With obliviously and responsibility to the readers, I am writing to generalize the whole of my circumstances, which I had lived and analysed. The life- an unexpected research and travel to anywhere. In certain moments I misunderstood the matter of the time valuation and communication peculiarities. Did I take up the early authorship of writing my memoirs? Is this necessary in this small, not very full age phase? In principle, this period is saturated with a huge amount of emotions and certain knowledge, which I at least have not had time to forget. Timely fixation of the material, the possibility of its reproduction in subsequent years for followers is an exquisite in nature thing, because this heritage, most of all, means my historical diversity, though the truth is still a minor person. Guided by the opportunity given to me, I present my small essays from past impressions.
PART VI A KIND OF POETERY Some Lyrics. This sonnet of Shakespeare, number 28, I knowingly chose this number, you will guess. In part, he demonstrates some aspects of my existence. I'm not upset about anything. I develop. I analyze and try to help others. How can I then return in happy plight, That am debarred the benefit of rest? When day's oppression is not eas'd by night, But day by night and night by day oppressed, And each, though enemies to either's reign, Do in consent shake hands to torture me, The one by toil, the other to complain How far I toil, still farther off from thee. I tell the day, to please him thou art bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger.