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dogs, stones of words in the right place

I do not mind books for work and sometimes I feel sorry for the deviation of the common thought that makes us imagine what it would be nice deal all the time things we love (as if loving them was enough to make them suitable for employment for work).

I do not mind books and sometimes I think it's better because I do not know if I would be nice or strict, as I read, how little systematically over quantity, as disorderly, as voraciously. I do not know if it justice to a book, I do not know if I would be able to analyze, understand, let us do all those things that people who write the books and with books - books - we are working.


At certain times (like this), with a little 'luck, I can find some' time and put together a little 'books and the time to read them and breathe a bit'.
Sometimes, with luck, I happen to come home and for a series of coincidences, find myself reading a short story with all the words in the right place, with images sharp, with the story of another, but the memory of first time that the world out there I was disappointed.


I do not mind books and sometimes I think it's a good thing, especially when I hear people who work there talk of professional bias in various forms and tell me that, often, the books can no longer enjoy them.
I do not know if this is true, or whether it is always true, but the risk, if any, I would not run, because they have always been the only way to lose myself in the best sense of the term, and is something that I find less frequently. Like tonight.

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Things you think

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Now that I have left that city, I find it hard to shake the feeling that life contains a constant posterior gradient. In English there is a word, aftermath, indicating that following an event.
Someone once told me that, literally, the term refers to a second mowing of hay in the same season. Anyone prone to general observations could be argued that New York City casts his hand on the cyclic memory mower, the kind of posthumous deliberate reflection has the effect - or so they say, desperately and hopefully - by the thin ' grassy past reduced to manageable proportions. Why
that continues to grow, of course.

Joseph O'Neill, The invincible city