Wednesday fourteen hours. I sat in the auditorium, as always in the background but not too much on the right side. From there I could see almost everyone. The course of Mr. C. began, he made us laugh - as usual, his shoes creaked on the beige linoleum and he apologized flatly, with a small smile, the smile that will eventually know by heart at the end of year.
I liked the course of Mr. C. and especially its title: " literary history of the Middle Ages to the Present. " I imagined myself in a lush jungle, walking briskly with a machete in hand to try clearing everything. It was he who also told us at the first lecture, that literature was above all an adventure. And he was right.
ROMANTICISM I wrote up my copy with my blue pen - yellow with sarcophagi that Marion had been stolen for me at the British Museum. That was two years ago ... London was beautiful. It rained a lot, I speak English and I drank the real Breakfast Tea. A bit like here, you know. And then I thought that after my examinations would go check it out, and then perhaps review Ivy, it would be nice.
I turned my head toward the row left cheek propped in the palm of my hand. There were two three girls side by side, perfect little doubles, each with its own miniature computer - how to say now? Netbook? Behind them, another girl with a long ponytail drank the neck of a bottle of mineral water. Girls next door and whispered behind her. Those in front of me did not speak, his nose in their notes, they wrote very quickly. So fast that I felt that their pens did not touch not even the paper! It was the ten students Erasmus, Finland. Polish and also, I think.
And a little behind, two boys were silent in the din of gossip and rumors of crumpled paper. One stared at her with an impassive air bottle filled with a liquid red cherry, probably of grenadine. The other
scrutinized me with a look unbalanced and incomprehensible. I looked away, uncomfortable.
His eyes were minnows. One brown eye and one green. The same eyes as the cat on campus.
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