Il Y a De Chamfort. Il est un chantillon. Verrouill lui-mme dans sa bibliothque avec un pistolet, projectile outre de son nez et tir hors de son oeil droit. Et ce Chamfort a su crire et les milliers ont lu ses livres sur la faon dont vivre, mais il n'a pas su lui-mme mourir par la force de sa propre main -- voir ? Ils l'ont trouv une piscine rouge sur le tapis frais comme matin d'avril, maximes gaies parlantes et parlantes et pigrammes sinistres. Bien, il a port des bandages au-dessus de son nez et oeil droit, a bu du caf et a caus beaucoup d'annes avec les hommes et les femmes qui l'ont aim puisqu'il a ri et a quotidiennement os la mort: "venir me prendre."
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