https://youtube/watch?v=0MlcRSC5tvI He was called the monk, the name of a whole life, sign of a lost faith, an ended vocation. You saw him to come in rags and strangeness while malice of children laughed at his wisdom ... After a glass of wine, with some ironic and bitter phrases, he spoke in German and Latin, he spoke of God and Schopenhauer. And he talked and talked with me and I listened him while the summer evening would not die ... He lived with everything and with anything, of wine that moves memories, charity of the people, of gods and deaf philosophers... Chat of a drunk, with jumps in time and space, stories of benders and loved women who did not understand Horace. And those nights of summer tasted as wine and science, with me who felt him with cultured kindness. But until now I have not figured, while I was listening to, who was making fun, who between him and me was learning... But I have not yet understood, between laughter for women and for God if he was wretch or if I am wretch... But I have not understood with my fake culture who had understood life, who did not understand anything...
Posted on: Tue, 09 Dec 2014 19:42:52 +0000
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