The ballet.
I saw in the fugitive beauty of a dancers gesture a symbol of life.
It was achieved at the cost of unending effort but,
with all the forces of gravity against it, a fleeting poise in mid-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 than the memory of an exquisite emotion.
So life, lived variously and largely, becomes a work of art only
when brought to its beautiful conclusion and is reduced to nothingness
in the moment when it arrives at perfection. - W. Somerset Maugham