The ballet. I saw in the fugitive beauty of a dancer's gesture asymbol of life. It was achieved at the cost of unending effort but,with all the forces of gravity against it, a fleeting poise inmid-air, a lovely attitude worthy to be made immortal in a bas-relief,it was lost as soon as it was gained and there remained no more thanthe memory of an exquisite emotion. So life, lived variously andlargely, becomes a work of art only when brought to its beautifulconclusion and is reduced to nothingness in the moment when it arrivesat perfection.
W. Somerset Maugham: A Writer's Notebook
