In a scene in Manhattan, Mary Wilkins (Diane Keaton) introduces Isaac Davis (Woody Allen) to a squat, plain-faced but not drooling, rather rough guy (Jeremiah, Wallace Shawn) whom he just ran into. after a long time It turned out to be her former husband, a revelation at which Isaac, uneasy, was shocked. For digging, with that jealousy that sings more the more they hide, he gets the slap from his girl’s bohemian cock: “He was a bestial lover.” It is a good example of two neologisms that seem to be consolidating: anorthographophilia (the one that provoked the basic ex) and sapiophilia (Woody’s, which already caused that filiation more in Tracy, Mariel Hemingway, than in Keaton). It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember the movie, I’ll explain.
A sapiophilic person feels emotional and erotic weakness for people whom he considers intellectually superior, which may well go hand in hand with a Pygmalion feeling of these or, directly, with an attitude of unbearable pedantry of the sage (sapio is for wisdom, and not for a toad with the soul of a prince who redeems little princesses with his great intelligence). It usually occurs in those who handle written language well and make it a standard and an imperative… by giving the conazo to those who commit mistakes. That is very bad. But worse is the attitude, highly stimulated by social networks, of defending that spelling is not important for writing. Cause this one that only defends those who neither know spelling nor, bet on insurance, can write moderately well.
That nothing happens to write well or badly. Between that and being a good creative midfielder, I would have preferred the latter. With this last all-vale, so democratic, the anartographophilic movement is allied.
Fouls, like the rudeness of Jeremiah, the former Keaton -that unlikely machine-, seem to motivate some people sensually and even sexually when they “talk” on the internet, on Whastapp and other forums. Like the black nails of a rough sailor or the smell of a girl’s armpit joint. Why not. There each and every one, as long as they don’t splash. But let’s not be shocked: things are going the other way. The language smugs, usually pepitogrillos of their interlocutors, do not put more than a while and little public. And those who pass a handful of the spelling -whether or not they reach the brutal ola kase- give themselves a perfume of excess self-esteem and of a good animal that has quite a few audiences. At the risk of being soft on those who like the cluttered keyboard, I’ll write it: O tempora, o mores.

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