descsaltnifunc Guru
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The more I learned to appreciate the beauty in a beginning, middle, and end of a story, the more I felt a desire to create my own. I want my stories to demonstrate imperfection, because I believe it makes my writing more realistic. When I read words with a similarly imperfect tone, I feel comforted, knowing that someone else has felt the same way I have. In my writing, I strive to infuse another kind of comfort as wellвthe reassuring feeling that comes when someone overhears what you are saying and agrees with you. I was once in a hotel elevator in France, complaining to my sister about how I had gotten lost earlier that day, and recounting wandering aimlessly in Paris and not speaking the native language. I strive to capture that feelingвthe soothing sense of comfort that the stranger gave meвin my writing, lost letters of pergamum essay. We sit on the same burgundy velvet sofa, my father on the left, and I as close to him as possible. Abigail Hook n Harvard University Class of 2013 This past summer I was poised to jump. I was sure. I had convinced not only myself, but everyone around me that I was done. Come end of summer, I would pack away hundreds of pointe shoes in dejected cardboard boxes and they would instantly transform into unwanted memorabilia, identified only by a careless scrawl of Sharpie. I was through with pain, through with foot surgeries and obsessions and disappointments, lost letters of pergamum essay saying goodbye to a lifelong pursuit of ballet would be no exception. Having made up my mind, I loyally warded off anything that might jeopardize my decision. My first exposure to the piece came from the splintery wood cabinet in the corner of the studio. Growing up in an intensely musical family who preferred to sing the nightly prayer, recordings frustrated me. Tonight the ribbons on my pointe shoes were as frayed as my sanity, and I was trying desperately to get motivated. Ballet had taught me from an early age that pain is only in the mind, and motivation is only a matter of psychological tricks. I had witnessed my fair share of beautiful music and never cried. Yet n Serenade for Strings in C Major sounded nothing like the n Nutcracker or n Swan Lake. The music was weeping and soaring and tired and energetic and everything, n everything I was feeling. George Balanchine somehow has captured the ephemeral, tragic side of beauty that n Serenade sang of and transformed it into living art, and for a few weeks, I was his medium. As the curtain rose opening night, the audience let out a murmurвa subtle appreciation for beauty in the raw. For weeks afterward I would enthusiastically lend my iPod to friends, brightly anticipating that lost letters of pergamum essay too would experience a revelation. Perhaps Balanchine had seen this doubt, this questioning in a student before, lost letters of pergamum essay. Or perhaps this is how art works: One will never understand the power it has for the individual but not his neighbor, for the dancer but not the audience member, for the mother but not the daughter.
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