Do not count the white tickets, business aborted, disrupted relationships, let alone others defiantly tiny fortune. Tired and bored, I realized that I could not find happiness nowhere, went further: she believed did not exist on earth, and since yesterday I prepared myself for the big plunge into eternity. Today, I ate lunch, smoked a cigar {47}, and leaned to the window. After ten minutes, I spend a well-dressed man, staring at the kid’s feet. I knew him by sight, was a victim of major setbacks, but was laughing, and beheld the feet, say bad shoes. These were new, patent leather, very well carved, and likely sewn to perfection. He raised his eyes to the windows to people, but made them the shoes, for a law attracção, anterior and superior to the will. Would gay; could see in his face an expression of bliss. Of course I was happy, and perhaps had not eaten, maybe not even take a penny in his pocket. But would be happy, and gazed at the boots.

Happiness is a pair of boots? This man so buffeted by life, finally found a smile of fortune. Nothing is worth anything. No preoccupation of this century, no social or moral problem, not the joys of the generation that begins or ends of the sorrows, misery and class war, crises of art and politics, is worth nothing to him, a pair of boots. He stares at them, he breathes them, he glows with ellas, ellas he tramples on the floor of a world that belongs to him. Thence attitudes of pride, a {48} step stiffness, and a certain air of tranquility … Olympica Yes, happiness is a pair of boots.