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The world is imperfect, my love. But we must make do. Nothing to redo either. It is impossible.

She would have said but nothing is impossible, there is much to enjoy.

Especially do not pretend it was perfect. Do not like, do it with. The world is as wonderful qu'imperfection. It is a wonderful imperfection. Much more beautiful than our delusional illusions of perfection, for it contains. Let us make do with what we offer: his dreams and nightmares, its beauty and drama, his dark days and nights bright, her laughter of children and the sadness of old who finally succumbed to the slope age, on the pretext of wisdom. That fatigue is true, I think, makes us give up. Therefore, while for the body, we are compelled to note that there is not much to do, despite our funny and artificial attempts to keep a juvenile form, do not we are persisting in trying to stay young in spirit? Keep the child we all have certainly been. Keep these wonders first to enjoy these immeasurable pain and immeasurable because first we did not know at the time there would be many other, much worse later, relegating them to the first rightful place, the pain of beginners. Why not enjoy its priceless beauty, as we all lived, small? I remember the shocking discovery, the first betrayal of life.

You mean, those of the family? Yes, have you ever done it well with these people, of which thee uncovered, then fed, those who've cherished or hated that anchored the first benchmarks that will guide us along the way?

One of the biggest flaws of the world is that physicists call entropy. Basically, if I understood what my teacher was trying to explain physics long ago she should already be made to the state of what was found in his pieces: a sort of soup where s 'collide at top speed all the molecules, diverse, colorful and fragrant. It's fun to think that eventually all the teachers of physical end turn into, be reincarnated in, so to speak, the content of the glass tubes they do not manipulate illusions to cohorts of adolescents, with few exceptions, intended to take over their drudgery and repetitive teacher, do not show at best a forced interest to the wonders that they are approaching. You can not put the toothpaste back in the tube when it is released, or even reconstitute the woods when it burned.

Stardust. We are stardust. Each atom that we made and which comprises the entire of the known universe, including us, was forged in the hollow of the immense nuclear furnace are the stars. Stardust we are dust and redeviendrons. Logic. Atom and radiation energy that will deteriorate. As

as time passes, I feel, too, at my level, this degradation. This is the principle of entropy applied to men. Here, we call time. This, I believe, the world's biggest flaw: it is subject to time.

The bizarre fact is that we are not of everything we were at our birth. Every cell in our body then was replaced by new ones. Each cell is dead and has been replaced several times. Except maybe my brain, finally, those who have survived so far, nothing that made me is identical to what I composed a few years ago. It is a famous knife of Wittenberg, which remains the same while successively his blade and handle have been replaced. We are in the same case. The real weird is that we are already more than what we were there a few seconds, for example when I started this sentence and we will certainly have another when you've finished reading it.

But time does not just submit ourselves to this perpetual metamorphosis and paradox, where we never yet still remain the same, it's worse. For the few who gives us the illusion of our preservation, our continuity, our uniqueness, time has found even better. It makes us player action. That is what we call history. We are all enrolled in a genealogy. We are not ourselves that we are a link in a genealogical chain, we can not escape, Anyway, regarding upstream.

For downstream, ie, our descendants may be we can of course prevent us from creating life, to reproduce ourselves. This verb is particularly abhorrent. This is not to reproduce, although the physical act involved in these undeniably famous pleasures of life mentioned earlier, but now I know (and I understand that we were a few billion in the know) that it may be heterosexual act without necessarily reproducing and even less intention of - but simply to play, random encounters, emotions and impulses, the great lottery of genetic mixing. Our children are different from us, even if they are our children, but more importantly, their time is different from ours. Their time as we crossed slowly on the decline of our trajectory, dressing one morning in our absence. To see my son grow up, I see my own approaching death. It is the work of time. But sometimes we are, at times, to snatch bits of eternity, suspensions of happiness that lasts a little. Do not fall into the illusion. Very good, very good to see him play its little sun. Good. But soon, the race resumed, the howls in the ears, we must one day or another start to muddle through this tunnel which leads to a zero output even blacker than the night of ink from which we emerge .

© 2005 The Journal of Armona / Christopher Sims

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All knowledge is in the Humanity

All knowledge is in humanity. The world is not so much that it is not thought by a spirit. And it is through this thought as he gradually reveals itself to itself.

Words disappear. There's nothing left to tell the world. Leaving only the real is to say the unsayable, that is worse than nothing, emptiness in appearance. Because nothing is at least something is a word. Can you imagine a world without the word for the name or names that otherwise lack the gap, the void, emptiness, nothing? The situation here is worse. Imagine there be something for which there is no word? An immense and eternal and deep shade, a thick darkness without end, absolute silence. This sounds like the vacuum of space, it resembles the Nazi concentration camps. The
nihilating involves the removal of these words to say as much as by physical removal of victims. Hence the extreme importance of the walls of memory, which remain etched their names. That's all they have left is all that remains and it is fundamental. We must protect the memory and protect the words that carry it.
The world is imperfect, yet it has everything to do not. Does its imperfection does not come from the imperfection of the mind that thinks? Of spirits by thinking, to invent itself. Strictly speaking, inventing, they create it. And by the way, to create themselves, spirits belonging to the order of the universe, the things of this world. They are parties. They also create, obviously. Our minds, therefore, weak and powerless in the face with reality, create a world that seems more bearable because they inhabited, unintentionally on his part, more or less consciously-ours, a beginning of intelligibility.
There is no law in nature. There are only phenomena of which the structures and interactions is apparent gradually reveal to us blind to our puny minds. First, we do not understand in general. Then one of us has the gall to propose an explanation, giving the impression that we understand: a god, one law, a mathematical tool. And apparently it works (with some exceptions: the sun and stars revolve around the earth. God created the universe in seven days). Until another later, can convince his contemporaries that these are mere trifles, and he jokes himself, a better explanation.
He often loses his head. The church is the centuries to apologize. And then another comes who returns this explanation so elegant and disturbing to the rank of childish myths. Another explanation for the first hunt. It now claims that the universe is as it seems, he had to settle for someone with such precision the machine at the slightest variations in initial conditions, the universe would not have been born or at least be what it is before our eyes flabbergasted. This is obviously as wrong as the previous explanations. Is to confuse observation with the explanation is to take the apparent for real, ie bladders for lanterns. Because reality is what it is and if it is imposed on us, we can not actually say anything serious, and even less true. The truth is that because of errors corrected. The truth

going backwards, masked and blindfolded, an extinguished torch in his hand in a dark world she knows nothing and especially what it is.



© 2005 The Journal of Armona / Christopher Sims

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what the devil can therefore serve Twitter? - To know the color of the cat. Truthful Self Portrait

what the devil may well be used Twitter?
- To know the color of the cat


first novel published in French on Twitter is called thixotropy. His broadcast began on 1 August
can follow @ christophesims

Twitter tweet just to chirp that means in English. Where the bird logo. This is the latest microblogging service fashion whose principle is to respond in less than 140 characters to the question "What are you doing right now?" Question
apparently without any interest . Because who cares what I do now? Curiously, Twitter knows However, since 2006 exponential growth. Does this mean that the same virtual exhibitionism is the main motivation of the users of the Net?
Especially as opposed to other platforms such as Facebook, Twitter is fundamentally asymmetric: each chooses who he wants to follow without that tracking can not do anything about it.
Unless Twitter offers something new.

Twitter The basic rule is elementary: not more than 140 characters per tweet (message).
Fragmentation of a novel packet of less than 140 characters may seem contradictory to the very nature of a story-book, be closed (although the novel can open up unlimited opportunities) and tangible.
For 15 years, all attempts by publishers to create an electronic book failed. For one simple reason: to give an e-book looks like a paper book combines the disadvantages of both. It's a bit like giving the shape of a horse to a car: we s'arriérait above.
No, the electronic medium must be used for what it is, like Slate, for example: a support intangible, weightless, free pages, not paper, more nomadic in its way as his ancestor's book, it is available from any terminal connected to the Internet.
This new mode of publication raises substantive issues in the literature especially as the movement does not stop there. One can easily anticipate the medium term a market system, with subscription and pay twitters.

It allows, however, explore new avenues as an editorial writer started by the literary blogging.


From a literary standpoint, The Twilivres (books published on Twitter) have an impressive success in the Far East and especially in Japan, where several authors have reached the one million followers. Manga culture is a relatively easy extension to this literature. But there is one other unknown reason, linguistic one. The rules also apply to 140 characters ideograms, which are more than signs. Ideograms 140 equivalent or less the same number of words in an alphabetic language, or French, with an average of 5 characters per word, an equivalent of 600 to 700 characters. The texts are no longer fractionated with the same frequency somewhat destructuring (or too structuring) that the rule requires alphabetic systems.
In France, the limit on the number of signs refers to the work of the Oulipo. The group Twitter 140car working in this direction. A distinguished grammarian says that Twitter even improves cognitive and language of those who engage in it.
But if the media requires the fragmentation of the text, thixotropy, as did The French Revolution novel twitterisé - could we not write in French chirped? - USA by Matt Stewart since July 14, did not provided written under duress of the 140 signs.
it is more an adaptation of a matrix medium of writing.


The most innovative aspect of Twitter for the publishing world.

By definition, a book buyer does not know what it contains, since by definition it can not know what it contains once it has read. Except to fall back on literary critics or word of mouth. But the ruling
criticism is not impervious to all sorts of pressures, patterns, references elevator or simply miscalculation. Word of mouth, like the telephone game for children, is of relevance particularly distorted the chain of interlocutors is long.
Hence the emphasis placed by publishers in terms of marketing, as that term is ugly - the title, illustration and the back cover of the book to differentiate the mass of publications.
In all cases, it is to trust others. The reader could not rely on it directly to the author?
It remains only to rely on the reputation of the writer or engage at random. All this is very human, but ultimately we do not know what you buy.

Basically, buy a book is to buy a pig in a poke. There is

Perhaps the revolution brings Twitter: there is no need to pay the book to find out. The author coos freely within the network and the reader can enjoy, appreciate, fragment by fragment, the text.
He knows the color of the cat before you buy.

Then, if he wishes, he may then decide to put their hands in the pocket, knowingly. Is not very price to download an electronic version, load it to print (without ultimately having a real book.)
If it is intrinsically bibliophile or, it may also order the paper book directly to the author (PoD) or through a publisher and / or a bookseller, who can still play a role if they adapt to this new .

Roland Barthes wrote so presciently: "A text is made of multiple writings, from several cultures and come together with others dialogue ... But there is a place where this multiplicity comes together, and this place is not the author ... it is the reader: the reader is the space where part ... all the citations is done writing, the unity of a text is not in its origin but in its destination. "(in The rustle of language, Critical Essays IV, 1984).

Many wonder what the devil can use Twitter. It is in its multiple destinations that saw the book, ie its readers. So that at the very least, Twitter should reflect the world of literature: a new form of relationship with its readers the writer is being born.



Christopher Sims.

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Born Englishman, of Russian origin, I am French by education more than by descent. I grew up (in all senses of the verb) in France, in a family of women. I have attended school in Liberty, can not be created, public schools, secular and republican a provincial capital and conservative clerics.
Weighted few degrees (Law, English and Science Education), I exercise in my spare time academic positions, having dabbled and played - not without failures - trades. I
have long sensed that writing is about telling stories, not from the memories and even fewer memories of dreams, but dreams of memories.
write is to build dreams with memories. So if you must know to write dream, memories are also needed. For this, we must live. So I lived.
For years, a life. Love affairs, children, departures, large and small wounds, large and small joys, friends, books, days and nights. And for years, I've managed to accumulate debut, sketches, incipits stillborn, collections unfinished texts impossible.
I also read. It never reads too. Extending
wandering family, I speak, read and write five languages fluently, which, with the control more or less summary of half a dozen other verbiage, makes the trip.
now I share my time between Britain and Portugal, where I spend most of my last inactivity, preferably in the sun, my favorite addictions that are indistinct in the order of love, the sea and writing, which is probably not equipotent figures, seem, from the age of man, the only serious things the world.