The Name Of The Rose
(Humberto Eco)
To lick the finger and to turn pages the pages are old habit between readers, since whom the writing started to be the instrument to count histories and to say of history. If the habit makes monge, still thus monge does not leave of human being. Nor to lose to the luxury, nor of if charging of the arts of the power, the domination, the fury, the injury. Of the perpetual fury of the condition human being. On this, and more the universe of the power for the force, Humberto Eco discourses and defies: loses the breath going up stairs liked one fat monge, tries to leave the shining heights of the pages to go down to the plain of the pillow in peace accord with Morpheu. In this in case, the Rose always will be red, and of nobody if it will not be of all, because misery and necessity breach the faith and the fear. Because one has not survived without the other in the day human being.
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