Big Breasts Skinny Women

Walking slowly through the streets. Etgar Keret

Christo Mastaba project, 1966

" He fell asleep. When he opened his eyes and let it roll over the back, the sun was setting. The wind went through the grass with a rumor merciful. Tied and untied three pine branches with large fraternal gestures appeasers. Robinson felt his soul light ship flying into a heavy clouds crossing the sky with majestic slowness. A river flowed into it gently. It was then that he was sure a change in the weight of the atmosphere, perhaps, or in breathing things. He was on another island , which had seen once and never again had become a show later. He felt, as never before, which was lying on the island, as if on someone who had the body of the island in itself. It was a feeling that I had never experienced with that intensity, even when walking barefoot on pebbles yet! was so alive! The almost carnal of the island against him, warmed him, he was excited. She was naked, the land that surrounded him. He undressed in turn. With outstretched arms, stomach tight, with all his might embraced her body quake, burned all day by the sun and releasing a musky sweat in the cooler air of late. His face closed to digging in the grass roots and with his mouth blew a warm breath in the middle of humus. And the earth said to the face sent him a whiff of smelling overloaded that linked with the soul of plants adjudged and smell musty, sticky seeds of outbreaks in pregnancy. ! To what extent wisely mingled and confused life and death at the elementary level! Your sex pierced the ground as if the fence of a plow and there poured an immense pity for all created things. ! Strange sowing a solitary image of the great Pacific! Here lies, exhausted, he who married the earth and it seems - lazily attached tiny frog skin of the globe - turn sharply with her in the infinite space ... At last he rose again in the wind, a little dazed, and was greeted eagerly by the unanimous three pines that answered the cheers far down the rain forest which bordered the green and stormy horizon. "

Michel Tournier, Friday or the limbs Pacific Mexico, Alfaguara, End of the Century Collection, 1992. ISBN 9-789682-939662

...

"Today, on this island, a miracle happened: summer came on. I put the bed near the swimming pool and bathing was, until very late. It was impossible to sleep. Two or three minutes were enough to turn out in sweat water that should protect me from the awful calm. In the morning I woke up a phonograph. I could not return to the museum, to look for things. Hui by ravines. I'm in the basement of the south, including aquatic plants, outraged by mosquitoes, with the sea or dirty streams to the waist, seeing absurdly anticipated my flight. I think that these people came to look, perhaps I have seen. But I follow my destiny, I am deprived of all, confined to small place, less habitable island in the sea marshes deleted once a week.

Café VI © Johanna Lozoya 2010

writing this to let adverse testimony of the miracle. If you do not die within days drowned, or fighting for my freedom, I hope to write the Defense for survivors and praise of Malthus . Attack them in these pages, to the exhausting of forests and deserts, demonstrate that the world, with the improvement of police documents, journalism, radio-telephony, customs, does irreparable any miscarriage of justice, is a hell unanimous for the persecuted. So far I have written this page yesterday but did not provide. ! How about occupations in the desert island! ! What is the unsurpassed hardness of the wood! ! Much larger space shifting the bird!
An Italian, who sold carpets in Calcutta, I had the idea to come to me, said (in their language):
- For a fugitive, for you, there is only one place in the world, but do not live there. It is an island. White people was built in 1924 or so, a museum, a chapel, a swimming pool. The works are completed and abandoned.
I interrupted him, wanting his support for travel. The trader continued:
- not Chinese pirates or the ship painted white Rockefeller Institute touched. Is the focus of a disease, even mysterious, which kills from outside to inside. Caen nails, hair, skin die and whites of the eyes and the body lives eight, fifteen days. The crew of a ship that had docked on the island were skinned, bald, no nails - all dead - when he found the Japanese cruiser Namur a. The steamer was sunk by gunfire.
But my life was so horrible that I decided to leave ... The Italian tried to dissuade me, I was able to help me.
Last night, for the hundredth time, I slept on the island empty ... Seeing the buildings thought what it would cost to bring these stones, how easy it would have been up a brick kiln. I slept late and the music and screams woke me at dawn. The life of fugitive sleep lightened me: I'm sure that has not reached any boat, no plane, no blimp. However, from time to time, in this heavy night of summer, the grasslands of the hill are covered with people dancing, strolling and bathing in the pool, as holidaymakers installed from some time in the Teques or Marienbad. "


Adolfo Bioy Casares, The Invention of Morel , Buenos Aires, Emecé Publishers, 1953.