Book: Gem. Page 1

Now knowledge is a sinecure for professors of philosophy, and master it can be eight semesters.

How insignificant, in fact, all the words. People just drape them indifferent to each other...

When an early morning Gem, walking the streets, peering into the faces of oncoming, she would invariably find this one line, indifference, only occasionally animated by the fear of being late or the dim glow of good humor.

And unless the harbour there are not then, to again enter into them after a long journey?

To see the world is interesting only when you can examine it in many ways.

Under this Chimera of love, a gaping abyss. People tried to the brim to fill to the deep colors of this concept, to surround its crater gardens, but it was opened again and again, blatant, unruly, harsh, and carried down any one who trustingly she indulged. Loyalty meant death, and to have had to flee. Amid the blooming roses lurked a sharpened sword. Woe to him who is trusting. And Woe to those who recognized. The tragedy is not the result, as in the original approach. To win, you need to lose in order to keep - to let go. And because there seems to be again approaching the mystery that separates the knowledgeable from recognizing? After all, the knowledge that these things are full of tragedy, does overcome it, isn't it? Recognition has never led to the free mastery; its limits are firmly rooted in the real. Causal course and destiny - that it registers. For the knowing the real - only a symbol; it begins the circle of infinity. But the symbol of this insidious, because the gods are evil and fun. And how much cruelty hidden in any fun, how many daggers under the flowers. Life is two-faced as anything else... there just are not given names - love... just a Fata Morgana, spread it over the people primarily the image of eternity, brought her vows, and she inexorably flowed, flowed, changeable, always different, as whose symbol it was, their life.

What is surprising are all alive, she thought, is simply breathtaking. Again and again speechless. How much beauty that is called details. Probably people alive already dead, if not able to be moved to the core when in the wilds of confusing desires and thoughts suddenly opened such that an opening of bliss... when the stormy traffic on the road the heart suddenly stops, but in the space suddenly found so much the glow of colored vials, the tenet of trapdoor spiders in the morning frost, Golden-green elytra of beetles.

People steadily and consistently go their own way - to the loneliness and meaninglessness. They don't think about it, just recognize and accept. Thus is formed the "I". Everything you value, what you believe, and spread out behind you, and it becomes hard when you lose the last man. Because with him you lose everything - yourself, your goals, your "I" your name, you're only the path and move forward. But suddenly the path ends; the bottom is a gaping abyss, Nothing - every step means death. Not hesitating for a second, you make the leap and experience the miracle of wholeness, nedostigenii for all... half-Step down this is not as you thought, and back. Maybe it was the last test, which survive only a few. This miracle can be called transcendental flip-flops. Bezdonnoe jump into the abyss, but something grabs you, turns - and you go your own way back... invulnerable. You tasted Nothing, and to hurt you is impossible. You've been on the other side of all things and they can't kill you. You went through absolute destruction, or loss, able to break anyone else, you already will not be affected.

Here are all the meetings with the aching sadness was thinking of Gem, greetings from darkness to darkness... slide past each other... maybe a wave of the hand on the deck... goodbye forever... I think the lights really close, but they are already beginning to depart from each other. And soon each is alone once more on their way.

You - stream, a great raging torrent, crashing against the dam. While levees can withstand the pressure, it boils with foam and playfully plays in the surf. He loves the dam, and giving them his frantic Blanker love. But his love of destruction. It attracts and caresses, and beats, and tearing the soft hands, and the dam crumbling, debris falling one after the other in her palm. And then she said, sweeping away everything in its path, rushes away, farther, farther, driven by the desire to beat the surf and foam to boil, - until he finds a new dam which will flood their generous love and in the end will also destroy... But on the state of levee knows only her caretaker, and not a stream. After all, when the stream rises to the top, the end is quite near.

When the house falls into decay, crumbling plaster. The decline and fate, too, has its own preamble. Long time to resist them - the folly and sentimentality, which is worse. Become ridiculous. The end can only hide, but not stop.

Who loves climbing, needs to accept and decline, because both are inseparable.

Having only underfoot a reliable support, you can far jump.

Who dares to call something dead just because it is at rest? Who dares to say that a movement is life? Isn't intermediate and not transient? After all, they Express mild feelings, isn't it? The deep feeling is silent, and the high sense grows into a long cramp, and the enthusiasm culminates in a daze, and the most powerful movement... there is peace, isn't it? And perhaps, the most alive life is death?