Tosca Quotes

I look at the blanked-out faces of the other passengers--hoisting their briefcases, their backpacks, shuffling to disembark--and I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality. And I keep thinking too of the more conventional wisdom: namely, that the pursuit of pure beauty is a trap, a fast track to bitterness and sorrow, that beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful. Only what is that thing? Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet--for me, anyway--all that's worth living for lies in that charm? A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don't get to choose our own hearts. We can't make ourselves want what's good for us or what's good for other people. We don't get to choose the people we are. Because--isn't it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture--? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it's a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: "Be yourself." "Follow your heart." Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted--? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?...If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or...is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?

How mighty, how great the One must be, I thought, to send the heavens careening, and yet hear the cry of a single heart.

And I know that God made the heart the most fragile and resilient of all organs, that a lifetime of joy and pain might be encased in one mortal chamber.

The words, when they came to my heart, were so gentle, and familiar -- and so very sad: What is this you have done?

Because--isn't it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture--? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it's a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: "Be yourself." "Follow your heart." Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted--? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?...If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or...is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?

How the stars shone. How sweet the earth smelled. The orchard gate creaked, and a footstep pressed on the sand. And she entered, fragrant as a flower, and fell into my arms. Oh, sweet kisses, lingering caresses. Slowly, trembling, I gazed upon her beauty. Now my dream of true love is lost forever. My last hour has flown, and I die, hopeless, and never have I loved life more.

You are necessary to that end, and to me...you are all I have of the garden. You are the image of me and of the One. And if you have wronged, then I have surely repaid your wrong twice over.

My #1 rule is write like no one is ever going to read it. Why? Because it gives you permission to be as audacious as you want.

My purpose for living, my role in this great scheme was clear to me from the first: to fall down, to worship, to praise, to wait upon the word of El." "That sounds really boring." "Really? Imagine the bliss of fulfilling one's created purpose.

I was beloved. I had been hoped for. Somehow, I was necessary.

I wanted to be alone with the One. The One who scaled then careened from the heights of the Mount. The One who raised up the man from the mud. The One who fashioned me from a part of the man and knew me more intimately than even the adam.

A weak man declares a woman a temptress and orders her to cover herself. A strong man covers himself and says nothing.

Sometime before sleep it occurred to me that the true nature of being without might mean never knowing what one lacked.

I felt laid bare, a fruit split open to reveal a moldering inside.

Beware: this is a place of tears. Questo è luogo di lagrime! Badate!

I've never stopped wanting to cross the equator, or touch an elk's horns, or sing Tosca or screw James Dean in a field of wheat. To hell with wisdom. They're all wrong: I'll never be through with my life.

From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it’s a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what’s right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: “Be yourself.” “Follow your heart.” Only here’s what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can’t be trusted—? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight towards a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?

I have always contended that girls are the sturdier of the genders and wondered in secret if the One that Is might not best be identified with the creativity of the female heart.

In the beginning there was God...but for me there was Adam.

I stared. "But you're saying--" "Yes, Clay" - her mouth smoothed into a chilly smile - "Image of El, breath of God. In such an unworthy vessel. Something far more precious than diamonds, denied even to us but entrusted to a container of mud.

A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don’t get to choose our own hearts. We can’t make ourselves want what’s good for us or what’s good for other people. We don’t get to choose the people we are. Because—isn’t it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture—? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it’s a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what’s right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: “Be yourself.” “Follow your heart.” Only here’s what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can’t be trusted—? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight towards a beautiful flare of ruin self-immolation, disaster? Is Kitsey right? If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you?

I will protect you all the days of my life. You will be the mother of all who live and the giver of life to the seed spoken by the One -- the seed that will strike the offspring of the serpent. The One has said it, Isha...today I name you Havah, because you will live, and all who live will come from you, and you will give birth to hope.

What attention would death pay to his pathetic voice? He was powerless without her.

In that instant I knew that as bad as it was, it was going to get much worse.

«Vieni con me, Giuda», ripeté. «Troverai ciò che stai cercando». In quel momento, gli credetti. Gli credetti con tutto il cuore

Even though he did not hear me sometimes so that I had to repeat my questions a second or third time. By then my tone was as abrasive as the coarse hair or the boar. How he annoyed me!

But these are no longer just samples of some disease. They were purchased with lives too save many more. Lives precious to me. Which might be the reason it feels so hard to let them go.

I slept in the grip of that love, comforted, thinking I should forget my longing within it, knowing that all was somehow well...In the morning when I stirred, I knew...I knew I lay here in my own flesh, but not alone.

I hesitated, having never considered that Katrina might be subject to the same whims of nature as other mortals. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry." And I meant it. Why do bad things happen to good people? There are no good people.

...Ezio Longo, inmigrante de primera generación en el país, arquitecto sin título y constructor de oficio, quien se había propuesto fundar un imperio sobre cemento y acero y a los treinta y cinco años ya lo tenía casi consolidado

Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore, non feci mai male ad anima viva!

Ser padre es muy distinto a la maternidad. A las mujeres les crece dentro el hijo, las antoja, les duele, les da náuseas, los patea por dentro. En cambio, ser padre es que los demás digan: 'este es tu hijo'. Es si acaso, una patada por fuera. Es una palabra. Es algo a lo que se puede uno acostumbrar o rechazar. Esa lejanía, esa posibilidad de tomar distancia. La madre no puede hacer eso. Es lo cercano, lo que envuelve, lo que cuida. El padre puede desatenderse, evadir, quedarse callado. Ser hijo de un padre es mucho más complejo que serlo de una madre. Al padre se le idealiza cuando está ausente, y cuando no, se le perdona tras una visita, una caricia tosca en el cabello, una palmada mal dada. Ser hijo es una tarea de abandono

Yes, I call your beautiful world mutant and perverse. So would you if you had seen the original. If you had, you would know how far we've all veered, how like a cancer things have grown.

understanding. Do we wish our children to do as they are told forever, simply because we told them what they should do, or because they fear punishment? Or do we hope that they grow in understanding to discern for themselves and freely choose right?

«Tu mi ami, Giuda?», mi chiese Gesù un mattino. Eravamo rimasti tutta la notte fuori a pregare tra le colline. «Con tutto il cuore», risposi, stanco ed esausto. Desideravo disperatamente che tornasse tra noi. Che tornasse a vivere. Che tornasse da me.

Not yet," he wailed, as raw as the earth. "But you lay as though already dead, and I cannot go on without you. Do not leave me; do not die!" And I felt a grief from him to melt the mountain ice. Grief to drown in. Grief to both rend my heart and mend it at once.

Because—isn’t it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture—? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it’s a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what’s right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: “Be yourself.” “Follow your heart.

A mist crept into the valley—how could this be, by the light of the climbing sun? It drifted over the form in the grass, nearly obscuring it, seeming to draw all sound into itself. I thought I might burst from the strain of that silence... until a single sound shattered it: The gasp of an indrawn breath.

Più di tutto, avrei voluto dirgli che volevo restare, perché non avevo altro luogo in cui andare, né persona o cosa a cui rivolgermi in questo mondo, né altre risposte se non quelle che lui poteva darmi; che avevo pregato perché mi offrisse le risposte che cercavo, perché se non lo avesse fatto lui, non avrei saputo dove altro cercarle

We longed for this world. We coveted it, and we hoped. Even Lucifer, though he wouldn't say it, looked on with greed-softened eyes, infatuated. I deluded myself into thinking that yes, perhaps Elohim had taken him back. Perhaps Elohim had forgotten all, would set him up as a god over this rich and wild new world. The next blessings to come from El would be his, and ours." He shook his head with a brittle laugh, the sound slightly too high-pitched for such a big man. We had skirted the MIT campus to arrive on Main, a block from my office building. "And why weren't they? Why couldn't they be?" He pulled over, put the car in park, and turned to look at me. "Because then he created them." "Them?" "You.

O quiza ni siquiera era un hombre, sus facciones eran toscas, como modeladas a puñetazos por un escultor ciego, y sus ojos eran pajas.

Suffice it to say, we were horrified by the entire concept of dying, even if we weren't the ones with the death sentence.

What is love, but to hold dear without expectation? What is love, but first given devotion? What is love . . . But freedom.

Me corroyó la envidia. ¿Por qué él y yo no? Imagino tu respuesta: «él era rubio y tú, prieto». Considerabas que en nuestro país se desplegaba un racismo por «goteo». Las telenovelas solo elegían protagonistas «güeritos». Los comerciales, en su vena aspiracional, solo presentaban blancos. Nosotros, los morenos de pelos lacios y de facciones toscas, no cuadrábamos en los cánones de la belleza, del estatus y del poder. La blancura como única vía de acceso a las esferas políticas y sociales más altas. Me niego a pensar que ella se acostara con él por rubio. Solo pienso que él le gustó más.

unas toscas figuras de barro que después llevó a su abuela de regalo. La señora, que había llegado a olvidar que andaba con él, quedó encantada y así nació la idea de que la cerámica era buena para los mongólicos.

Sweat trickled down my sides inside my sweater. "Why? Why did you do this?" "Because this is your life, Clay: fleeting, ephemeral, and insignificant except for one thing, that El loved you. And you have missed it. Missed it all, completely. And now, look at you. Sweating, worried about your life, your story. Did you expect to live forever? Did you think this day would not come? It had to, if not in this way then in some other.

His lips pulled back from his teeth. "This then, shall be my singular consolation, my bitter solace: that when you die - and the time will be soon - there will be at least one of El's precious clay humans more damned to hell than I!

Diranno che l’ho tradito, che ho ridotto il suo prezzo a trenta sicli d’argento. Diranno che sono avaro, che ho tradito il mio maestro. Non sanno che sono morto di crepacuore. Per il rammarico… Per amore. Se non conoscono me, non conoscevano neanche lui. Quanto ci ha sconvolti con la sua compassione, con la sua riluttanza a salvare un’intera nazione, ma con il desiderio di salvare le singole persone. Lo definivano un folle, un bugiardo. Ma ora so che era il volto di Dio, che non ci salva dai romani… Ma da noi stessi Sono il lebbroso, l’indemoniato. Io, paralizzato dalla paura, ero cieco. La prostituta, il cadavere nella tomba. Io, sono tutto questo. Io, che l’ho rinnegato e l’ho consegnato ai nemici. Io, che muoio per lui. Il mio nome sarà per sempre sinonimo di “traditore”. Ma egli amava i suoi nemici. Egli mi amava.

The adam and I had pondered the death many times since the day he brought me here. But despite our musing about an end of life and our search for evidence of death among fallen and decomposing fruit and the compost of leaves and the refuse of our industry, which we gathered to enrich the soil, I understood the death less well than the explosion that had filled the universe at its incarnation. In fact, every evidence of degrading life seemed only to point back to the sustenance of the living so that I grasped the idea of the death less and less the more I meditated upon it.

How is one statute against murder or rape or theft different from any other?” I said, though my mind had careened into a hundred different questions. “They are different in that they come from a god who says we are to show honor of him by honoring others. And so as we feed our hungry neighbor and do not steal from him we honor not our neighbor, but the image of the One who fashioned him. You say our god has no face. This is not true. Yaweh’s face is before us in every person we see, as we are made in his image. Living people who require more kindness and adoration than any idol.

La sencillez y sobriedad de la naturaleza promueven y configuran en el hombre sólo nociones comunes y una tosca honestidad. La coacción artificial y la opulencia de la organización civil [de la sociedad] dan lugar a hombres ingeniosos y razonadores, si bien en ocasiones también a locos (Narren) y tramposos (Betrüger), y genera la sabia u honesta apariencia que permite carecer tanto de entendimiento como de honradez, siempre que el bello velo que el decoro extiende sobre las secretas dolencias (Gebrechen) de la cabeza o del corazón sea tupido y suficientemente tejido. ― Immanuel Kant, Ensayo sobre las enfermedades de la cabeza

From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it’s a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what’s right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: “Be yourself.” “Follow your heart.

White noise, impersonal roar. Deadening incandescence of the boarding terminals. But even these soul-free, sealed-off places are drenched with meaning, spangled and thundering with it. Sky Mall. Portable stereo systems. Mirrored isles of Drambuie and Tanqueray and Chanel No. 5. I look at the blanked-out faces of the other passengers—hoisting their briefcases, their backpacks, shuffling to disembark—and I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality. And I keep thinking too of the more conventional wisdom: namely, that the pursuit of pure beauty is a trap, a fast track to bitterness and sorrow, that beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful. Only what is that thing? Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet—for me, anyway—all that’s worth living for lies in that charm? A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don’t get to choose our own hearts. We can’t make ourselves want what’s good for us or what’s good for other people. We don’t get to choose the people we are. Because—isn’t it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture—? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it’s a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what’s right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: “Be yourself.” “Follow your heart.

There is beauty in the world still. Even now. And it's worth saving for that reason alone.

Don't." I heard a tremor in her voice. "Don't do that. You did everything right." "I don't think I did." "Yes, you did. You're a good man." I hated those words. I hated hearing them. Being a good man had won me nothing. Lucian's words echoed somewhere between my brain and the phone line. I ask you, what is good, really, Clay? And I knew the answer: not good enough.

Reflexiona sobre las raíces, sobre la primera lengua y la segunda, sobre lo que quería cuando era pequeño y lo que quiere ahora, y dónde se superponen ambas cosas. Tal vez ese lugar donde ambas cosas se encuentran sea este, aquí, en la dulce insistencia del agua que le rodea las piernas, en las toscas letras grabadas con una navaja vieja. En el ritmo constante del pulso de otra persona en contacto con el suyo.

«Voi chi pensate che io sia?». In quel momento, ebbi la chiara impressione che se avessi detto che per me era un amico, lo sarebbe stato per sempre. Se avessi detto che era un gran lavoratore… lo sarebbe stato per sempre. Non so perché lo pensassi, ma il suo viso mi parve come una pagina bianca pronta per essere riempita, priva dell’angoscia o della follia da cui era tormentato negli ultimi tempi. Un mio amico. Il mio cuore sussurrò quella parola. Il Messia. Il mio passato, i miei piani ne avevano bisogno. Era così diverso, così imprevedibile, che spesso nessuno di noi sapeva cosa dire. Poi mi resi conto di aver paura. Il cuore mi batteva come un randello nelle orecchie. Avevo paura: temevo che qualunque cosa avessi detto, egli avrebbe potuto rispondere che non era vera. Che non era il Messia. Che non mi amava. O peggio, temevo che gli avrei creduto

I love my kids, and I’m so proud of them for everything that they have accomplished. My oldest child, Elon, is making electric cars to save the environment and launching rockets. My middle child, Kimbal, opened farm-to-table restaurants and is teaching children across the country to build fruit and vegetable gardens in underserved schools. My youngest child, Tosca, runs her own entertainment company, producing and directing romance films from bestselling novels. They all have different interests.

Later he would tell her that their story began at the Royal Hungarian Opera House, the night before he left for Paris on the Western Europe Express. The year was 1937; the month was September, the evening unseasonably cold. His brother had insisted on taking him to the opera as a parting gift. The show was Tosca and their seats were at the top of the house. Not for them the three marble-arched doorways, the façade with its Corinthian columns and heroic entablature. Theirs was a humble side entrance with a red-faced ticket taker, a floor of scuffed wood, walls plastered with crumbling opera posters. Girls in knee-length dresses climbed the stairs arm in arm with young men in threadbare suits; pensioners argued with their white-haired wives as they shuffled up the five narrow flights. At the top, a joyful din: a refreshment salon lined with mirrors and wooden benches, the air hazy with cigarette smoke. A doorway at its far end opened onto the concert hall itself, the great electric-lit cavern of it, with its ceiling fresco of Greek immortals and its gold-scrolled tiers. Andras had never expected to see an opera here, nor would he have if Tibor hadn’t bought the tickets. But it was Tibor’s opinion that residence in Budapest must include at least one evening of Puccini at the Operaház. Now Tibor leaned over the rail to point out Admiral Horthy’s box, empty that night except for an ancient general in a hussar’s jacket. Far below, tuxedoed ushers led men and women to their seats, the men in evening dress, the women’s hair glittering with jewels.

A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don't get to choose our own hearts. We can't make ourselves want what's good for us or what's good for other people. We don't get to choose the people we are. Because-- isn't it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture--? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it's a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: "Be yourself." "Follow your heart.

—No one knows why. Perhaps her mind, ravenous, still insatiable, sensed that to struggle with the shreds of a voice must make her artistry subtler, more refined, more capable of expressing humiliation, rage, betrayal ... —Perhaps the opposite. Perhaps her spirit loathed the unending struggle to embody itself, to manifest itself, on a stage whose mechanics, and suffocating customs, seemed expressly designed to annihilate spirit ... —I know that in Tosca, in the second act, when, humiliated, hounded by Scarpia, she sang Vissi d’arte —“I lived for art”— and in torment, bewilderment, at the end she asks, with a voice reaching harrowingly for the notes, “Art has repaid me LIKE THIS?

To My Favorite 17-Year-Old High School Girl Do you realize that if you had started building the Parthenon on the day you were born you would be all done in only one more year? Of course, you couldn’t have done it alone, so never mind, you’re fine just as you are. You are loved simply for being yourself. But did you know that at your age Judy Garland was pulling down $150,000 a picture, Joan of Arc was leading the French army to victory, and Blaise Pascal had cleaned up his room? No wait, I mean he had invented the calculator. Of course, there will be time for all that later in your life after you come out of your room and begin to blossom, or at least pick up all your socks. For some reason, I keep remembering that Lady Jane Grey was Queen of England when she was only fifteen, but then she was beheaded, so never mind her as a role model. A few centuries later, when he was your age, Franz Schubert was doing the dishes for his family but that did not keep him from composing two symphonies, four operas, and two complete Masses as a youngster. But of course that was in Austria at the height of romantic lyricism, not here in the suburbs of Cleveland. Frankly, who cares if Annie Oakley was a crack shot at 15 or if Maria Callas debuted as Tosca at 17? We think you are special by just being you, playing with your food and staring into space. By the way, I lied about Schubert doing the dishes, but that doesn’t mean he never helped out around the house.

Brianna olhou para seu relógio, ainda surpresa em vê-lo ali. Ainda faltava meia hora. Se pudessem evitar derramamento de sangue até... Um grito lancinante vindo de cima e ela fez uma careta. A ajudante, menos preparada, deixou cair sua prancheta de anotações com um gritinho. - MAMÃE! - Jem, em tom de queixa. - O QUE FOI? - ela rugiu em resposta. - Estou OCUPADA! -Mas mamãe! Mandy me BATEU! -veio o relato indignado do alto da escada. Erguendo os olhos, ela podia ver a parte de cima de sua cabeça, a luz da janela brilhando em seus cabelos. - É mesmo? Bem... - Com uma VARINHA! - Que tipo de... - De PROPÓSITO! - Bem, não acho... - E... - uma pausa antes do desfecho incriminador - ELA NÃO PEDIU DESCULPAS! O construtor e sua ajudante desistiram de procurar larvas de caruncho para acompanhar a emocionante narrativa, e agora ambos olhavam para Brianna, sem dúvida esperando algum decreto salomônico. Brianna fechou os olhos por um instante. - MANDY - ela berrou. - Peça desculpas! - Não! - veio uma recusa estridente de cima. - Sim, tem que pedir! - veio a voz de Jem, seguida de ruídos de luta. Brianna dirigiu-se às escadas, com um olhar assassino. Assim que botou o pé no degrau, Jem emitiu um grito agudo. - Ela me MORDEU! - Jeremiah Mackenzie, nem PENSE em devolver a mordida! - gritou. - Vocês dois, parem com isso agora mesmo! Jem enfiou uma cabeça desgrenhada pelo corrimão, os cabelos arrepiados. Usava uma brilhante sombra azul nos olhos e alguém aplicara batom cor-de-rosa em uma forma tosca de boca de uma orelha à outra. - Ela é uma pestinha - ele informou furiosamente aos fascinados espectadores embaixo. - Meu avô disse.

el gran macho cabrío. ¡Salve, demonio mudo! Eres el más intenso animal. Místico eterno del infierno carnal… ¡Cuántos encantos tiene tu barba, tu frente ancha, rudo Don Juan! ¡Qué gran acento el de tu mirada mefistofélica y pasional! Vas por los campos con tu manada, hecho un eunuco ¡siendo un sultán! Tu sed de sexo nunca se apaga; ¡bien aprendiste del padre Pan! La cabra lenta te va siguiendo, enamorada con humildad; mas tus pasiones son insaciables; Grecia vieja te comprenderá. ¡Oh ser de hondas leyendas santas de ascetas flacos y Satanás, con piedras negras y cruces toscas, con fieras mansas y cuevas hondas, donde te vieron entre la sombra soplar la llama de lo sexual! ¡Machos cornudos de bravas barbas! ... ¡Machos cabríos! Sois metamorfosis de viejos sátiros perdidos ya. Vais derramando lujuria virgen como no tuvo otro animal. ¡Iluminados del Mediodía!

Because—isn’t it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture—? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it’s a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what’s right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: “Be yourself.” “Follow your heart.” Only here’s what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can’t be trusted—? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight towards a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?

our love is proved when we love those who are not beautiful, who wound with word or deed. When we love not out of pity, or even for their sakes, but for our own. And here is the secret: they do not wound us, as Yaweh does not wound us. We wound ourselves by allowing the offense. And so Yaweh commands forgiveness for our own healing. Because in honoring ourselves—and others as ourselves—we please and honor Yaweh, who looks not on what a person does, but on the heart.” I

Porque- já não é incutido em nós constantemente, desde a infância, um lugar-comum não questionado na cultura? De William Blake a Lady Gaga, de Rousseau a Rumi, passando pela Tosca e pelo Sr. Rogers, é uma mensagem curiosamente uniforme, aceita de alto a baixo - quando em dúvida, o que fazer? Como sabemos qual é a coisa certa para nós? Qualquer psiquiatra, qualquer orientador vocacional, qualquer princesa da Disney sabe a resposta: "seja você mesmo". "Siga seu coração." Mas aí está o que eu realmente, realmente queria que alguém me explicasse. E se alguém por acao tem um coração que não é confiável? E se o coração, por seus próprios motivos insondáveis, afasta deliberadamente a pessoa, e numa nuvem de esplendor indescritível, da saúde, da vida doméstica, da responsabilidade cívica, dos fortes vínculos sociais e de todas as virtudes comuns agradavelmente mantidas a leva em vez disso bem na direção de uma bela labareda de ruína, autoimolação desastre?

UE es pues la Comedia? La edad medieval realizada como arte, a pesar del autor y de los contemporáneos. ¡Y notad qué cosa tan grande es ésta! La edad media no era un mundo artístico, antes lo contrario del arte. La religión era misticismo; la filosofía, escolástica. La primera excomulgaba el arte, quemaba las imágenes, avezaba a los espíritus a desasirse de lo real. La otra vivía de abstracciones y de fórmulas y de citas, aguzando el entendimiento y llevándole a sutilizar acerca de los nombres y de los vacuas generalidades llamadas esencias. Los espíritus eran atraídos hacia lo general, más dispuestos a idealizar que a realizar: y esto es precisamente lo contrario del arte. En los poetas sencillos hallamos la realidad tosca e informe, como en los misterios, en las visiones y en las leyendas. En los poetas doctos encontramos una forma crudamente didascálica o figurativa y alegórica. El arte no había nacido aún. Existía la imagen; pero no la realidad con su libertad y carácter.

Viví en aquel bloque de pisos entre los seis y los veintiún años. En total había veinte apartamentos, cuatro por planta, y lo único que recuerdo es un edificio lleno de mujeres. Apenas recuerdo a ningún hombre. Estaban por todas partes, claro está –maridos, padres, hermanos–, pero sólo recuerdo a las mujeres. Y las recuerdo a todas tan toscas como la señora Drucker o tan feroces como mi madre. Nunca hablaban como si supiesen quiénes eran, como si comprendieran el trato que habían hecho con la vida, pero a menudo actuaban como si lo supiesen. Astutas, irascibles, iletradas, parecían sacadas de una novela de Dreiser. Había años de aparente calma y, de repente, cundían el pánico y la locura: dos o tres vidas marcadas (quizá arruinadas) y el tumulto se apagaba. De nuevo calma silenciosa, letargo erótico, la normalidad de la abnegación cotidiana. Y yo –la niña que crecía entre todas ellas, formándose a su imagen y semejanza– me empapaba de ellas como de cloroformo impregnado en un paño apretado contra mi cara. He tardado treinta años en entender cuánto entendí de ellas.

Penso a ciò che mi disse Hobie: la bellezza cambia la venatura della realtà. E continuo a pensare anche a una verità più convenzionale: ovvero, che la ricerca della bellezza pura è una trappola, una scorciatoia per l’amarezza e il dolore, che la bellezza dev’essere sempre associata a qualcosa di più profondo. Ma cos’è quel qualcosa? Perché sono fatto così? Perché tengo alle cose sbagliate, e non mi curo di quelle giuste? O, per metterla in un altro modo: come è possibile che, pur rendendomi conto che tutto quel che amo o che m’interessa è un’illusione, io continui a sentire che tutto ciò per cui vale la pena vivere risiede proprio in quell’illusione? Un grande dolore, che comincio a comprendere solo adesso: il cuore non si sceglie. Non possiamo obbligarci a desiderare ciò che è bene per noi o per gli altri. Non siamo noi a determinare il tipo di persone che siamo. Perché – non ci martellano forse fin dall’infanzia con l’idea opposta, un luogo comune profondamente radicato nella nostra cultura, da William Blake a Lady Gaga, da Rousseau a Rumi alla Tosca a Mister Rogers, un messaggio curiosamente uniforme, trasversale: se sei in dubbio, cosa fai? Come fai a sapere cosa è giusto per te? Ogni psicologo, ogni consulente del lavoro, ogni principessa Disney conosce la risposta: «Sii te stesso». «Segui il tuo cuore.» Ma ecco ciò che vorrei davvero che qualcuno mi spiegasse. Cosa succede se ti ritrovi con un cuore inaffidabile? Se questo cuore, per ragioni imperscrutabili, ti porta ostinatamente, avvolto in una nube di indicibile fulgore, lontano da tutto ciò che è sano, dal conforto dei piaceri domestici, dal senso civico e dai legami sociali e da tutte quelle che vengono comunemente considerate virtù per trascinarti invece verso uno stupendo falò di rovina, immolazione e disastro? […] Se il tuo io più profondo ti conduce cantando dritto verso il fuoco, devi voltargli le spalle? Tapparti le orecchie con la cera? Ignorare il perverso splendore che il cuore ti grida contro? […] O è meglio tuffarsi di testa e con una risata nel sacro fuoco che chiama il tuo nome?

Diante de tanta ignorância e preconceito atualmente eu só posso comentar que o Facebook é um terreno fértil para os piores frutos de nossa tosca personalidade.

Creo que en alguna parte dije que las palabras son un medio tosco y ahora me encuentro diciendo que son dúctiles. Las dos cosas son ciertas. Todo depende de si les da por andar de toscas o se dignan a mostrarse dúctiles

Lo que las redes sociales hicieron entonces, y lo que hacen siempre, es crear ilusiones: de que podemos mejorar la sociedad con solo desearlo; de que las personas más sensatas saldrían ganadoras en las contiendas; y de que, de alguna manera, la cuestión del bienestar material se resolvería sola. Lo que sucede en realidad, siempre, es que los espejismos se disipan cuando ya es demasiado tarde, y el mundo lo heredan las personas más toscas, egoístas e ignorantes. Aquel que no sea un idiota será quien peor parado salga.

He laid the new records on the table. One, two, three, four. Sacred music by Pérotin, Tosca by Puccini, James Brown’s “Ain’t It Funky Now, Parts 1 and 2,” and Led Zeppelin IV.

four. Sacred music by Pérotin, Tosca by

The FBI didn’t do “matters.” The term means nothing in our language, and it was misleading to suggest otherwise. It was probably a mistake that I didn’t challenge this harder. But in that moment, I decided that her request was too frivolous to take issue with, especially as my first battle with a new boss. I also was confident the press, and the public, would totally miss the distinction between a “matter” and an “investigation” anyway. Maybe she knew that, too. I know the FBI attendees at our meeting saw her request as overtly political when we talked about it afterward. So did at least one of Lynch’s senior leaders. George Toscas, then the number-three person in the department’s National Security Division and someone I liked, smiled at the FBI team as we filed out, saying sarcastically, “Well, you are the Federal Bureau of Matters.

Tosca. Schwarzkopf and Black Beauty. Puccini.

¿Había algo que superase las promesas y el potencial de una página en blanco? ¿Qué otra cosa podía resultar más placentera? No importaba que pronto hubiera de estar cubierta de una tosca caligrafía; ni tampoco que mis renglones tomaran inevitablemente una inclinación descendente hacia la esquina derecha; ni que yo hiciera borrones con la tinta, ni que los dibujos nunca me salieran como había previsto en mi imaginación. Todo eso no importaba. Lo que contaba era la posibilidad misma. Una podía vivir de la pura posibilidadd, al menos por un tiempo.

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Me estremezco al pensar en cuál ha de ser el resultado de una lucha entre sistemas tan distintos; uno de nosotros ha de prevalecer y el otro será destruido, en cualquier caso no podemos existir ambos de forma segura. De su parte está la inmensa riqueza de su imperio, recursos intactos, experiencia y práctica en las armas, una soldadesca veterana, una serie ininterrumpida de victorias, disposición a resistir las dificultades, unión, orden, disciplina, frugalidad y vigilancia. De la nuestra se encuentra una hacienda vacía, hábitos lujosos, recursos agotados, espíritus quebrantados, una soldadesca tosca e insubordinada, y codiciosas reyertas; no hay respeto por la disciplina, el libertinaje se extiende por todas partes, los hombres se complacen en la embriaguez y la depravación, y, lo peor de todo, el enemigo está acostumbrado a la victoria, y nosotros a la derrota. ¿Podemos dudar de cuál ha de ser el resultado?7

Strong institutional marketing also helps sell tickets. La Scala, the Bolshoi, and the Paris Opera Ballet all can spend less on programmatic marketing—the selling of tickets—because they benefit from their high institutional visibility, earned generations ago. No arts organization, however—no matter how famous—can afford to rest on its laurels. The Rome Opera, for example, is facing bankruptcy—and this was the house that offered the world premieres of both Cavelleria Rusticana and Tosca! We all compete for the same new audience members and the same new donors. If we are not working actively now, we will lose out to an organization that is.

Una noche, la ciudad dormía con paz razonable. Por supuesto, la oprimían las interrupciones habituales. Los hombres y mujeres luchaban entre ellos y morían. La sangre y el vómito manchaban las viejas calles. Los cristales se rompían. La milicia surcaba los cielos. Los dirigibles rugían como ballenas monstruosas. El cuerpo mutilado, sin ojos, de un hombre que más tarde sería identificado como Benjamín Flex, fue encontrado flotando en Malado. La ciudad bregaba inquieta a través de la noche, como había hecho a lo largo de los siglos. Era un sueño fracturado, pero el único que había conocido. Pero a la noche siguiente, cuando David completó su furtiva tarea en los barrios bajos, algo cambió. La Nueva Crobuzon nocturna siempre había sido un caos de ritmos discordantes y acordes violentos, repentinos. Ahora sonaba una nueva nota, un tono sutil, tenso, susurrado, que enfermaba el aire. Una noche, la tensión era algo delgado, tentativo, que se abría camino en la mente de los ciudadanos, arrojando sombras sobre sus rostros dormidos. Entonces llegaba el día y nadie recordaba más que un momento de inquietud nocturna. Y entonces las sombras se alargaron y la temperatura descendió, y cuando la noche regresó desde debajo del mundo, algo nuevo y terrible se aposentó sobre la ciudad. Por toda la conurbación, desde la Colina de la Bandera al norte hasta Barracan bajo el río, desde los intermitentes suburbios de Malado al este hasta las toscas barriadas industriales de Campanario, la gente se agitaba gimiente en sus camas. Los niños eran los primeros. Lloraban y se clavaban las uñas en las manos, retorciendo sus caritas en duras muecas, sudando sin parar con un hedor empalagoso; sus cabezas oscilaban horrendas de un lado a otro, mas sin despertar. A medida que la noche avanzaba, también eran los adultos los que sufrían. En las profundidades de otro inocuo sueño, los viejos miedos y las paranoias llegaban de repente atravesando murallas mentales, como ejércitos invasores. Sucesiones de imágenes pavorosas asaltaban a los afligidos, visiones animadas de miedos profundos, banalidades absurdamente aterradoras (fantasmas y trasgos a los que nunca deberían enfrentarse) de los que se reirían de estar despiertos. Aquellos que de forma arbitraria se salvaban de la ordalía despertaban de repente en lo más profundo de la noche, por los gemidos y gritos de sus amantes dormidos, por sus sollozos desesperados. A veces los sueños podían ser de sexo o felicidad, pero aumentados y febriles hasta tornarse espantosos en su intensidad. En aquella retorcida celada nocturna, lo bueno era malo, y lo malo era peor. La ciudad se mecía temblorosa. Los sueños devenían pestilencia, un bacilo que parecía saltar de un durmiente a otro. Incluso invadían las mentes durante la vigilia. Los vigilantes nocturnos y los agentes de la milicia; las bailarinas y los estudiantes frenéticos; los insomnes se encontraban perdiendo la concentración, cayendo en fantasías y meditaciones de extraña, alucinatoria intensidad. Por toda la ciudad, la noche quedaba fisurada por gritos de miseria nocturna. Nueva Crobuzon estaba en garras de una epidemia, una enfermedad, una plaga de pesadillas.

No one is immune from obesity – it affects everyone from every race, gender and age. For the first time in history, there is a real possibility that children will not outlive their parents as a result of weight-related illnesses and other diseases. There has to be a better way!

Esto vuelve a parecer ahora tan terrible como en aquellos años en que, por ambas partes, el monstruoso exceso de peligros mortíferos impedía un estallido. Esta vez, sin embargo, el peligro se ve acrecentado a la manera árabe por las amenazas públicas, las armas son más toscas, cualquier autolimitación ha quedado suprimida. Nunca ha habido una cuenta atrás como esta de los días hasta que estalle la guerra. ¿Es posible una guerra que se anuncie de esta manera? Todas las fuerzas dedicadas a evitarla tienen tiempo para actuar. Pero ¿qué se lograría evitándola? El proceso de desarme, que entre las auténticas potencias comenzó como una gran esperanza, ha sido torpedeado por el libre mercado de armas. Mientras los grandes negociaban entre ellos, armaban a otros, a los pequeños, hasta que éstos se volvieron de pronto grandes, es decir, descarados con su armamento. Ahora habrá que quitarles esas mismas armas. ¿Cómo conseguirlo sin una guerra? El intento de lograrlo mediante la amenaza no es indigno, puesto que no hay otra salida. Pero ¿qué ocurre si la amenaza no se toma en serio? Precisamente éste parece ser el caso.

Yo señor de las moscas Yo descuartizador de golondrinas,   Yo jugador de fútbol Yo nadador del Estero las Toscas,   Yo violador de tumbas Yo satanás enfermo de paperas,   Yo conscripto remiso Yo ciudadano con derecho a voto,   Yo ovejero del diablo Yo boxeador vencido por mi sombra,   Yo bebedor insigne Yo sacerdote de la buena mesa ... Yo verdugo sin máscara Yo semidiós egipcio con cabeza de pájaro,   Yo de pie en una roca de cartón: Háganse las tinieblas Hágase el caos, háganse las nubes,   Yo delincuente nato Sorprendido infraganti   Robando flores a la luz de la luna Pido perdón a diestra y siniestra Pero no me declaro culpable.

Como acertadamente observó el obispo Berkeley, decir que un objeto corpóreo existe no implica que esté siendo percibido, sino que cabe percibirlo en las circunstancias apropiadas. Esta verdad vital y a menudo olvidada subyace en su justamente famosa máxima «esse est percipi» («ser es ser percibido»), pese a que una afirmación tan elíptica se puede de hecho interpretar en el sentido de un idealismo espurio. Este peligro —del cual fue víctima el obispo irlandés7— surge, además, principalmente de la circunstancia de que el percipi de la fórmula de Berkeley fácilmente se puede malinterpretar. Como ya he señalado, la percepción se puede malinterpretar, como si no fuera más que sensación; y así es como la tomaron la mayoría de filósofos, desde los tiempos de John Locke hasta el siglo veinte, cuando las principales escuelas escudriñaron y descartaron esa perspectiva tosca e insuficiente.

Maye tells the story of Elon playing outside one night with his siblings and cousins. When one of them complained of being frightened by the dark, Elon pointed out that “dark is merely the absence of light,” which did little to reassure the scared child. As a youngster, Elon’s constant yearning to correct people and his abrasive manner put off other kids and added to his feelings of isolation. Elon genuinely thought that people would be happy to hear about the flaws in their thinking. “Kids don’t like answers like that,” said Maye. “They would say, ‘Elon, we are not playing with you anymore.’ I felt very sad as a mother because I think he wanted friends. Kimbal and Tosca would bring home friends, and Elon wouldn’t, and he would want to play with them. But he was awkward, you know.” Maye urged Kimbal and Tosca to include Elon. They responded as kids will. “But Mom, he’s not fun.

Ella parecía distante, fanática, en cierto sentido consagrada, pero ¿a qué? ¿A su colección de libros? Él se quedó a su lado porque le gustaba cómo el brillo crecía y se apagaba rápidamente cada vez que ella chupaba la pipa. Tambíen había una sensación de absurdo compañerismo; no muy intensa, pero presente. Al tratar de comprenderla, Ian solo podía pensar en aspectos de Baby que en sí mismos no eran muy atractivos. Ella no tenía nada que decir, y su misteriosa preocupación entorprecía sus respuestas a los demás. Parecía disfrutar quitarle importancia a su aspecto. El pelo recogido, el pañuelo sucio y la tosca ropa de chico le daban un secreto placer. Cuando estaba sola, con la mirada perdida, era fácil creer que sentía desprecio por la gente «normal», por su tonto engreimiento y su artificialidad.

But most of all, I wanted to tell him that I would stay, because I had nowhere else to be, no other thing or person in this world to cling to, and no other answers but what he might give me.

¿Lo seguiría queriendo si no lo elegían presidente? Fuera o no presidente, hacía mucho que no sentía pasión por él. ¿Acaso la había sentido alguna vez? Lo que la había seducido era su carácter cariñoso: bajo una apariencia a veces tosca, Macaire era un hombre esencialmente bueno, de mentalidad honrada y corazón generoso. Cuando le pidió que se casara con ella y aceptó, ¡era tan joven y estaba tan desorientada! Tenía una necesidad vital de cariño. Necesidad de que cuidasen de ella. Necesidad de restañar las heridas de su vida.

Habitamos el cuerpo, ese equipaje molesto; en realidad no sabemos nada de él y necesitamos emplear diferentes herramientas a fin de conocer sus procesos más sencillos. La última vez que el médico quiso saber qué pasaba en mi estómago me pidió que me hiciera una gastroscopia, lo cual me pareció un escándalo. Tuve que tragarme un tubo muy grueso y sólo entonces, con ayuda de una cámara, el interior de mi estómago se hizo visible. La única herramienta que nos han reglado como premio de consolación, tosca y primitiva, es el dolor" Si existen los ángeles, se estarán partiendo de risa con nosotros: recibieron un cuerpo y no saben nada de él. Se lo dieron sin instrucciones de uso.

Theresia Lew geboren am 5. April 1934 in Immelstetten, wuchs auf einem Bauernhof in sehr ärmlichen Verhältnissen auf. Ohne richtigen Schulabschluss und ohne Ausbildung arbeitete sie zunächst als Magd, als Waldarbeiterin und als Bedienung, bis sie 1957 in München von einem Werbefotografen als Fotomodell für 4711 und Henkel entdeckt und damit weit über die Grenzen Deutschlands hinaus bekannt wurde. Zweimal verheiratet erlebte sie als Ehefrau und Mutter einer Tochter und von zwei Adoptivkindern alle Höhen und Tiefen eines Menschenlebens. Heute managt sie neben ihrem sozialen Engagement einen Münchner Shanty-Chor, denn Singen ist ihre Leidenschaft. Ihr Lebensmotto: „Geben ist seliger denn Nehmen“.

Tampoco se trataba de historiadores profesionales, condición que los propios involucra dos hubieran repudiado, sino de una figura frecuente en los años treinta: la del intelectual que, sin formación específica y por fuera de los circuitos académicos, se empeñaba con constancia en la construcción de interpretaciones históricas utilizando alguna versión, no siempre tosca, de las “reglas del método”.

At one point, I ran out of books to read at the school library and the neighborhood library,” Musk said. “This is maybe the third or fourth grade. I tried to convince the librarian to order books for me. So then, I started to read the Encyclopaedia Britannica. That was so helpful. You don’t know what you don’t know. You realize there are all these things out there.” Elon, in fact, churned through two sets of encyclopedias—a feat that did little to help him make friends. The boy had a photographic memory, and the encyclopedias turned him into a fact factory. He came off as a classic know-it-all. At the dinner table, Tosca would wonder aloud about the distance from Earth to the Moon. Elon would spit out the exact measurement at perigee and apogee. “If we had a question, Tosca would always say, ‘Just ask genius boy,’” Maye said. “We could ask him about anything. He just remembered it.” Elon cemented his bookworm reputation through his clumsy ways. “He’s not very sporty,” said Maye.

A inveja é a religião dos medíocres. Ela os reconforta, responde às angústias que os devoram por dentro. Em última análise, apodrece suas almas, permitindo que justifiquem sua própria mesquinhez e cobiça, até o ponto de pensarem que são virtudes e que as portas do céu se abrirão para os infelizes como eles, que passam pela vida sem deixar outro rastro senão suas toscas tentativas de depreciar os demais, de excluir e, se possível, destruir quem, pelo mero fato de existir, coloca em evidência sua pobreza de espírito, de mente e de valores. Bem-aventurado aquele para quem os cretinos ladram, pos sua alma nunca lhes pertencerá.

Apenas recuerdo a ningún hombre. Estaban por todas partes, claro está –maridos, padres, hermanos–, pero sólo recuerdo a las mujeres. Y las recuerdo a todas tan toscas como la señora Drucker o tan feroces como mi madre. Nunca hablaban como si supiesen quiénes eran, como si comprendieran el trato que habían hecho con la vida, pero a menudo actuaban como si lo supiesen. Astutas, irascibles, iletradas, parecían sacadas de una novela de Dreiser. Había años de aparente calma y, de repente, cundían el pánico y la locura: dos o tres vidas marcadas (quizá arruinadas) y el tumulto se apagaba. De nuevo calma silenciosa, letargo erótico, la normalidad de la abnegación cotidiana. Y yo –la niña que crecía entre todas ellas, formándose a su imagen y semejanza– me empapaba de ellas como de cloroformo impregnado en un paño apretado contra mi cara. He tardado treinta años en entender cuánto entendí de ellas.

complexes. Maye set up a practice as a dietitian. A bit more than a year after Elon’s birth came his brother, Kimbal, and soon thereafter came their sister, Tosca. Elon showed all the traits of a curious, energetic tot. He picked things up

I lived in art, I lived in love, I never hurt a soul! (Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore, non feci mai male ad anima viva! )

Su mirada se concentraba en los formularios que tenía sobre la mesa y, con un ceño permanentemente torcido, hacía intuir una personalidad tosca y con nulo sentido del humor.

Bajo la dirección de don Simón Rodríguez –escribe O’Leary–, hombre de variados y extensos conocimientos, pero de carácter excéntrico, aprendió Bolívar los rudimentos de las lenguas española y latina, aritmética e historia. Entre éste y el maestro se trabó luego estrecha y sincera amistad. A pesar de la poca aplicación de Bolívar y del poco adelanto de sus estudios, Rodríguez tenía alta opinión del talento del niño, cuya imaginación era viva, por no decir poética, y sorprendía la originalidad de sus observaciones [...] En figura y modales no era Rodríguez el hombre que pudiera inspirar confianza y cariño a un niño. Severo e inflexible en su discurso, de facciones toscas e irregulares; tenía pocos amigos fuera de su discípulo, cuyo cariño y confianza se había captado aparentando grande interés en sus entretenimientos infantiles.