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	<title>2064 &#187; 2007 &#187; April</title>
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	<description>C'est donc rien qui parle et qui dit :</description>
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		<title>Waves</title>
		<link>http://2064.cendres.net/2007/04/01/waves/</link>
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		<pubDate>Sun, 01 Apr 2007 18:40:35 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>N. Swith</dc:creator>
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Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that is created in us. Words ! Mere words ! How terrible they were ! How clear, and vivid, and cruel ! One could not escape from them. [...]]]></description>
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<p>Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that is created in us. Words ! Mere words ! How terrible they were ! How clear, and vivid, and cruel ! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them ! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words ! Was there anything so real as words ?</p>
<p><cite>O. Wilde, The picture of Dorian Gray</cite></p></blockquote>
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