It is true that there are wonderful books, those who read and reread and devour anxious, even leaving aside the student responsibilities to satisfy the passion of the moment.
More certain is that there are golden books, unique in its kind, in which we look at the characters, plot, which mirror the atmosphere of our warm days and undivided feelings.
is in these where our voice is installed, taking possession of the particular story or becoming part of it, giving life to each line almost palpable, it also seems that some nosy writer spy on us at every step, and also leverages the learn more about us than ourselves. Breaks here the concept of Deconstruction Derrida, in some part mentions that this is a tension between the dual voice / presence / write / absence, diluted, melted, because it is written that work, the remains inexorable, that we are, there can be no absence we would be no reason for absence or a caricature of a diary lost. There is all of our voice, that every drop of ink is this a wish or a fear that has already been or is in our living.
And it does not happen that "one is saying" but "to read one is reunited" in a reminiscence, and writing becomes more than a mediation between oneself and the reality is a reality where I show up again as a deja vu, as you complete the curved line that makes sense.
There are times when the presence is absence,
there are times when life and the books are more than theories.
Erwin .-
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