Book: Golden rose

The one who loves them can see people and the earth well.

He hid his life from us.

Imagination is a great gift of nature. It is inherent in human nature.

There is a French expression: Great

For our great-grandfathers, gloom meant black fog, for us it is a state of mind.

What gives life, brings death.

It was a taciturn man, scared by her past.

I'm young. I have thick wavy hair and dark tan on the face. My blue eyes are almost laughing all the time, because I am carefree and still no love. My only job is to make people little gifts and commit thoughtless actions, only they would please my neighbors.

It is not my habit to listen to the unsolicited instruction.

Only in the imagination of love can last forever and can be forever surrounded by a sparkling halo of poetry. I think I can invent is much better to love than to experience it in reality.

To pull out of himself for his ultimate dream - that is the problem. And to make it difficult. Nothing people so deeply not hiding like a dream. Maybe because she can't stand the small derision, jokes, and, of course, a touch indifferent hands.

Every minute, every casually thrown word or look, every deep or humorous Myl, every imperceptible movement of the human heart, as well as the flying fluff the poplars or the fire of the stars in the night a puddle, all is grains of gold dust. We, the writers derived them for decades, these millions of grains of sand collected unbeknownst to themselves, turn into alloy and then craftable of this alloy its "Golden rose" - a story, novel or poem. Golden rose Sameta! She kind of seems to me the prototype of our creative activities. Surprisingly, no one gave himself the trouble to trace how these precious specks born a live stream of literature. But, just as the Golden rose of the old scavenger was meant for happiness Susannah, and our work aims to ensure that the beauty of the earth, a call to fight for happiness, joy and freedom, the breadth of the human heart and the power of the mind prevailed over darkness and they sparkled like the midnight sun.

Who in childhood did not besieging castles, did not die on the ship with strannymi to shreds the sails off the coast of the Strait of Magellan or the New Earth, not raced in the cart along with Chapaev in the TRANS-Ural steppes, not looking for treasure, hidden so cleverly Stevenson on a mysterious island, heard the noise of the banners in the battle of Borodino or helped Mowgli in the impenetrable wilds of the Indian subcontinent?

This book is reminiscent of a journey through little known country, where every step opens a new gave and roads. They lead who knows where, but promise a lot of unexpected, thought-provoking. So tempting and just need at least incomplete, as the saying goes, roughly, but to understand the interweaving of these roads.