"Somebody has to be the last" She said, today, Mr Marcellin to version RAC1. Four words demonstrate the profound tragedy of existence. A rugged and beautiful tragedy. As Shakespeare would say: "a ludicrous story told by a madman."
"Somebody has to be the last" in every race, for which one is perfect, even though the organizers s'escarrassin, someone surely will last. The last of the race, the last row, who takes a lower grade, the fewer who like the less popular, less inviting to those dinners, most of whom laugh, to forget who else ...
There is always someone who is better from behind. It is inevitable. In any matter likely to enable qualified individuals, there is one last, a loser, one expired.
Ultimately, however, what the ultimate bliss of solitude, free from dependency on the victory and praise, the string with which we punish success in return us to kneel at his feet! What a charisma of the Confederate soldier who returns to his Texas home defeated and exhausted! What a quiet should be one that has nothing to suit anyone who is closer to it will not do for interest! What a liberty what does not need not be the last to be free! What a happiness that's not the worst need not to be happy!
What is surprising, however, is the absolute logical necessity from the fact that there is a final at all, and always.
I are the last friendly in recent ... infinitely more pleasant than the slaves of his own perfectionism, because these slaves tend to impose on the surrounding submission to perfection. There is nothing worse for a child's constant and obsessive correction de les seves imperfeccions; no hi ha res millor que la lloança de les seves virtuts i els ànims per arribar encara a fites més dolces.
Protegiu-me dels perfectes, perquè quasi tots els perfectes posseeixen la imperfecció de la intolerància; convençuts que tothom té la obligació de ser com ells.
Algú ha de ser l'últim, no ho oblideu perfeccionistes.
Ah! I gràcies senyor Marcel·lí!
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