شنط وملحقات السفر
الجوالات و الالكترونيات
أجهزة الكمبيوتر وملحقاتها
التلفزيونات الذكية وملحقاتها
الأدوات المدرسية
ألعاب و وسائل تعليم الأطفال
الأدوات المكتبية
مستلزمات الرسم والأشغال اليدوية
الكتب العربية
الكتب الانجليزية
كتب صوتية والكترونية
ألعاب الفيديو
البطاقات الالكترونية
الالات الموسيقية
Leilac Leamas
Back (or write)
الصيغ المتوفرة:
كتاب مطبوع
سيتم إرسال الطلب الى عنوانك
استبدال أسهل
تسوّق آمن
أصلي ومضمون
توصيل سريع
عن المنتج
First of all, there is a symbolic amputation: this is not a love story.
Not even letters.
Not even redemption.
This is a hemorrhage contained in paper, so maybe it bleeds slowly, like a razor forgotten in the inside pocket of a jacket. The kind you come back to when youve lost the fight.
People have told me more than once that writing love letters is a sign of weakness.
I disagree.
Weakness is pretending you dont feel it.
Weakness is memorizing speeches about detachment while dreaming of a touch that no longer exists.
Weakness is having words and not using them.
Loving is something else, its a kind of permitted violence, a vice that cannot be rehabilitated.
I dont know if Ive ever loved. Of course you have, thats stu-pid. Of course I have, otherwise I wouldnt be writing this book.
In fact, I dont even know if what I felt was love, or if it was just a well-dressed need, with Italian shoes and ironic promises that life made to me.
I just know that I wrote it.
And that was enough.
Writing has always been my way of pretending to be alive. And if there are letters in this book, its because there were silences too dense to bear.
The letters are more real than the bodies.
They dont age.
They dont change their scent.
They dont lie afterwards. Yes, after sex.
They only say what they had to say when it was too late.
Like an epitaph that is meant to be loving, but comes out venge-ful.
I love poorly.
I write well. I think so, I write well, but there are those who disagree and I dont disagree with those who disagree with me.
And maybe thats how its always been my punishment.
There is a gap between what you feel and what you can say. This book lives in that gap.
Maybe thats why I seem incoherent, or even pathetic, or too naked.
But if there is something ridiculous here, its the noble kind. Its the ridicule of someone who isnt ashamed of having loved and failed.
The ridiculousness of those who dared to write, without want-ing to save themselves with it.
Im not a poet. I hate poets.
Im a man on the run - from others, from myself and from a woman who didnt want to be a character.
I failed in every direction.
But I wrote it down.
So, reader or accomplice, this is for you.
For you, who still write love letters with no addressee.
For you, who folded papers in silence as if they were sentences.
For you, who still believe that there is lucidity in the despair of loving.
Its not a love book.
Its an agglomeration of absences and presences, mistakes and successes, desires and needs.
And maybe - just maybe - an idiotic attempt to come back.
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