The anguish of the music is at its height immunoassay



For a truly living family where everyone thinks, loves and acts, having a garden is a sweet thing. In the spring, summer, and autumn evenings, all the task of the finished day is there; and as small as the garden may be, no matter how close the hedges are, they are not so tall as to show a large piece of sky where each one raises his eyes, without speaking, while dreaming. The child dreams of his plans for the future, of the house he will live with his favorite comrade, never to leave him, to the unknown of the earth and of life; the young man dreams to the mysterious charm of the one he loves, the young mother to the future of her child, the woman once troubled discovers, in the depths of these clear hours, under the cold outside of her husband, a painful regret that pity him. The father, following his eyes, the smoke that rises above a roof, lingers on the peaceful scenes of his past, enchanted in the distance by the light of the evening; he thinks of his approaching death, of the life of his children after his death; and so the soul of the whole family ascends religiously towards the setting sun, while the great linden tree, the chestnut tree, or the fir tree, spreads upon it the blessing of its exquisite odor or venerable shade.

But for a truly living family, where everyone thinks, loves and acts, for a family that has a soul, it is even sweeter than this soul can, in the evening, incarnate in a voice, in the clear voice and inexhaustible young girl or young man who has received the gift of music and singing. The stranger passing by the door of the garden where the family is silent, would be afraid of approaching to break in all like a religious dream; but if the stranger without hearing the song, saw the assembly of relatives and friends who listen to him, how much more would it seem to him to attend an invisible Mass, that is to say, in spite of the diversity of attitudes, how much the resemblance of expressions would manifest the true unity of souls, momentarily realized by sympathy for the same ideal drama, by communion to the same dream. At times, as the wind bends the grass and shakes the branches for a long time, a breath bends the heads or straightens them up sharply. All, then, as if a messenger whom one can not see was making a thrilling narrative, seem to wait anxiously, to listen with transport or with terror the same news which nevertheless awakens in each of the various echoes. The anguish of the music is at its height, its impulses are shattered by deep falls, followed by more desperate impulses. Its infinite luminous, its mysterious darkness, for the old man are the vast spectacles of life and death, for the child the pressing promises of the sea and the earth, for the lover, it is the infinite mysterious, they are the bright darkness of love. The thinker sees his moral life unfold entirely; the falls of the failing melody are its failures and its falls, and all its heart rises and darts when the melody resumes its flight. The powerful murmur of harmonies makes the dark, rich depths of his memory tremble. The man of action gasps in the melee of chords, at a gallop of perennials; he triumphs majestically in the adagios. The unfaithful woman herself feels her forgiven, infinite fault, her fault which also had her heavenly origin in the dissatisfaction of a heart that the usual joys had not appeased, which had gone astray, but seeking the mystery And now this music, full of the voice of the bells, fills the widest aspirations. The musician who pretends to taste in music only a technical pleasure also experiences these significant emotions, but enveloped in his sense of the musical beauty that steals them in his own eyes. And finally, myself, listening in the most vast and most universal beauty of life and death, of the sea and of the sky, I feel in it also that your charm is more particular and unique. O dear beloved.

immunoassay

Today’s paradoxes are the prejudices of tomorrow, since the thickest and most unpleasant prejudices of today had a moment of novelty when fashion lent them its fragile grace. Many women today want to rid themselves of all prejudices and prejudge principles. This is their prejudgment, which is heavy, although it is considered as a delicate flower and a little strange. They believe that nothing has a background and put everything on the same level. They taste a book or life itself as a beautiful day or as an orange. They say the “art” of a seamstress and the “philosophy” of “Parisian life”. They would blush to classify, to judge nothing, to say: this is good, this is bad. Formerly, when a woman was doing well, it was like a revenge of his morality, that is, of his thought, on his instinctive nature. Today, when a woman acts well, it is by a revenge of her instinctive nature on her morality, that is to say on her theoretical immorality (see the theater of Messrs. Halevy and Meilhac). In an extreme relaxation of all moral and social bonds, women float from this theoretical immorality to this instinctive goodness. They seek only pleasure and find it only when they do not seek it, when they suffer voluntarily. This skepticism and dilettantism would shock the books like an old-fashioned adornment. But women, far from being the oracles of the fashions of the mind, are rather the retarded parrots. Even today, dilettantism pleases and suits them. S ‘ he falsifies their judgment and enervates their conduct; it can not be denied that he gives them a grace already withered but still amiable. They make us feel, to the delight, what existence can have, in very refined civilizations, of easy and sweet. Their perpetual embarkation for a spiritual Kythera where the feast would be less for their blunt senses than for the imagination, the heart, the mind, the eyes, the nostrils, the ears, puts some voluptuousness in their attitudes. The most accurate portraitists of this time will not show them, I suppose, with anything tense or stiff. Their life spreads the sweet scent of loose hair. what existence can have, in very refined civilizations, of easy and sweet. Their perpetual embarkation for a spiritual Kythera where the feast would be less for their blunt senses than for the imagination, the heart, the mind, the eyes, the nostrils, the ears, puts some voluptuousness in their attitudes. The fairest portraitists of this time will not show them, I suppose, with anything tense or stiff. Their life spreads the sweet scent of loose hair. what existence can have, in very refined civilizations, of easy and sweet. Their perpetual embarkation for a spiritual Kythera where the feast would be less for their blunt senses than for the imagination, the heart, the mind, the eyes, the nostrils, the ears, puts some voluptuousness in their attitudes. The fairest portraitists of this time will not show them, I suppose, with anything tense or stiff. Their life spreads the sweet scent of loose hair. The fairest portraitists of this time will not show them, I suppose, with anything tense or stiff. Their life spreads the sweet scent of loose hair. The most accurate portraitists of this time will not show them, I suppose, with anything tense or stiff. Their life spreads the sweet scent of loose hair.

immunoassay

Ambition is drunk more than glory; desire flourishes, possession stifles all things; it is better to dream one’s life than to live it, although to live it again is to dream it, but less mysteriously and less clearly at the same time, of an obscure and heavy dream, like the dream scattered in the feeble consciousness of the animals that brood . Shakespeare’s plays are more beautiful, seen in the working chamber than represented in the theater. The poets who have created the imperishable lovers have often known only mediocre servants of inns, while the most envied voluptuous do not know how to conceive the life they lead, or rather who leads them. a ten-year-old boy, of poor health and early imagination, who had devoted to a child older than him, a purely cerebral love. He stayed for hours at her window to see her pass, cried if he did not see her, cried even more if he had seen her. He spent very few, very short moments with her. He stopped sleeping, eating. One day he threw himself out of his window. At first it was thought that the desperation of never approaching her friend had decided her to die. On the contrary, it was learned that he had talked with her for a very long time: she had been extremely kind to him. Then it was supposed that he had given up the insipid days that remained to him, after this intoxication that he might not have the opportunity to renew. Frequent confidences, formerly made to one of his friends, finally induced him to feel a disappointment every time he saw the sovereign of his dreams; but as soon as she had left, her fertile imagination restored all her power to the absent little girl, and he began to desire to see her again. Each time, he tried to find in the imperfection of circumstances the accidental reason for his disappointment. After this supreme interview in which he had, to his already clever fancy, led his friend to the highest perfection of which his nature was susceptible, comparing with despair that imperfect perfection to the absolute perfection of which he lived, of which he died, he threw it out the window. Since then, having become an idiot, he lived a very long time, having kept from his fall the forgetfulness of his soul, of his thought, of the word of his friend whom he met without seeing her. She, despite the supplications, the threats, the married and died several years later without being able to be recognized.-Life is like the girlfriend. We are thinking of it, and we love it to think of it. We must not try to live it: we throw ourselves, like the little boy, into stupidity, not suddenly, because everything in life is degraded by insensible nuances. At the end of ten years, one no longer recognizes one’s dreams, one denies them, one lives, like an ox, for the grass to be grazed at the moment. And of our marriage with death who knows if our conscious immortality will be able to be born? we no longer recognize his dreams, we deny them, we live, like an ox, for the grass to be grazed in the moment. And of our marriage with death who knows if our conscious immortality will be able to be born? we no longer recognize his dreams, we deny them, we live, like an ox, for the grass to be grazed in the moment. And of our marriage with death who knows if our conscious immortality will be able to be born?

immunoassay

“My captain,” said his order, “a few days after the little house where he was to live, now that he was retired, until his death (his sickness of heart could no longer wait for a long time). Captain, perhaps books, now that you can no longer make love or beat you, would distract you a little; what to buy?

-Do not buy me anything; no books; they can not tell me anything as interesting as what I have done, and since I do not have long for that, I do not want anything to distract me from remembering it. Give me the key to my big box, that’s what I read in every day.

And there came out letters, a whitish sea, sometimes tinted, letters, very long, letters of a line only, on cards, with faded flowers, objects, little words of himself for himself. remember the surroundings of the moment when he had received them and photographs damaged in spite of the precautions, like those relics which the piety even of the faithful ones used: they embrace them too often. And all these things were very old, and there were dead women, and others that he had not seen for more than ten years.

In all this there were little precise things of sensuality or tenderness over almost nothing of the circumstances of her life, and it was like a very vast fresco which depicted her life without telling it, in her passionate color only, of a very vague and very particular at the same time, with a great touching power. There were evocations of kisses in the mouth-in a fresh mouth where he had without hesitation left his soul, and which had since turned away from him, which made him cry for a long time. Even though he was very weak and disillusioned, when he emptied a little of these still alive memories, like a glass of warm, sun-ripened wine that had devoured his life, he felt a warm chill, like the spring gives to our convalescences and the hearth of winter to our weaknesses. The feeling that his old worn body had burned such flames, gave him a new lease of life, burned with such devouring flames. Then, thinking that what was going on in this way all along him, it was only the exaggerated and moving shadows, elusive, alas! and who would soon be confounded together in the eternal night, he would start crying again.

So knowing that they were only shadows, shadows of flames that had run away elsewhere, that he would never see again, yet he began to worship these shadows and lend them as a dear existence by contrast with the absolute oblivion of soon. And all those kisses and all those hair fucked and all those things of tears and lips, of caresses poured out like wine for drunkenness, and of increased despair as music or as in the evening for the happiness of feeling to widen until to the infinity of mystery and destinies; such a worshiper who held him so tightly that nothing was more to him than what he could use for his adoration for her, who held him so strong, and who now went so vague that he no longer held her, did not even hold back anymore the scattered smell of the fleeting tails of his cloak, he wriggled to revive him, resurrect him, and nail him before him like butterflies. And each time, it was more difficult. And he had not caught any of the butterflies, but each time he had removed with his fingers a little glamor of their wings; or rather, he saw them in the mirror, vainly clashed with the mirror to touch them, but dimmed him a little each time and saw them only indistinct and less charming. And that tarnished mirror of his heart, nothing could wash him anymore, now that the purifying breaths of youth or genius would pass over him, by what unknown law of our seasons, what mysterious equinox of our autumn? . resurrect him and nail him before him like butterflies. And each time, it was more difficult. And he had not caught any of the butterflies, but each time he had removed with his fingers a little glamor of their wings; or rather, he saw them in the mirror, vainly clashed with the mirror to touch them, but dimmed him a little each time and saw them only indistinct and less charming. And that tarnished mirror of his heart, nothing could wash him anymore, now that the purifying breaths of youth or genius would pass over him, by what unknown law of our seasons, what mysterious equinox of our autumn? . resurrect him and nail him before him like butterflies. And each time, it was more difficult. And he had not caught any of the butterflies, but each time he had removed with his fingers a little glamor of their wings; or rather, he saw them in the mirror, vainly clashed with the mirror to touch them, but dimmed him a little each time and saw them only indistinct and less charming. And that tarnished mirror of his heart, nothing could wash him anymore, now that the purifying breaths of youth or genius would pass over him, by what unknown law of our seasons, what mysterious equinox of our autumn? . but each time he had taken from them with his fingers a little of the mirage of their wings; or rather, he saw them in the mirror, vainly clashed with the mirror to touch them, but dimmed him a little each time and saw them only indistinct and less charming. And that tarnished mirror of his heart, nothing could wash him anymore, now that the purifying breaths of youth or genius would pass over him, by what unknown law of our seasons, what mysterious equinox of our autumn? . but each time he had taken from them with his fingers a little of the mirage of their wings; or rather, he saw them in the mirror, vainly clashed with the mirror to touch them, but dimmed him a little each time and saw them only indistinct and less charming. And that tarnished mirror of his heart, nothing could wash him anymore, now that the purifying breaths of youth or genius would pass over him, by what unknown law of our seasons, what mysterious equinox of our autumn? .

And each time he had less trouble to have lost them, those kisses in that mouth, and those infinite hours, and those perfumes that made him, before, delirious.

And it was hard to feel less pain, and then that sentence disappeared. Then all the troubles went away, all, there was nothing to make the pleasures go away; they had fled for a long time on their winged heels without turning their heads, their flowering branches in their hands, fled this dwelling which was no longer young enough for them. Then, like all men, he died.

I bought all that was sold of the one I wanted to be a friend of, and who did not even consent to chat with me for a moment. I have the little card game that amused him every night, his two marmosets, three novels on the dishes his weapons, his dog. O you, delights, dear recreations of his life, you have had, without enjoying as I would have done, without having even desired them, all his most free hours, the most inviolable, the most secret; you have not felt your happiness and you can not tell it.

Cards she wielded with her fingers each evening with her favorite friends, who saw her bored or laugh, who attended the beginning of her affair, and whom she posed to kiss the one who came since to play every night with her; novels which she opened and closed in her bed according to her whim or her fatigue, which she chose according to her whim of the moment or her dreams, to which she entrusted them, who mingled those whom they expressed and the helped her dream better of her, did not you take anything from her, and tell me nothing?

Romans, because she has thought of the life of your characters and of your poet; cards, because in her way she felt with you the calm and sometimes the fevers of strong intimacy, did you keep nothing of her thought that you distracted or filled, from her heart that you opened or consoled?

Cards, novels, for having so often held in his hand, to have remained so long on his table; ladies, kings, or valets, who were the motionless guests of her wildest feasts; a hero of novels and heroines who dreamed of his bed, under the crossfire of his lamp and his eyes, your dream silent and full of voice, yet you could not allow to evaporate all the perfume whose air of his room, the cloth of his dresses, the touch of his hands or his knees impregnated you.

You have preserved the folds with which his cheerful or nervous hand crumpled you; the tears which a sorrow of book or life caused him to shed, you may still keep them prisoner; the day that made her eyes shine or hurt gave you that warm color. I touch you trembling, anxious about your revelations, worried about your silence. Alas! perhaps, like you, charming and fragile beings, she was the insensitive, the unconscious witness of her own grace. His most real beauty may have been in my desire. She lived her life, but perhaps alone, I dreamed her.