A fine copy. Book designed by Damien Hirst. Signed limited edition. Snowblind, Robert Sabbag's account of the cocaine smuggler Zachary Swan, was first published in More information about this seller Contact this seller 2. Published by Other Criteria. From: Okmhistoire Montrouge, France.
About this Item: Other Criteria. Couverture rigide.
Condition: Comme neuf. Edition originale. London Edition of Signed and numbered. It is an edition of and comes in a special slip case featuring a collage of reproduced dollar bills.
This hardback has been created using reinforced mirrors for the boards of the book and inside there is a metal credit card as a bookmark made in the style of an AmericanExpress card. The title page of this edition is numbered and signed by the collaborators Damien Hirst, Howard Marks and Robert Sabbag. The final three digits of the note, which were specially secured from the US Treasury, correspond to the number of the edition.
Seller Inventory favbb. More information about this seller Contact this seller 3. Condition: New. Limited edition.
Snowblind Long Sleeve Powder Blue
They gave off a very pale gray glimmer that left a small, globular trail in the undergrowth. Everyone stopped in front of a huge block of limestone jutting from the tree-covered side of the mountain. Its polished surface held thousands of miniature rainbows. All around it, the soil was being excavated to make it jut out more. These cleaned edges were meant to increase its iconic value. Duo did not perceive himself to be a conscious unit; rather, he saw himself as an autonomous, distant body that let itself be urged on by his companions.
One of them had brushed by, giving Duo the sensation he had passed right through his arm. His arm was stretched out toward the pump, and the cushions of the jumpsuit wrapped around it were slowly deflating with utter innocence. He had let the pump slip down through the serration of his gloves. They had passed him the drill and the gleam of its fairing formed thousands of reverberations at the edges of his gloves.
He was no longer standing vertical, and found himself tilted far forward as if his trunk had disappeared and his shoulders were joined to his hips. Someone immediately forced him to rotate upward in an unnatural way, grabbing his ankles. The visor rose up, molding itself to his; their lenses adhered to each other and slid open.
Inside the helmet that had hooked onto his own was Brembo, laughing and asking whether he was okay. Porzia was also gelatin to him, and when they made love he had the urge to kill her. Her pale skin was too beautiful or not beautiful enough to exist. Porzia had never felt so loved, but what he really desired was not in her. They stretch two hundred kilometers up. Milan stretches two hundred kilometers. The thermoforming steel skeleton from which their height emerges. Violence made concrete in the form of a black tuber that emerges onto the streets, putrefying on the sidewalk.
The passage of cars becomes the fluid current that makes their substance relative. Messages wait in line for the sorting process that will deploy them. Each passerby is preceded by an individual screen deciphering the information directed at him, indicating the point he occupies in the interconnecting network. The oxygen, pressed to the ground, no longer lies to her. Imagining you close, you remain merely a stylized figure. Connected to all the screens is the architectural structure — as if I had never existed.
The volumes shift — rotating, reassembling, rotating. The lines of juncture emerge from the line-like filaments. Some kids developing rostrums laugh. Piazza Cordusio is packed with people who were homing in. Fluttering like a leaf, Brembo arrives, settling into my back. His head half-penetrates my neck, saying hello. All the light dazzling our pallor. Her forearm is on the ground.
He apologized for having squeezed her so tight. Shut inside the booth, Porzia was crying. He could never have been truly happy with her. The first fingers were emerging from her elbow. They formed small bulges under the sheets. The hand grew, moving away from her elbow. Her soft skin filled with blood under the sheets. The hospital was turquoise fading to the white of her skin.
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Her bed was at the center of a room that stretched for several kilometers. The walls were impossible to make out in the distance in the fading of the turquoise. Sitting by it, Duo felt he loved what he would never love enough. Now she was sleeping and her face was that of an angel. Other beds had arrived, now very far away. A shade of purple had caused night. A point of light had come to check on her, hovering for several minutes at the center of the sheets. Duo watched until it disappeared. If Porzia had woken up during the night, seeing her shyness he would have known he could be happy with her.
And knowing it could have made him happy. The bloodcurdling roar of the shark that emerges from the sidewalk, ripping at his ribcage and tearing off his arm.
Many bystanders are bursting with laughter. He checks whether there is blood spurting from the gash in his torso. Upon contact with oxygen, the blood is clotting into large gummy globules that fall down his side. A few finely innervated scraps of tissue rise up rhythmically with the beating of his heart. His sweater begins to recompose the missing sleeve, filling it with a fake arm.
All around him an amused crowd of curious people is gathering. The shark has fled into Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. Duo hears the shouts of the attendants who have caught it and are clubbing it. Light filters down affectionately through the glass ceiling. The expectant hum is multiplying. The shark is lying stunned by a bookshop window and some children are tugging its tail.
As he is loudly urged on, at his side the iTunes hostess is offering him the dagger with which he was supposed to avenge himself. Many years before he had megasimplified the feelings he was unable to understand, he had wrapped them up, tying the bundles in different colored rubber bands.
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He used to keep them in the drawers of his wardrobe, dividing them up summarily. On the rug he lined up the emotions in the sequence he thought had been expressed. And sometimes, as his mother got him into his pajamas, he would open his sleepy eyes and see it pulse tepidly because its validity had been confirmed.
At school when he pulled out his books, he spotted a megasimplification lying at the bottom of his backpack. If his classmates had known they would have mocked him. Now it is different two hundred times. The one I had chastely imagined is different. My memory of when I pulled you close, to feel protected, and your understanding vanishes as Divide comes between us.
Divide comes between us, pushing us apart. He pushes us apart, taking us to the opposite shore of ourselves. As if we had never known each other. We look at each other as if it were the first time. I remember the sweet sound of your voice. Well, you have to forgive a little bit, and you have to take their weight, and you have to trust. Tying story and movement together is the music, a compilation of pieces by Amy Beach and Arthur Foote, arranged and augmented by composer Philip Feeney. Feeney wrote the love pas de deux music along with transitional sections of the score.
The other bits are a mixture of Feeney, Foote, and Beach. When that final portion of the Lamentate comes in, for the final trio, it is delicate, haunting, and forgiving. Reserve your Season Tickets today!