Piercing Lip Cahin Ear

Total freedom for wolves is death lambs

Both Liberty and Equality Among the primary goals are Pursued by Human Beings THROUGHOUT Many centuries; goal total liberty for wolves Is Death To The lambs, total liberty of The Powerful, The Gifted, is Not Compatible With The rights to a decent existence of The Weak & the less gifted.

Isaiah Berlin, The Crooked Timber of Humanity. Chapters in the History of Ideas , Princeton, Princeton University Press, p. 12.

Last Saturday, a half-hour from downtown Quebec City, took place the most important event in the history of the province, even humanity. No, it's not about the birth of twins to Celine, and Mutt Jeff Dion-Angelil, but the gathering of this new extreme right movement - otherwise, why this gem of an honorary chief, Jeff Fillion: "I do not consider myself a lucid, far away. For me, the lucid, the same system, the same enhancement of the welfare state. [...] The lack of culture in left-right [sic ] is obvious when you think that Joseph and François Legault Facal are right "in short, if, in his world, everyone is on his left is that it is of extreme right is logical and geometric! - The Freedom Network-Quebec (RLQ). For people like Jeff who are having difficulty differentiating their right from their left, here are two suggestions for further reading here and here.

About 450 people, mostly males angry ex-IX or bruised ADQ - in dealing with the failure of autonomy, Maxime Bernier had focused its public - have listened to the speeches of orators is provocative, is amazing, or completely stupid. Ezra Levant, future Glenn Beck Fox News North, the oil sands is more ethical than oil of the Muslims. Gerard Deltell, a historian, welcomes the wealth, while forgetting that it was often accumulated at the expense of workers poorly paid or not (for example, Americans and slavery) and it is usually transmitted from generation to generation - according Fortune, 75% of all assets acquired by inheritance and not by the sweat of his brow - and decries the unions, for their claims, have greatly contributed to the outbreak of the middle class. Then Jacques Brassard, a climate-skeptic, who shows his ignorance and beautiful will be a next post. All in all, the celebration of "40 years of wandering the Quebec government" by the libertarian youth - the average age was in his thirties - contained all the ingredients for a wonderful bouillabaisse rightist narcissistic in a cauldron amnesia ( voluntary?) and submission to a transcendent economic order, mixed one part praise of wealth, a quarter of Magical Thinking, a cup of jealousy of the union, a bowl of black rage, a generous helping of ignorance dusted bad faith, a pinch of authoritarianism, and no need season with vision or shades.

The big losers of this adventure proved his many followers - we had to turn down! - Who vote against their interests, because in social Darwinism implied the RLQ of libertarianism, they stand unfortunately not at the top of the ladder. With such a right to power, union members will retain their rights protected by laws and charters, academics and the most educated have always advantageous salary conditions and benefits they can afford, and the poor will receive the aid if it is only to stabilize the peace. The victims are the working poor, dispensable, non-union, no benefits, anonymous and interchangeable, much of the clientele of the RLQ. For followers of profit does not care about those who can not get them: lambs.

Little viewing

Michael Sandel, Harvard professor and author of Justice , book I mentioned some time ago, is an outstanding teacher and his course is one of the most popular of this illustrious University: 14,000 students have taken it. We are lucky because this course of political philosophy is available absolutely free on the Internet here. I recommend it to everyone, but especially my friends from Quebec Freedom Network.

Greater Rate Of Respiration Reptile Vs Mamm

32 short questions on religion

Last week, a survey conducted in the United States by the Pew Forum on Religion & Public Life showed that believers knew something less in religion than atheists. On average, respondents correctly answered 16 of 32 questions and results are as follows: atheists and agnostics were 20.9, Jews, 20.5, Mormons, 20.3, Protestants, 16 and Catholics, 14.7. The results should not be very different in Quebec. As for me, I had 27/32. I have small gaps in Hinduism and Buddhism, and American history. The issues here are .

Why atheists have they fared better than the believers? It seems that the educational level of the former has been greater than that of the latter, at least in the sample. This does not mean that knowledge makes atheist! It means rather that education reduces ignorance.

I am an atheist and I apostate. The term "non-practicing Catholic" was hiding too much hypocrisy for my taste. I do not believe in God and did not need a disciplinarian, who sees everything we do and who we would blame at the end of today to lead a good life. In addition, there is no scientific proof of the existence of God because it is outside the scope of the experiment. That is why there is faith. And Pascal's wager, very little for me: I'm not gambler!

Nevertheless, religion, whether we veuillons or not, is part of one's identity - it is impossible to understand without knowing the individual's culture, so its myths, its beliefs and customs - and many need to believe to be happy. That is why I am in favor of the course Ethics and Religious Culture . Finally, there are bad teachers everywhere and people have never questioned the mathematics curricula or geography. Why so hard on the course RCTs? Because it makes the individual free to follow the way he wants, notwithstanding the objections of fundamentalists, religious or not, who want to impose their beliefs.

Jesus a philosopher?

Recently, I asked about the distance between the original message of Jesus and that of Church. (Special thanks to Bishop Ouellet!) It seemed that many speakers of the official Roman doctrine often betrayed the teachings of Christ, let us remember, is summarized in a single formula: "Love one another .

In Christ philosopher (Paris, Seuil, 2009), Frederic Lenoir revisits the history of Christianity from its origins to today and highlights the modernity of Christ's message which preaches equality, individual freedom, the emancipation of women, social justice and the separation of church and state. Briefly, values that have been overshadowed by Rome, which has confused the political and religious powers, for over a millennium. These values have resurfaced in the Renaissance, in response to clergy abuse. Modernity is thus born as a reaction against the Church by drawing its source in the ethics of Jesus.

On a more spiritual, Jesus, according to Lenoir, would facilitate an indoor practice makes it essential that any mediation or no human institution, as is implied in the parable of the Last Judgement :

When the Son of Man comes in his glory, of all the angels, then he will sit on his throne of glory. Before him shall be gathered all nations, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. It will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left. Then the King will say to those on the right: "Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you since the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, sick and you visited me, in prison and you come see me. "Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when we happened to see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and you drink, a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you, sick or prisoner and come see you? "And the King will answer:" Verily I say unto you, insofar as you did for one of these least brothers of mine, is mine that you did. '"(Matthew 25:31-40)

Indeed, the essence is there! And whether I am an atheist and apostate, I may still go to heaven!

Small readings
Charles P. Pierce, Idiot America. How Stupidity Became a Virtue In The Land Of The Free , New York, Doubleday, 2009. Markos Moulitsas
, American Taliban. How War, Sex, Sin, and Power Bind jihadists and the radical Right , San Francisco, Polipoint Press, 2010.

Americans are fascinating. On the one hand, they have created one of the most advanced societies in the world. On the other hand, they are capable of falling into the most abysmal stupidity. Pierce, in American Idiot, talk of war with the expertise that exists in the United States, mainly for economic reasons and Policy, whose objective is to eliminate this crazy idea that knowledge is good to establish that we should listen to those who know the least. Because, let's not forget, the experts are part of the evil elite! The opinion of the pastor of a church on the obscure theory of evolution is largely that of doctor of molecular biology! Why elect someone smart, so we just choose the one with whom one would have a beer? Why is the consensus of thousands of climate scientists on global warming he would carry more weight than a dozen "scientists" who confuse climate and weather and devoted to attacking the messenger rather than finding faults in the rigor of the message? In short, three principles that animate American Idiots:

• any theory is valid if it sells enough books or boosts ratings, brief if it is profitable;
• is true that everything has called strong enough;
• and a fact is something that is believed by enough people, the truth is determined by the fervor of believers.

If we trust what we read or listen to Quebec we must admit the American idiocy is contagious.

In a similar vein, but a record of more slobbering, Moulitsas trace links between the values of the American right and the Taliban: the pervasive moralism, the goal of establishing a theocracy, the use torture, the need always to declare war on someone, censorship, misogyny and slavery of women, the erosion of freedoms, etc.. It's a bit spoofed, but frankly funny!

Leaning A Mirror On Fireplace

52. Irving won

Xavier and I became friends. Despite his gruff side prophet, I learned to know and even now he departed in his time, he makes me still visit occasionally.

He returned in the future shortly after the military had transferred the capital to the revolutionaries, complaining of having failed in his mission. But things are soon back to normal when the international community has finally decided to intervene in the case French, to counter what has been called "the triumph of unconsciousness."

Within weeks, the newly arrived troops retook the capital and the revolt was nipped in the bud. I think in a few years, there will emerge a new generation of sixty-eighters who boast of having tried to change the world.

Everything is back as before, almost. Some social laws were passed, or restored, but the measures have lasted a year or two. Up what's new president told his constituents at some point we must be realistic.

I am anything but a leader of men. The army of losers is again reasonable, and today the country is experiencing an unprecedented labor peace. But I continue to be called Irving Rutherford.

Vincent ended up leaving the country. It has become quite an artist recognized overseas. One day when I had not heard from him for months, he called me and asked me to send my manuscript to get it published. When I asked him why he would do such a thing, he replied tersely, "Because I can."

Currently, my knight story was translated into English and distributed to small print. Sales ahead very bad, but Vincent still got called for a second book.

Unable to write another novel, I sent the manuscript old survivor of the fire in my apartment, where I spent my time to spit before. Vincent, in rereading it, I announced that I had never written anything better.

-I want to believe you, I said before hanging up.

And the record will probably all my life. Even if you never know what the future holds.

Martin has returned to about the same time that my tumor. I first learned to the tumor, and when I returned home after a long day at work (I've found work), she was there waiting for me outside my home. I have no idea how she found me.

She wanted to get back together, but when I took her in my arms I thought to the tumor, and I thought of this life full of compromises. I loosened my grip and I declined his proposal. I then spent several nights without sleep.

I finally sleep again, and I returned to my little routine. I tried to write one or two stories, that I failed to finish. I changed my job, to break the routine.

I got a tattoo. Last. I did write "Won" on my chest. Sometimes I meet in the mirror this tattoo survivor who proclaims "Every day is golden, and I have the reflex to scratch, as if he could leave. I try to save me paying for laser surgery, but most of my money is engulfed me in my attempt to reconstruct a collection of comics, and my medical expenses.

When Xavier going to see me, it reminds me that I'm still young. He tells me that the future does not seem to budge an inch these days, and that I should take this opportunity to offer me a vacation.

-whore The future is immutable, I remarked one day with a touch of bitterness.

-Just for people like you.

I went to spend a week with Vincent and it made me a very foolish. Although he has not had much time to give me, he was very hospitable, and introduced me girls could please me. I returned to France with his arms full of unsold copies of my first novel published.

I read it once to me, and I went to bed later, despite the jet lag and the working day waiting for me tomorrow. Looking back, I found the end rather optimistic

" Paxton Fettel fired three hundred gold pieces of his equipment, and two percent more of his sword. It's dressed like a tramp he left the small town hospitality. He passed through the forest without encountering a single robber.

Here I am now the king of nothing, "he exulted.

knight's life had been heavy and cumbersome. The drop in this way made him exult over several days. He had money in advance, and no responsibility. He even went to a group Goblins on the run without lifting a finger.

The days passed, inn to inn, and discovered that the world was not confined to the vast lands of Ragnar. Beyond the mountains to the east, waiting for the aquatic people who survived the great flood. Accessible by boat to the north was the land of giants.

Without realizing it, until he lost the urge to fight. Some nights by the fireside, he imagined the old kings slumped on their thrones, sword and crown pendant into disrepair, bards who listened with half an ear. He, the king of the pasture and temporary camps, fell asleep each night to the sound of adjacent taverns.

He ended up missing one day of money. He bought an old dilapidated farm for a pittance, and began to grow just enough head to feed. And hell, he would be happy!

His beginnings as a farmer were not easy, and its first harvest was so thin that he seek the generosity of its neighbors for the winter. We liked Paxton property in the neighborhood, although some were trying to make him understand sometimes in veiled terms that a knight will never make a good farmer, and vice versa.

-Honestly, I do not see any more noble in knight in the field work, often mocked Paxton.

"It's not a question of nobility, but temperamental. We do not force them to be someone else. "Gargan replied when the toothless, which put Paxton in a rage.

harvests followed, and soured somewhat. It was sometimes spend a gloomy veil over the eyes of Paxton, fleeting as it is inexplicable. And sometimes, when he saw children playing with wooden swords in the field, he seemed to make an effort to postpone his concentration elsewhere.

One day he met at the village fete Morgados his old friend, who did not recognize him at first sight. Paxton was forced to explain to him that he had renounced the knighthood to live more simply.

-Plus just what? Morgados was surprised.

They discoururent long on the usefulness of the regulation of goblins, and life as a free man. The two friends drank a few glasses, and went singing to the farm of Paxton. Morgados early morning resumed the road.

Paxton Fettel not working that day. He sat on a chair outside his door and watched the sun rise and descend. He allowed himself to enter the fields and their resource, and almost shed a few tears as he recalls some epic battles he had conducted.

He did not eat, did not utter a word, but seemed to spend his day doing long goodbye to something or someone with whom he was not really intimate. The fading light, his features soften to handle a somewhat childish nostalgia which drew a smile from the local peasants.

Some people seem a little strange.

nightfall, Paxton stretched, then went to store his chair inside. It falls one last time to contemplate the plain asleep, and took his decision. "

END

Pokemon Leafgreen Rom Controls

51. Single track (2)

-The future is the only thing which you think , that's why I'm here. You speak all the time, the future. You harping on things you'd do, you should do, and ultimately you deferred. And you know why you're the reporter? Because you love the idea of being a person in the making. You rejoice in seeing the road that lies ahead. The future, whore, you love him so much ...

I know why you cry and you know it too. Today there is no future. The only perspective you have left is the end of the day, and beyond that slab. I have come to talk about the real future.

-Have you finished? The real-

future moves, Xavier continues.

Roger has already said it before him. How many more? I do not agree in all cases. I will come to the end of the day, and there will be an after.

Xavier begins to explain that in the future he comes, I managed to prevent the catastrophe that occurs today, but that too I already knew.

I dry my tears and swallow my sadness for a time. The smoke dissipates gradually, revealing an empty battlefield, strewn with corpses, including that of a giant snake. Although I participated in my way, I feel like I get after the battle.

Xavier argues that we should restart, and go face Irving Rutherford home of Radio. Another thing I already knew.

I shake my body like a wet dog shake myself to get rid of the thick gelatinous mass which I am covered. Fatigue bothers me more than regret or fear. I would just lie down and sleep, and something I said if I do not do it soon, I'll never be in tune with my surroundings. Forget that even in a few hours is really Xavier. My companion

time traveler picks up a machine gun on the body of a fallen soldier, and suggested that I do the same. When I politely refused, he asked me sarcastically if I prefer swords. A new me sob back in the throat when I realize that it was he who taught me fencing. We

off again. I spend my time again on my way. I never stop and it bothers me that too. In a few hours I'll stop complaining. I cross

a long way whiny and self-centered, which is nearing its end. I tried to become an adult, but now at the point where I am, I'll just stay young. Drinking glasses out with friends and going to the movies. Living small jobs would be enough, hopefully without anything else, and without it pains me either. Losing my gallons and again a simple troufion in the army of losers.

Honestly, I wanted to be a better man, but I failed in my attempt to achieve it affect me anymore.

Come blow this guy's mouth, "I said.

We follow the Seine to the beautiful neighborhoods, who likewise have not been spared by the bombings. No sooner if the planes had the delicacy to preserve the Eiffel Tower. Sometimes when a shell fell a little too close to us, Xavier startled and wondered aloud when everything has been real ugly at this point. I finally meet him before I thought it started when people voted right at the last election, but now I understand that people have almost always voted right.

"There is no specific time, I said. That happens gradually. I even see why you came back today because it's not a day more crucial than another.

It hits the foot into an empty can, and send it to waltz in front of us so far that I lose sight of. I suddenly wanted to run after the catch, shouting "Come back!" As the idiot I am.

-A little pride, I advise Xavier, who has always read minds.

"It is not my forte.

Yet in saying this, I realize that I can more or less to put up with me these days. I figure it will last.

We approach the house of the Radio via the main entrance, ripped open by a rocket. The lobby is covered with a gray powder, made of burnt bricks. Cables pulled behind a desk attest to the flight computers.

"It's great, says Xavier, casting a glance at the site plan.

-On will separate. It boggles

against my proposal. He argues, tries to impose his views, but I remain adamant. Finally, he leaves his side, following a long corridor, telling me that I find later.

"I know.

I let myself slide down a wall to sit cross-legged. I rub my hands over my face, then rest a few seconds to fix the floor, eyes and empty head.

There will be no grand finale. Irving will find me, or I'll find, but there's no hurry. We each have two pawns, and everything I am doing here is taking care of my personal stories, which will not affect anything.

I'll get up and wander the halls. I pass the recording studio of one of my favorite shows, which has been miraculously spared from looting, and that is enough to make me happy. Suddenly, something clicked in my head is.

I put myself in search of studio France Info, knowing that Irving is there. I know because it's an idea that I had, although I would have given up. Larger world listens to the radio in normal times, but these days ...

Without realizing it, I start to run into the house of Radio, praying not to cross Xavier, and to finish quickly and go to bed. I traveled the large empty building, igniting the carpet sometimes when I run too fast.

I burn a lot of stuff, but I console myself by saying that if I do nothing, the other asshole will eventually burn the world. I

opens at France Info. I stopped at the door to catch my breath, giving me small slap on the face to wake me up. I feel the presence of my evil twin through the wall, stronger than ever. She calls me and taunting me, and if I was a little less fearful I will come right away to face my destiny.

But I carry a little longer. I open a window for fresh air, and smoke a cigarette imagination. I realize with amazement that my last attempt to stop the cigarette has been fruitful. Lulled by the cool wind that sucks the air with his evil from the recording studio, I wonder for the first time in years that I will do tomorrow.

The door opens, and Irving burst into the hallway. Instinctively, I form a small ball of fire between my fingers, I run over him. He leapt into the air and ducking my shot to go hang from the ceiling like a spider.

-fuck, but I could never get rid of you? wonder there.

"You take everything upside down, buddy.

I throw a second ball of fire, he still dodges dropping her heel to crush me on the forehead. I fell backwards, and it benefits me to be on the ground to beat me. I feel a slight crack in a rib, and cursed me for my evil twin broke a bone can not be plastered.

It lifts me at arm's length, and I am struggling few moments before it projects me against a wall, which breaks under the shock. I roll down, and coughing due to brick dust. This time I avoid taking inventory of my bones kisses.

I fly to meet him head first into his belly and he lets out a stifled cry, a sign that he can no longer breathe. I catch him by the neck and stick a knee in the nose. His hand grabs my face, pushing him and scratches that m'entaillent up blood, but I do not give up and give it another shot.

He finally found his breath and grabs my foot to project myself into the air, before I fall back violently to the ground. He repeated the process several times, using me like a sledgehammer to demolish an imaginary barrier.

I ride on the back, but he is stubborn and blocks my arms with his knees to immobilize me. He then proceeds to demolish my face with his fists, and I broke a tooth or two.

Panting, dripping with sweat, he finally released a revolver that weapon with a metallic sound strident. Dazed, his image seems distant, and I vaguely distinguished point a gun at my forehead. Without thinking, I spit a long stream of flame in the face, and he let me go going to roll over in a howl of pain.

You know the writer-warrior?

He does not answer me. We remain elongated few moments, exhausted. When he offered me a small break, I retorted that in any battle is a foregone conclusion for me, since it comes directly from my imagination.

A great sadness takes hold of me. I cast a glance at my evil twin, who has his hands on his face bloodied and burned. I see my own reflection.

-one listens to the radio anymore, "I said. Apart from the rich and DIY.

And the military, "he sobbed.

Suddenly everything becomes clear. A vague feeling of compassion takes hold of me, watching this other self that deals also deprived of his personal stories. In fact I have never taken the time to know him.

-Disappear.

Barely have I uttered those words Irving goes up in smoke. Even though I know it's passenger, I have clear ideas. I know for a while who I am and why I'm here. I know what I have to do.

I get up and into the studio, which Irving had already turned all devices. I'm going to the microphone, and hesitates a second, then regret having hesitated. "I'm

Irving Rutherford," I said calmly. The rebels have taken all the strongholds of the capital, as you can see. I ask the armed forces an immediate surrender, and I promise that no harm will be done. It's over. We won.

I cut the microphone and lie down on the floor, closing his eyes. I try hard not to fall asleep. My ideas again gradually to lose their clarity, and I gradually falls in this dark world that I know so well. I wonder if a moment what I accomplished today was supposed to.

a man's voice pulls me from my reverie. I open my eyes, and discovered that watching me with curiosity. When I asked him what he doing here, he says he adapts to the times. I try to ignore his remark funny and asks her name.

Xavier, he informs me.

Irving.

Note: Rewrite everything from the beginning

Soon: Irving won

Can Drinking Alcohol Delay Your Period

50. Single track (1)

The north calls me, without my knowing why. It's been some time now that I'm more thoughtful decisions. I'm heading towards the bombs simply in search of the battlefield where important things happen.

The sword and scared, I advance inexorably towards the Seine in search of a meaning to my actions. Nothing of what I experienced so far has managed to get on track or even on any route.

I'm an unemployed person who Fuck you. I am a voter who never vote for whoever gets elected. I take credit over thirty years, and hopefully a better world without erecting barricades. The army of losers is made up of infantry and clumsy unconvinced. Finally

shit, when do we get there? I am no more anxious than another, but it starts to do well. It should perhaps be doing something with our lives.

smoke invaded the town, and I hide the sky. The fires around me do not produce more than darkness, because everything has already burned. I tell myself that if I reach the Seine I see a little clearer.

I went up the Boulevard, ignoring the protests of the buildings, and sections of walls collapsing. I'm not back for sightseeing. I have a son of a bitch down, and I'll come through even if it's the only thing that I have accomplished in my life.

My fault?

The city trembles as after a long winter. The smoke is suffocating, and I am relying on the sidewalk as I go along to take me to better days. I put my sword in its sheath, for not having air which darkens the bastard swords, without thinking.

Maybe this is the moment when I am concerned about how I do things rather than why I do, I am more writer than I've ever been. Or maybe not.

I finally opens on the Seine, and get a view a little clearer. Planes crisscross the altitude as harpies, too high for us not hear them. They drop here and there fireworks n'émerveillent that person. A helicopter regiment arrived from the west, along the river and the smoke dissipates.

They seem to rule out the low clouds that dot the roofs of buildings, and come spit on the Pont Royal hordes of soldiers. Lianas gush of gear, along which men let slip. No sooner did they touched the ground that everyone will have to ask the kinds of small transistors across the bridge.

then abandoned by the angels of steel that would have returned from wherever they came, the little party deserted the deck in a hurry, taking refuge on the other side of the shore. I perceive a silhouette vaguely in the distance which displays a small suitcase, and presses a button so big that I can be distinguished despite the distance.

I whisper "No" stifled. The Pont Royal

explodes from side to side, throwing debris stone so high in the sky they seem to stay suspended. Then a shower of stone falls into the Seine, and a bit on the side too. Columns of water rise to collapse immediately.

Soldiers have already returned to the Jardin des Tuileries. I start running along the platform, to join the footpath a few hundred yards away. Frankly, if we are not stupid, given the number of bridges that are in Paris, to make a single jump.

I begin to hear gunfire from the other side. I rush on the bridge at full speed, his hand on the hilt of the sword, thinking like a moron that's my time.

In the Tuileries the battle rages. Most of the revolutionaries who face the army hooded or masked because of the smoke surrounding. Molotov cocktails meet military grenades, and they measure their shotguns to machine guns.

I do not care who wins the battle. Me sneaking behind a hedge, I scan the field of vision, looking for Irving Rutherford. I seek to slay the dragon that will make me a true knight.

Neither side is gaining ground. This battle is nothing mythical or grandiose. It is as old as the world, and will continue even millennia. It's never field that wars are played.

Sancho I see that loads at the head of a column. His followers shouting man with a frightening confidence, and swell the ranks of the guerrillas of fortune. The soldiers are given a grim and cede casually a few inches of ground. It does not take over for the final battle looks for undisciplined.

I leave my hiding place, and unsheathed my sword. I cut the smoke to go out to meet the brother of Irving Rutherford. I push people out of my way, reluctant to give their swords, but preferring to reserve it for Sancho.

When I come up to him, without me noticed, I wield my blade was about to shoot him on his head. A burst of ball comes to mow the abdomen before I had time to hit, and he falls without a sound.

The air is too opaque, and the situation too crazy for his compatriot does have noticed. I kneel beside him, and it sticks great slap to make him focus on me rather than the rivers of blood that escape him.

"What do you do there, Irving? wonder does it with a disapproving smile.

"I'm not Irving. Where is he?

Irving is Irving. It is like this. You're the writer missed? You like him.

"It is he who looks like me.

Where is Irving?

"That's what I want to know.

He raises a gun to my face, but if his hand is trembling, and his arms so soft, I'm missing twenty centimeters good when pulled. The noise of the detonation deafens me a few moments, and Sancho took the opportunity to tell me where lies Irving Rutherford.

Recently, the writer warrior can read lips, but I do not really believe what I read. I understand I forget as an insult, fast, and a place: La Maison de la Radio. When I ask why the revolutionary Irving does not charge alongside his troops, he has a look of disgust.

"It is an underling, he informs me. He did what I asked.

-The history will remember his name. I know for sure.

-I 'm the head, dying there.

-

anymore.

I see his eyes covered with a veil colorless and yet charged with a profusion of images. I try to convince me that if I messed up his last moments, he deserved it. The sounds of gunfire are suddenly more scarce, and the army seems to rout the rebels face. Yet another martyr of the revolution my balls.

I get up to get a better perspective. I then noticed that the military are not the only ones to flee. The revolutionaries, I had taken for their pursuers, are also scared and anxious to escape from the Tuileries.

I turned with apprehension, and see take shape in the mist of fighting the silhouette of a giant reptile that glides silently on the floor yet. His tongue hisses like a knife being sharpened. Worse than the anaconda ten meters I've seen in a horror movie: Snake World. "I'm

Jörmungand! he yells. I eat you!

I have other things to do than to listen bullshit. I'm not even sure it really is happening. Taking my momentum, I rush headlong upon him, the tip of my sword scraping the ground.

He pushes a whistling sound that almost makes me let go. In a sudden ripple, it projects its fangs toward me, ready to close. But I did not come all this way to make me eat like a field mouse.

I report my sword suddenly, without ceasing to run. I rushed to open his mouth and planted my blade. The sword begins to glow and smoke in contact with the giant snake, writhing in pain. My weapon is the magic sound of a pressure cooker forgotten on the heat and cover the screams of the reptile.

Finally, the sword explodes and his head. A huge squirt of spray smelly and greenish m'asperge whole. The decapitated body of Jörmungand collapses, inert.

And obviously, nobody saw that. I

nine paces before collapsing. I curl up on myself, steeped in anguish and regret, and quite incredulous. I feel like I can not compress to exist. To stay there and not to insist, as I always do.

A hand landed on my shoulder. I reject the first, then a familiar voice forces me to look up:

-You need my help.

Xavier is standing beside me. It is encased in a conducting cosmonaut, and hope for a moment he came to tell me impersonating death to go conduct a secret mission in space.

But it is not, and I even feel that I'm going to start complaining. My friend tells me died with the utmost seriousness that comes from the future, a future where I became a great writer, and he came to help me get rid of Irving Rutherford.

I burst into tears literally. I curl up again, flowing torrents of tears raging against myself and against the bloody future that moves away, gets closer, making round trips, and I file the shower.

Xavier watching me carefully, and politely asks me why I cry. I answered the quavering voice that reminds me of someone, before I return to my sobs.

Sadness grips me who has no background, it's a free fall without a parachute, which takes hours, years. I cry like never before, and I never cry like that. I'm miserable as can be someone with real problems.

Party 1

Why Would My Legs Ache For 3 Hours

49. Martine at the wrong time

"Then you have not read my manuscript?

-No.

I realize suddenly realize that Martin must think me an asshole, talk to me in such a moment. But as I am one of my main interests, I did not realize.

She puts her hair up with discomfort, and crosses her arms over her chest, looking at the ground between us. And I still do not know how to approach the problem.

Around us people are screaming about the soldiers lined up in a compact, hand the trigger of their guns, which block the boulevard. A few miles away, bombs shred the Haussmann buildings, but does not seem to worry anyone. You get used to everything.

I ask Martin why she wants to go home, expecting what she responds simply, "Because it's my home, asshole." But she told me she finally changed my mind. I look at Vincent, sitting on a sidewalk a few yards away, and asked him telepathically if Martine is real. The mustache does not understand what I'm saying, and I am sign me Sort this out myself.

Everything is always about timing. If I had arrived earlier, I could return to the capital before the evacuation, and if it had been before the girl of my dreams would I read the letters slipped under his door to tell him how point was stupid to be separated.

I think back to that copy of my manuscript that I have also slipped, and suddenly regretted more than any of them have left. I should fuck me but a little voice whispers that I am able to write better, and that this novel will leave a poor reflection on me. And god knows I like to talk well of me.

-I can not do better, I say.

Martine looks up in surprise. She probe a few moments, and places his hand on my beard. I want to escape by running, or to reduce me to ashes. I would like to say a bunch of stuff, do a bunch of stuff, but the truth is that I still stand there like an acorn, and that my inertia is such that I will not move as nothing will shake me .

"I'll go," she tells me.

"I think I'll stay here. I have no choice.

-You 're the ones who can always do better.

When she said that I feel even smaller than usual. The city and I shudder in unison. My shoulders were a blip, and buildings tremble on their foundations. Some crumble. The moment passes like a dream, like a small earthquake that is perceptible with seismographs. A building closer than the other breaks her mouth, and a kind of breath caressed our bodies, and makes the hair fluttering Martine.

The timing is bad, always. I'll stay here and watch the bombs fall, waiting to be buried, crying like a child. I cry so hard that we should treat me then. Martine then come visit me, and I shall die in his arms. And it will be enough, because in any way I can not do better.

I take her in my arms, and she emerges, explaining that this is not a good idea. I know very well what she is doing: She is leaving me, again. In a few minutes I'm all alone and I will have more strength.

She passes her hand over my face, as she always does, and I want to tear his arm. I point out how our relationship has been a long evolution towards Platonism, and she asks me blankly why I always lock the important moments.

"I am ...

In saying this, I seek the answer in my head, without success. I look at her face to burn in my memory even though I know very well that the time will erase.

The soil crumbles beneath me, is pulverized and dispersed with the wind. I step aside, then two, but wherever I set foot in the bitumen from the ashes.

I return to province, "said Martine. I'll be back when it is subdued.

-I 'm afraid it will not calm down.

-Be not afraid.

I can endure more commonplace. It is like two cons to look in the eye, spouting niceties, so we keep the most important to us.

-I really afraid it will not calm down.

She smiled and advised me to keep the beard because it suits me well. She kissed me one last time, more to make peace with me from envy. She turns back and walks away to get lost in the crowd of refugees.

buildings do not end up shattered. The sound of bombs getting closer, and the military to argue us back. The ground continues to dissolve under my feet, and when I'll sit on a bench, he quietly ablaze, consumed by small green flames.

Vincent comes to join me, wearing her two large sports bags. He explained it will follow me no farther, and gives me a billion reasons are all legitimate. I do not even listen because deep down I know why he did not accompany me.

I wonder if I'll really go to plan B, so that nothing compels me. I replied that I only just beginning to understand why I do all that, and this time I have to go after things.

He sighs, and opens one of his bags. It leaves many treasures from his collection, like a suit and a razor. I thanked him politely, and we walk up public toilets that were spared the looting. During

the mustache stands watch, I shave my beard, no foam, and cut myself several times. Then I put on a shirt, and m'escrime minutes to tie a bow tie, while Vincent's banging at the door to get me to hurry. He told me that the military still progressing, and the refugees begin to flee too.

I spend pants, a jacket, and observes my image in the mirror. For the first time, I do not recognize Irving Rutherford. I do not recognize myself either. I see before me a strange person and determined that a reassuring smile. The person I am today.

When I go out, Vincent also noticed. We're in the arms we dare not touch, like two strangers. He tells me he has one last gift for me.

He leaves his bag a gleaming sword, the pommel inlaid with precious stones. He hands it to me, and by entering I am surprised to find it too lightly. I give a few blows with the wind cons and see how much she is handy. I passed my finger over the edge, and drops of blood beading line perfectly drawn that appeared on my skin.

Vincent looks down shamefully when I asked about the provenance of the object. He mumbles something that I do not understand, and growls when I ask him to repeat.

... "She starts there. It was forged in secret in the sacred mountain of Helgafell by dwarves.

-Really?

-It is made of an alloy that is lightweight and indestructible. Nothing can break. And I think that the jewels on the hilt are sacred stones. I can not do better.

He swallowed painfully, as if about to vomit. I know how much it was hard for him to utter these words. His pragmatism has taken quite a blow, and I'm afraid he wants for it. But we share

a cordial handshake, without rancor or regret. It gives me a sleeve for my new sword, and wishes me good luck with an air sincere.

I find nothing to say deep, "he apologizes.

"It's okay.

-fuck.

I glue a small slap on the cheek, and a second attempt that I ducked. He turns and takes its own course. I begin to hope to see him again someday.

I put my sword in my scabbard, and turn around to admire Paris. It is as if the city had a thousand years old today. Everything is crumbling around me because I am unable to beautify the world around me.

I'm going to meet the military column, which continues to push the people. I came across a young soldier, pointing his gun at me, ordering me to turn back.

"You know who I am? "I said.

I stared a few seconds, and his eyebrows move back and forth on his forehead. He finally let me pass, and I do not know if it's because he believes recognized me, or because he was afraid to look like a fool by asking a supervisor.

The streets are clear as ever. We see that the tanks have already moved to traces of caterpillars on the ground and the crushed cars. Smoke from burning buildings is complete shadows on the ground and hides the sun.

I tell myself it's just a bad time to pass.

Note: Making any less sentimental

Soon: Single track (1)

Indians Between 1800 And 1812

48. Vincent dramatizes

Push your wheelbarrow asshole. Put one foot before the other, not cumbered and not thinking about you or your place in the world. The road is still long until Ragnar four kingdoms, and even more to Valhalla.

I tell anything. Each day will be gold, but for now every day I am a little frosty. I'm barely aware of what I do.

Irving Rutherford is telling me eat, I know. Even at a distance, it drains my life force, and with my reason. I am less and less consistent in the stories I tell. Occasionally, a flash of lucidity makes me say that I imagined the death of Xavier, because psychology magazines never killed anyone.

-You who had already struggled to make you to death Roger, sympathizes Vincent.

-Roger is not dead, "I said, irritated. He returned in time, I've already said.

Vincent shakes his head wearily, and I see tears despite pointing to the corners of his eyes when he put them on me. He turns his head to avoid having to contemplate longer the show I left off.

I cast off long ago. I waited just a flurry takes me away.

shoot your barrow your barrow pushing, pushing your wheelbarrow. The Road to Valhalla is short, and after waiting fame, women, and alcohol drinking craft in the skull of your enemy. Irving Rutherford will burst open mouth and you can shit in it.

Suddenly, a pulsating heart in me to stop walking. My vision is troubled by flies obscure, and I feel assaulted by the rain tumbles and the certainty that I will never be a better man.

Vincent catches me by the shoulders to keep from falling. He wondered aloud how he came to escort the bearer of the ring. I am sitting on the roadside in the grass wet and cold. A drizzle

continual attacks us since we abandoned the car, which fell short of gasoline. It is insidious and persistent, and seeks to prove to us that summer is well and truly over.

To make matters worse, Vincent passed on me the heaviest bag. When I proposed to leave our belongings in the car, he said nothing, but I stuffed this big duffel bag in his hands. Lately, every word I utter a word that is one step closer when he will knock me and throw me into a ditch, to surrender to the rain diffuse drown myself quietly.

In the words of mustachioed, Paris is just a good day's walk. I pray every second to arrive in time for Ragnarok.

I get up, and we continue our journey. Vincent takes the lead, and for a good time does not even turn towards me. I'm so hardened that I like walking in puddles at every step. And the sound of my wet sneakers seem even more irritating to my friend, I see the shoulders stiffen progressively.

In the distance I hear the cries of Irving. He speaks of the future evil that is being put in place, and questions my existence to me. I still find that's strange for a evil twin. When I retorted "You're the evil twin", I scream that I'll feed the rats, which startled Vincent.

He turns to me with rage and sadness, probably furious that Xavier is gone away and not me.

-You 're a fucking frosty! I shouted it.

-I do what I can.

-I 'm tired of you household.

Me I'll spare the mouth, you'll see.

He steps toward me, fists clenched, and then stops. If we do not fight here and now, I do not care much about our friendship. This is a crucial moment that we live, but my friend does not seem to realize that. It

advance towards me, and just put his face inches away from mine. The muscles of his jaw are restless bouncing and I almost expect to see smoke coming out of his ears. I realize that now, with the training I received from Xavier, I could probably send the mustache to the mat.

Rain forces us to blink constantly. I hurt everywhere even before the fight is started. The hardest thing is not shivering in my wet clothes, and do not consider this friendship fled.

Vincent closes his eyes and shrugs. A ghost ninja hovers above us, and will not leave easily. The grief of mourning we gnaws worse than rain or anger.

you adjust it later, "he sighs.

And he resumed his way to the top of our little procession. It is as if the road was called, walks like a romantic hero. There is still time for me to catch him and beat him up, to save what is left to save.

I'm back on the road. We cross the winding country and gray, an unparalleled monotony. After several hours we passed a man going by bike in reverse, and Vincent took the opportunity to extract a cigarette.

Then we enter the highway, empty and slippery, and the reflection that returns me the asphalt is wet again that Irving Rutherford. Many times we meet then contraflow people to bike or walk. Vincent even managed to negotiate a bit of bread against a pair of shoelaces.

We sit on the ramp for a picnic break. The bread is soft from having dragged the rain. Before our eyes, the number of bystanders fleeing the capital increases visibly.

-Are you surprised? wonder Vincent.

I will check with an old woman, who simply say "This is serious shit out there." That's enough for me. I'll pass the information to Vincent, who calmly nods of the head before taking off slowly on the road.

I'm a little less sure of myself with each stride. The asphalt is slippery and I go on, and missing several times. Actually I do not even know why I return to Paris.

I wrote a novel, created an evil twin, stopped writing. Now I must stop having an evil twin. One of my friends died, the other is no longer my friend. I live in a fantasy world, and now after I'm out of inspiration. The

France scares me sometimes. I feel like I never get to consider it in its entirety. But in the end I'm like everyone else, and although I still desire all fart. Although I have no idea what may happen next.

The real future is dead, finished. He went with Roger in a deluge of electricity. I would like to include more than one day in advance, but there are too many variables and I'm not smart enough.

I wrote my last novel, he talks about this a bit silly knight who drove into the pile without any strategy. When all this is over, and that I am rid of Irving Rutherford (and I have saved my country at the same time), I will try to read it, and I'm sure it gives me confidence in myself.

What am I?

I am one of the great army of losers, with my scars, my degree (unofficial) from writer-warrior, my lack of ambition and dirty way that I always miss everything that I are doing. Little by little things are improving. One day we will win, and that's why maybe I go back to Paris.

I snap my fingers that the rain stops. Vincent will surely say it is a coincidence. I savor a few seconds the return of the sun on my face, without paying attention to people around us who spend tens. The mustachioed

shoulder shakes me to make me react. I pointed to the capital on the horizon, burning and exploding. Several aircraft took turns flying over, dropping their bombs in the process. The city is still far, and no sound reaches us. It's like a fireworks inaccessible, too distant to provoke a real emotion. I can just see the queue of refugees grows in seconds.

is already Ragnarök.

-We will die, informs me Vincent.

Note: References to mythology too supported

Soon: Martine at the wrong time

How Do U Get A Scorpio Man To Want U

47. Xavier is no longer my literary agent

It a long mourning that never ceases to end. It is a twilight that takes its time so it comes to mingle with reality. It's just one of the worst days I have long been known.

the hell do you dare say you live in society?

People take me all they can, I know. There will be no end. And a friend who is dying is a part of you that he carries with him, this son of a bitch.

The weather is beautiful today. The sun shines as ever, and gives the declining been a second wind. The streets are flooded with a light that brightens colors and gives a smile to passersby. I find it almost moved.

Formerly Xavier told me that somehow people do not care about us, and when I asked him what he meant, he referred not to answer. I'm all alone and I manage not to die. I can not do better.

Nobody will come to our aid, and no compassion more than five minutes before thinking about his own problems. People take what there is to take, and I can hardly blame them.

I think Vincent has doubts. A few minutes after the disappearance of Xavier, screamed and wept after losing to consciousness, he came to find me. Red eyes and raspy voice, he asked me seriously if I had anything to do with the death of our friend. Seriously, I said no, and he was completely crazy. He

stared insistently, during what seemed a full minute, and I did not dare add. He, indeed. I went to see the corpse, and he went for a walk in the garden, and we did not seen the day.

Hesitating between crying and vomiting, and finally abandoning me or does one or the other, I pulled out the body of Xavier blankets. I grabbed clothes, and I dressed as saying he was better than I do at the time, before its members not bend over. I remember thinking 'That's it. It exactly that. "without really knowing what I was referring.

I was the news to my mother and my sisters, who did not want to see the corpse. Then I went down to the car to unload the trunk. Vincent was still in the garden, and I pointed out his presence with murmurs too distant for me to decipher.

I brought everything that was in the car inside the house, and have piled up in a closet, thinking that I probably will not touch again. Finally, I went to sit on the hood of the vehicle empty and I looked through the day. I wanted more than anything that the sun goes faster, already be tonight, tomorrow, next week, in a year.

At that time my life was it. It was exactly that. This disgusted me and I suddenly wanted to return there later. I wanted to be alone and out of time, because people and days pass m'effritent and I want to know me m'amenuise preserve.

Xavier was gone, thinking surely he had nothing to do with us. But gradually I realized that his departure was premature. I know I use a sword or finish a novel, but it's just a minimum in the world in which we live.

At dusk, I went to join Vincent in the garden, and I discovered that he had vandalized the garden. All around him stretched the torn carrots, and tomatoes are still green up crushed. The mustache was smoking a cigarette and told me it was the last.

you stop smoking?

-Of course not, it's a queer stuff, I used this ... my stock.

I noticed that his eyes avoided landing on me, and I waited a few seconds in vain that he apologized for having doubted my predictions about the death of Xavier.

I sat with him, and I ate a tiny carrot in trying to establish when it had all started messing around. When I asked him his opinion, he looked at me like I was a child who found himself in his office, and he did not know what to do.

-Since the death of Roger, he said. Listen, we must bring Xavier to his parents ...

-I have already emptied the car.

Everything was said, agreed. We got up, more determined than ever, and are mounted to the chamber of death. Vincent made no comment about the clothes I had spent Xavier, who were yet a bit too garish in the circumstances. Without a sound, we lowered the body by the stairs, go to the house in the trunk of the car.

Vincent was then installed on the passenger seat and I waited, smoothing his mustache with a worried look. I hesitated to say goodbye to my family, then I realized that anyway I did not know what to say.

-On carries not the food? I asked. Carrots?

-cores are still here.

I'm behind the wheel, a little uncomfortable. Neither Vincent nor I have a driver's license. I initiated the contact, and the roar shy of our gear did not really reassured. I entered the alley, being careful not to stall, and not crush my mother's cat who followed me on some tens of meters.

I felt that was more sprawling residential suburb as ever. Thinking out quickly, I realized that many houses had appeared on the path of the highway, something I do not notice when I'm single passenger.

It is more likely every day. It is therefore normal that it is always harder for the misanthropic assholes like me.

We drive now on the big empty highway that takes us to the parents of Xavier. The fuel gauge of the car does not finish off, and Vincent resists all attempts I make to go to him. I sincerely pity: He will not get rid of his suspicions about me, and probably will never so much my friend he was. And it will be worse when we bury Xavier.

After a few hours, he finally asked to stop to let him pee. I do it and park the car on the emergency lane. It will relieve themselves in a field, throwing occasional glances behind him to check if I am about not stab him.

I begin to tire. It is pitch dark, and it's painful for me to drive. Everything is so sad that I want to scream and go lose myself in the sleeping countryside.

We go by car, and Vincent returns his silence. A sentence for me would be enough to fix everything. Maybe two. Instead, I let the mustachioed surrendering to sleep, despite his obvious fear of not waking up.

-On will not be enough fuel to return to Paris next, I said to myself.

we come in on foot, dozing Vincent.

I ride in the dark until it is completely asleep. I lost several friends today. And grieving is far from over.

I cut the headlights and try to feel the emptiness, fill my emptiness, understand the true absence. I distinguish the barriers on both sides of the vehicle, which lead me straight to full speed. I feel that the road is open now, know exactly how it all will end.

I close my eyes. I find myself in an even darker world. There is neither goblin or super hero, and I can not even fly in this imaginary realm that I had built. It just looks like two huge eyes closed, and life after writing.

I succeeded. I have depopulated all around me, and now I'm as lonely as I wanted. And like everything depends only on me, I know how it all will end.

In a last effort of imagination, I am Martine appear in the middle of the black world. It's been so long that I did not mind that some contours of his face is blurred. So I focus on her body. Mentally, I is the Supergirl costume, and come near me tenderly to her to undress.

While I drag one of his braces on my order, she drops the phrase that I dream to hear that from the beginning: "Save us, man of steel!"

Vincent

wonder why I ride with the headlights off, and I immediately reopen the eyes. I note with relief that he did not notice that I had closed.

-Anyway there is nobody I said.

-There are people everywhere, grumbles he fell asleep again.

Note: Do not use your real fantasies

Soon: Vincent dramatizes

Milena-velba-airport-security

My evening with Jeff

I never really listened to Jeff Fillion. Admittedly, I've caught a few snippets it was issued, when raging at CHOI in a taxi, an elevator, a waiting room, even in the office I shared with one of his fans. He was a populist leader, who told his listeners what they wanted to hear while on their side, they believed pull the Truth of his mouth. It followed the same logic as the smoked sausage that more people eat ... The fact that he risks his career, among others, to talk about the bust of a host of TV virtually unknown who had turned down so that they studied together left me cold. That and his other escapades, leaving no one closes a radio. Anyway, the courts would eventually take on Jeff.

I knew so little. I perceived as a supporter of libertarianism, the political ideology based on my uncle rich property that advocates the virtual disappearance of States for not letting up as the market rules and can easily do without democracy. Exit human dignity! It was also groupie of the Montreal Economic Institute, a charity (yes, yes, go check!) That serves as marketing agency to high finance by taking features of a think tank whose objective is to convince people that the order of things can not be changed: the rich get richer and the poor get poorer because it is in Nature. In short, Jeff would be a pirate of the establishment rather naive and submissive, a fearsome snake swallower.

On Twitter, there are sometimes quite lively debates, such as last Thursday between Jeff and Antoine Robitaille, journalist Duty and one of my old buddies View in Quebec, about the place and effectiveness of the Quebec state opposed those of private real deus ex machina. I summarize the conclusion of debate, it is online if you want verbatim:

Antoine: Democracy, unlike the private, allows people to choose their leaders.

Jeff: But people really have a choice?

Anthony: In the last municipal election, Quebecers had the choice between Labeaume and you. And

vlan, gums!

Tweet fight!

Jeff has not answered the last replica of Antony. Later in the evening, there will Fillion one of we believe its usual chirping written by the author of the autobiography of Sarah Palin with the same clichés, the same paranoia, the demonization of the left haughty, and more, never accept being wrong and denunciation of the vile media message " mainstream" (sic ). I go in game and tell him he has done awfully close the valve by Anthony during the afternoon. He replied that he did not have time to see all the messages we left him on Twitter. I replied that it is a very weak defense that looks more like an admission of defeat. (Frankly, he would exchange with a reporter of Duty during part of the afternoon and leave before the end! Come on!) The response: "You can think what you want ..... do you think it's going to change anything whatsoever in my life .... seriously?? :-))» ( sic).

Time is confused on Twitter. The messages arrive and depart, intersect, and the chronology is hard to follow. I continue to Jeff and launches it seems more comfortable in repeating shots to his followers that debate, it is basically like Plato with Yesmen following his teaching and do qu'ânonner: "O yes sir, you're right master." Meanwhile, he invited me to accompany him to the radio and to debate him on his show, stating the day. I told him that my job requires that I ask leave to my bosses and I do not refuse outright. Then turn of events: "Ok you, you seem to have a problem. It's sad that twitter accumulates nipples .... we had fun before! "(sic ). As I said above, time is vague on Twitter: our sequences of events that may not be the same ...

However, what did I do it for me désinvitât, I wondered? I had yet compared to one of the greatest philosophers of antiquity! A straight guy too!

Shortly thereafter, Jeff sent me a direct message, that is to say that nobody else could see on Twitter, implored me, with insults, unsubscribe from it. I replied that he had only block me ...

This adventure made me sad. I liked the dialogue between slobbery manly. But the invitation to his show it was a trap to scare me, I close the door? Why this volte-face? I do not want the guy yet, but its lack of critical thinking, his tiny universe demagogue which dissolves the reason, his speech peppered with shots teabaggers . True freedom, which comes with culture and education, overcomes ideology, see their strengths and weaknesses, to choose which way to go, to be sovereign.

bad. I wish he was my friend. I'd invited to dinner. I would have made a hot-chicken .
Small
readings
Philippe van Parijs, What is a just society? , Paris, Seuil, 1991.
Jacques Genereux, The real laws of economics , Paris, Seuil, 2005.

Two titles for Jeff so he arranges them next to works of Hayek, Nozick, Friedman, Rothbard and Rand of which must fill the shelves of his library. In the first, he should read the chapter "The ambiguity of libertarianism" which concludes that libertarianism - as it is known here - was ultimately not chosen to promote a redistribution of income. Then the second is to feed its upcoming interviews with efficient favorites - there are national and Association, there are also economists fundamentalists and obtuse I néologise efficient - followers of the neoliberal version they treat their subject as a religion, whose dogmas, as generous, should be eliminated.