My best friend
My best friend
Both by myself and many other friends,
But she, her own affections’ counselor
Is to herself- I will not say how true
But to herself so secret, so close
So far from sounding discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
She can spread her sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate her beauty to the Sun.
William Shakespeare
This is she, she and again she. The one who is the golden window of the east, the ballet-dancer in the dark, Yes, she…
The door opened slowly and calmly bringing with it the fresh air to the dull room. She stepped forward, looked around with interest and hesitation, sat down in a gentle way. Her fresh hair of frosty morning in autumn and her expression from the set smile of a ballet – dancer in the dark attracted me ever and forever. Her beauty came out not from the face of makeup but from animation activity and intellectual stimulation. Her beauty came out most in movements and talkings. What that means is that she was beautiful because of what she was doing and because she was so intensely alive, not because she was a passive, static object, something to be looked at like a beautiful painting.
Warm with fancies of youth, petty with insipid prettiness , possessed of an eye alight with certain native intelligence. Her hands were almost ineffected. The feet, though small, were set flatly. Her eyes like those of pitiless judge, seemed to go the very bottom of all the questions, to read all natures, feelings and thoughts. And yet she was interested in her charms, quick to understand the pleasures of life, ambitions to gain every single wonder of the world. She knew or guessed the concerns of everyone about her, but none of them had been able to discover her occupation.
She belonged to the number of young girls known as children that their parents’ hopes are centered on them and deliberately prepare themselves for greater careers, subordinately their studies from first, calculating
Both by myself and many other friends,
But she, her own affections’ counselor
Is to herself- I will not say how true
But to herself so secret, so close
So far from sounding discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
She can spread her sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate her beauty to the Sun.
William Shakespeare
This is she, she and again she. The one who is the golden window of the east, the ballet-dancer in the dark, Yes, she…
The door opened slowly and calmly bringing with it the fresh air to the dull room. She stepped forward, looked around with interest and hesitation, sat down in a gentle way. Her fresh hair of frosty morning in autumn and her expression from the set smile of a ballet – dancer in the dark attracted me ever and forever. Her beauty came out not from the face of makeup but from animation activity and intellectual stimulation. Her beauty came out most in movements and talkings. What that means is that she was beautiful because of what she was doing and because she was so intensely alive, not because she was a passive, static object, something to be looked at like a beautiful painting.
Warm with fancies of youth, petty with insipid prettiness , possessed of an eye alight with certain native intelligence. Her hands were almost ineffected. The feet, though small, were set flatly. Her eyes like those of pitiless judge, seemed to go the very bottom of all the questions, to read all natures, feelings and thoughts. And yet she was interested in her charms, quick to understand the pleasures of life, ambitions to gain every single wonder of the world. She knew or guessed the concerns of everyone about her, but none of them had been able to discover her occupation.
She belonged to the number of young girls known as children that their parents’ hopes are centered on them and deliberately prepare themselves for greater careers, subordinately their studies from first, calculating