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In the box these days, my vow of silence.

What is an aphorism but a philosopher suffering from laziness.

Some people naively yield to provocation and ends using its artillery against suicidal fanatics. Poor idiot: it shall be a murderer while their victims pretender achieved, however, heroic eternity.

The challenges are the north side of ambition.

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For the same road in autumn meadows dot the meadow saffron. A couple of days, we deal more aware of the path of heaven. Rain had been announced. Finally, barely fell short orbayu early. The glare was filtered immediately as a thick broth through the clouds. She felt a relief of oil to the cliffs. Strong brushstrokes skyline. A color of clay to the beach. An air impressionist. A carefree calm to our steps and words. Two strokes on some stones tell the traveler the good sense to his departure: the tension of wire arranged over the cliff. Below, the sea came quietly. On the front Sueve mists clung. At the door of some houses flourished glycine. Arrivals and the mason, was surprised at the violent roots of eucalyptus coming, that everything can, however, could not the ancient footprints of dinosaurs. X. took the photo of a girl whose foot often branded these craters. That lightened the color tone of fossil verse. In the village we expect a bowl game and a poor pans. Fresh cider and lively chat. The sun was out and a thought for a moment to resign to return; up suit with closed eyes lying on a chair on the terrace of the bar leaving the afternoon consumed as chips in the warm glare of the sky. Desktop laziness took only a little way back. At its end, a pair of kites on the beach of the island gave him a meager candle closing day. As shortness of breath. The dog melancholy of everything that has and ends.

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After strolling through the Cais de Gaia. To drink in the shade of the wineries. To navigate the river in a rabelo for tourists. After slowly swallows the gorge in the afternoon. After the ruins change their dirty gold by a curtain to act. Even after the river also that girt her waist with a silver cold air. At that time the portrait, her notebook was open to the fading light, the village and bridges, the Douro and the washing, peeling the city ya en la noche Cierna; tan abierto como un goal de una cámara un boceto confundiera that greedy con la vida en tránsito.

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Traducción simultaneous.

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Mi pequeña dosis art deco night of sleeplessness.

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My city is not called Lisbon, does not smell nor the south it passes over the river, but as she has milky springs and marbles ... In my city of gold are the sunsets over the Douro river and the sea and only she has the late afternoon light adorn the granite ... In my city, as in Lisbon for gulls and sea air but no ferries on the river for transporting nectar Rabelo and souls ... Born in my town north craggy, unyielding and the sun, when it penetrates her gently, tenderly, after winning the fog ... In my town there are also sessions, cats, doves, roasted chestnuts and bait and fate through the alleys, hung with springs like clothes to dry on the wires ... My city has also languescentes afternoons, gazebos plazas old playing cards at garden tables and reviving of widows and spinsters riding the tram ... It is true that the light in my city, not like the Lisbon but the light of my town is a flutter of love astro-rei to the na Beija-border, each Manhã! ...

Maria Mamede

(My city is not called Lisbon, and smells of the south, or by passing it the Tajo, but as Lisbon, has sources of milk and marble. In my city the sunsets are golden on the Douro River and the sea, and only she has a light sunset that adorns the granite. In my city, as in Lisbon, there are gulls and sea air, but no ferries in Rabelo is the only river that carry nectar and souls. In my city born North Cliff and disobedient, and the sun, when it comes to it, the delicate and lovingly enters after beating fog ... In my town there are cries, cats, pigeons, roasted chestnuts, liver and fado in the streets, adorned with fountains, with clothes drying on the awnings ... My city is also languishing afternoons, kiosks in the streets, old men playing cards at tables garden. And in her reborn widows and spinsters when riding in the tram. It is true that in my city of light is not such as Lisbon, but the light of my town is a flutter of love of the sun that kisses on the forehead every morning.)

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Ayer vi The wave . German film portrays, with brisk pace and effectiveness narrative, one week in the life of a German high school. The story goes like this: a teacher who touches on luck to explain the concept of autocracy, he decides, for a better understanding of the characteristics that identify all dictatorial system, put into practice in their own classroom methods that engender totalitarian formations. Interestingly, the involvement of students and the teacher, is such that after three or four days everything takes on a uniform absorbing and dangerous, a group that takes his name The wave . The end is tragic. The parable is squeezed to the womb and leaves a residue of bitterness and in the right terms, a concern, that in every group always exclusionary trend develops, much of what is singular at the margin, as what ends up being part lack of autonomy and only makes sense as gear. Leo

also the last article of Fences in El Pais Semanal, Before policy, which echoes some views held by Irene Lozano, which comes to the conclusion that the remedy for bad policy is not less political, but more. And that healthy democracies are those in which citizens consider not as a right but as a civic duty, to devote some years of his life to politics.

I remember once, as a counterpoint, what Zygmunt Bauman wrote: ideologies are those that make heavy veils look without seeing. It is this inclination which incapacitating our Étienne de la Boétie called voluntary servitude.

How reconcile it? How to deal with a political commitment which seems obvious that we should not shirk-without emasculating submission to party discipline? A symbology that stale, or military child, colorful, logos, tune and rallies. In this cult regarding verb teen easy or groomed image. Related to the entrenchment between foot plunges us into the mud and pushes us to shoot at the other side for mere survival, not listen to reason. Returning to La Boétie: voluntary servitude. Ola.

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Some children playing on the banks of a river flowing down fast. A girl's body floating face down. An elderly woman who goes to the doctor at a hospital and is out with the desperation of a mother who is dragged along the floor to learn that his daughter has just died. Poetry is a Korean movie directed by Lee Chang-dong that begins in tragedy and swings for two hours on a risky balancing on the dark plot that flies and delicate manners and aspirations that guide the life of its protagonist. For Mi-Ja, the grandmother played by the light and elegant actress named Yoon Jeong-Hee, wants to learn to write poetry. And in this effort continues even after learning that his teenage grandson, with whom he lives, is responsible, along with five other boys in his class, from the terrible abuse inflicted on a teenage girl which led to suicide. Mi-Ja's will even keep write a first poem in his life after also know that these emerging memory leaks that lead to consult a doctor are the beginning of Alzheimer's disease. Mi-Ja is taking notes in a small notebook he keeps with him at all times in her handbag and which point is the feeling that wakes you up contact with nature even in this short and painful journey that takes her to the house in the area of \u200b\u200bthe dead teenager. Your writer will not pursue late but put into practice the advice of the teacher's writing workshop, looking at things with such intensity that for a moment can be one to feel within them. So the end of the film returns to the river's waters. Everything is closed on its way. And a voice is that of Mi-Ja recited the poem given to the teacher as the final course work. Do not talk about it. Neither of the flowers and trees in their notes. The poem speaks of the pain of a budding woman after a few verses he takes over the narrator. Mi-Ja has managed to embody the soul of Agnes, the girl commits suicide. He was inside her and from there end and diligently wrote his poetry.