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Saturday, June 23, 2012

Is it normal?

Hae people, this is just a quick one, but I was wondering, is it normal that since yesterday I just don't wanna do anything?
I don't feell like reading and that's a bad sign, I'm a book worm lol.
And it isn't just about reading, it happens when I wanna do other stuff, I simply don't care or don't feell like it.
Now, is it normal?
When will it pass?
I hate feelling like this(:

Friday, June 22, 2012

After writing that last really sad post, I feel, much, much bettter.
I realized that, she was suffering allot, and that she's happy now.
Of course, I wont stop missing her, and there are always the memories.

Bye, I love you, and always will.

Wow, I don't even have words to describe this day.
In fact, I don't even know why I'm posting this, because I know it will make me sad all over again, not that I'm not sad, but it will bring all the pain back. So, maybe I'm posting this to feel better about it, or maybe just to record my feellings in this moment.
Where to begin...
Five years ago, my grandma, Cristina, had a brain haemorrhage, and since then, she could no longer walk, or move her left arm.
She spent five years in bed, just watching televition, eating, talking with family.
On week-ends, her nurs, would take her, on her wheele chair, to the near by cafe, and on mondays, to have breakfast with some of her friends.
On the afternoons, she would be sitting on her chair, or lying on bed.
I don't leave in the same state as she did, but I would visit her often on vacations and long week-ends.
As you can see, this wasn't a happy life, but it was still life, and she had company all the time.
Two weeks ago, she got really sick, something related to the heart, and she couldn't breathe very well, so they took her to the hospital and she was well, not ok, but not that bad.
And three days ago, she returned to her house, with an oxygen tank and all.
By now, you'd think I was prepared for her death, and I thought I was, but really, one can never be prepared for something like that.
So yes, as You've already guessed, she, well, passed away today.
Sitting here, listening to the rain, I'm just regretting two things.
One, I didn't call her to often, and this is not an excuse, but the truth, it hurt me so much to speak to her by phone, cause she wouldn't hear verry well.
And the secund thing I regret, just yesterday, my mom called, and told me to call her, I really was going to do it but at the end I didn't call.
I love you grandma, you'll always be in my prairs, I'm sure you're in heaven now, happy with god.


Tuesday, June 12, 2012

A simple quote can say more about a person's heart, than a whole book.

Ok readers, as in "ceci's books" I wrote about madame Vovary, here's a quote, so that you have an idea of how her life was like, how she saw life, and what she thought.
•"for her, life was as cold as an attic with a window looking to the north, and ennui, like a spider, was silently spinning its shadowy web in every cranny of her heart."
This quote says much about her, what a miserable life she must have had.

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Hae wourld!
Here comes another "Ceci's books.
This one will be divided in to two or three parts.

Madame Bovary.
When we read/listen to this name, we immediately think of “Emma”.

Emma Bovary.
Emma, a poor (well, she had a bit of money) woman, who was unhappy with her life.
Emma, who wanted more than what she could possibly have.
Emma, who first went to school at a but she felt unhappy, she wanted freedom, she didn’t like rules, so she moved to the country with her father Roault.
Her father, was one of those people whom you can’t help loving ones you know them.
One day, he broke his leg and called the doctor Charls.
Charls who at the time was married with an old, “very rich”, ugly woman, came to fix his leg.
There, he met Emma, who would soon become his second wife after the mysterious death of the first one.
Oh people, no, don’t get me wrong, of course Charls didn’t kill her, no, she poisoned her self after knowing that her bank manager had fled with all her money an all her other houses’ scriptures.
From the beginning, Emma’s and Charl’s relation was really unusual and really stupid.
They met when Charl’s went to Emma’s house to mend her father’s leg.
At first, she was just another woman, but later Charls and her started to frequently watch, talk to one another.
Poor Emma, if she had only known what this talks an looks would cause her.
After six months of knowing eatch other, they finally got married.
“Charl’s first wife had already died”
He ddidn’t even ask her personally, she asked her father who asked her.
The most stupid thing, was that they hadn’t even had a long talk, they hadn’t even had time to really know eatch other. They only had short ordinary conversations, and she just loved him cause she hadn’t met other men.
The wedding scene is a really memorable one, so I’m gonna quote a bit of it:
The guests arrived betimes, in all sorts of conveyances- one-horse tilt-carts, waggonettes, old cabriolets minus their hoods, carriers' vans with leather curtains. The young folk from the villages close by drove up in farm carts, standing up in rows, holding on to the side rails to prevent themselves from falling, jolting along at a short, sharp trot. Some of the people came from thirty miles away, from such places as Goderville, Normanville and Cany. All the relations on both sides had been invited. Old quarrels had been patched up, and letters sent to friends they had not heard of for ages.
From time to time the crack of a whip was heard the other side of the hedge. Then the gate would swing open, and a cart would enter. It would drive at a canter right up to the doorstep, pull up with a jerk and discharge its occupants, who would clamber down on either side, rubbing the stiffness out of their knees and stretching their arms. The ladies, in their best bonnets, wore town-made costumes, gold watch-chains, tippets with ends crossing over at the waist, or little coloured kerchiefs fastened behind with a pin and showing a little bit of neck at the back. The little boys, dressed like their papas, seemed rather ill at ease in their new clothes (a good few of them were sporting the first pair of boots they had ever had in their lives), and alongside of them, not daring to utter a word, and wearing her white first communion dress lengthened for the occasion, you might see a gawky girl of anything from fourteen to sixteen- a sister or a cousin, no doubt- all red and flustered, her hair plastered down with strong-smelling pomade and terribly afraid of soiling her gloves. As there were not enough stable-boys to unharness all the horses, the gentlemen rolled up their sleeves and turned-to themselves. According to their different social grades they wore dress-coats, frock-coats, jackets, and cardigans- fine black suits, venerable symbols of family respectability which only issued from the press on occasions of special solemnity; frock-coats with voluminous skirts floating in the wind, collars like cylinders and pockets as big as sacks; coats of coarse homespun, of the sort usually worn with a cap with a band of copper round the peak; very short jackets with two buttons in the small of the back, close together like a pair of eyes, the abbreviated tails of which looked as if they had been cut out of a single block with a carpenter's chisel. Yet others (but they, for sure, would have to sit below the salt) were wearing their party smocks, that is to say, smocks with the collar turned down over the shoulder, the back gathered in with little puckers, and encircled, very low down, by an embroidered belt.
And the shirts bulged out on the chests like breastplates. All the gentlemen had had their hair cut, their ears were sticking out from their heads, and they had all shaved especially close for the occasion. Some of them who had got up before it was light, when it was really too dark to shave, had gashes running crosswise under the nose, or pieces as big as shillings taken out of their cheeks. The cold air blowing against them on the journey had inflamed them so that their broad, highly polished countenances were diversified like marble with pink patches.
The Mairie being but a mile or so from the farm they went on foot, and as soon as the ceremony at the church was over they trudged back again. The procession, at first keeping well together, resembled a coloured scarf as it undulated through the countryside, winding slowly along the narrow footpath through the green cornfields. But before long it began to straggle, and broke up into separate groups that loitered on the way to gossip. The fiddler went on ahead, the top of his fiddle all bedecked with streamers; after him walked the bridegroom and his bride, the relations and friends following in what order they pleased. Last of all came the children, who amused themselves by plucking little sprays of oats, or had a little game all to themselves, when no one was looking. Emma's dress, which was too long for her, dragged a little behind. Every now and again she would stop to gather it up and, delicately, with her gloved hand, pick off the blades of rough grass and bits of briar, while Charles stood sheepishly by, waiting till she had finished. Farmer Rouault, resplendent in a new silk hat, the cuffs of his best coat covering his hands as far as his fingertips, had given his arm to the dowager Madame Bovary. Monsieur Bovary senior, who in his heart thought all these people very small beer indeed, had come in an austere frock-coat of military cut with a single row of buttons. He was delivering himself of some rather dubious jocularities to a fair-haired country wench, who curtseyed, and blushed, and didn't know what to say. The rest of the party talked business or indulged in a little skylarking by way of warming themselves up for the gaiety to come; and whenever you cared to listen, you could hear the scrape-scrape of the fiddler who pranced on ahead, fiddling over hill and dale. When he noticed that the party had fallen a good way behind, he stopped to take breath and applied the rosin with vigour to his bow, so that the strings should squeak the louder. Then he marched on again, swaying the top of his instrument alternately up and down, the better to mark the time. The sound of the fiddle startled the birds far and wide.
The table had been laid under the roof of the cartshed. Upon it there stood four sirloins, six dishes of hashed chicken, stewed veal, three legs of mutton and, in the centre, a comely roast sucking-pig flanked with four hogs-puddings garnished with sorrel. At each corner was a decanter filled with spirits. Sweet cider in bottles was fizzling out round the corks, and every glass had already been charged with wine to the brim. Yellow custard in great dishes, which would undulate at the slightest jog of the table, displayed on its smooth surface the initials of the wedded pair in arabesques of candied peel. They had had recourse to a confectioner at Yvetot for the tarts and the iced cakes. As he was just starting business in the district, he had given a special eye to things; and when the dessert was brought on, he himself, personally, carried in a set piece which drew cries of admiration from the assembled company. At the base of this erection was a rectangular piece of blue cardboard, representing a temple with porticoes, colonnades, and stucco statuettes all around in little niches embellished with gilt-paper stars. Above it, on the second storey, stood a castle-keep or donjon wrought in Savoy cake, surrounded with diminutive fortifications in angelica, almonds, raisins, and bits of orange; and finally, on the topmost level of all, which was nothing less than a verdant meadow where there were rocks with pools of jam and boats made out of nut-shells, was seen a little Cupid balancing himself on a chocolate swing, the posts of which were tipped with two real rosebuds.
The feasting went on till evening. When they grew tired of sitting, the gentlemen got up and strolled about the yard or played a game of pitch-and-toss in the barn, after which they came back again to the table. A few of them at the finish fell asleep and snored. But when the coffee arrived, everything brightened up again. Songs were struck up, feats of strength performed. They did some weight-lifting, tried to raise the carts with their shoulders, made risky jokes, embraced the ladies. At night, when it was time to go, the horses, stuffed to the teeth with oats, could hardly be got into the shafts. They plunged, they reared, they snapped their harness, their masters cursed or laughed, and all night long, far and wide, by the light of the moon, there were runaway vehicles going hard-a-gallop, careering into ditches, bounding over stone-heaps, dashing up embankments, with women-folk leaning out of the carriage windows frantically trying to clutch the reins. Those who stayed on at les Bertaux spent the night drinking in the kitchen. The children dropped off to sleep on the floor under the benches.

As you can see, this wasn’t the kind of wedding for witch Madame Vovary was hoping for.
She hoped for a splendid wedding, in whitch all the guests would be important people, a wedding in the city, she hoped for the best food, for the best wine. In a few words a fairy tale like wwedding.
Also, you can notice that this scene is written in an almost despective way.
This is because the author is telling it in Emma’s point of view
Well, this is part one.
Hope you liked it.