The ballet world is so competitive, and for no reason. It's not a sport. It's an art. There's no winner.
Sergei PoluninRead
You live the life of a dancer. It is not your job, it is your life, and you have to love it so much to be able to take it every day for six days a week, sometimes seven.
Interpretation
The quote emphasizes the passion and dedication required to live a life devoted to dance.
Sergei Polunin highlights that being a dancer transcends mere profession; it is a way of life filled with love and commitment. The intensity of the dance lifestyle involves rigorous practice and emotional investment, suggesting that to truly excel and endure in this art form, one must deeply cherish every moment of the experience.
In practice
Using this quote in a motivational speech to aspiring dancers to encourage them to embrace their art.
The ballet world is so competitive, and for no reason. It's not a sport. It's an art. There's no winner.
When I look at a body it gives me choice of what to put in a painting, what will suit me and what won't. There is a distinction between fact and truth. Truth has an element of revelation about it. If something is true, it does more than strike one as merely being so.
When I read a story, I relive the moment from which it sprang. A scene burned itself into me, a building magnetized me, a mood orseason of Nature's penetrated me, history suddenly appeared to me in some tiny act, or a face had begun to haunt me before I glanced at it.
The ideal and the beautiful are identical; the ideal corresponds to the idea, and beauty to form; hence idea and substance are cognate.
Stories are there to be told, and each story changes with the telling. Time changes them. Logic changes them. Grammar changes them. History changes them. Each story is shifted side-ways by each day that unfolds. Nothing ends. The only thing that matters, as Faulkner once put it, is the human heart in conflict with itself. At the heart of all this is the possibility, or desire, to create a piece of art that talks to the human instinct for recovery and joy.
I can't be alone among fiction writers in regarding the world, so much weirder than anything we could make up, as beating us at our own game or in racking my brains over what could possibly constitute a contribution when novels pale before the newspaper.
And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, and silently steal away.
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