivre. La mort dans la vie de Freud par Max Schur. Les bombes atomiques?

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