Natasha is a trainer. He talks about his students like his mother. I couldn’t get rid of them even on my birthday. About an unknown to me girl: “Yes, it’s wrong. Writing well, it is helpless. But these are her mistakes. The own. Not downloaded from the internet. He is worried that it is going badly. But she goes on, just herself. He reads a lot and writes his own. But it is coincidence. Just made from such a test. Sooner or later they will tell her that it is easier to load the ready, slightly rework. For the works, okay, but in life? How can you explain to her how important it is—what herself?”

I listened to her, and in my head was a parable. And a real story. Once upon a time there lived a small but proud man on the swamps of a tiny river. From the south - Greece, from the north - samnites, with fertile grasslands and pastures. Their grain and livestock grew abundantly and were inexpensive, but even with them these nations were not favorable - in Sicily, Alexandria and Cyrenaica it was possible to buy much cheaper. And the unfortunate people in the swamps to buy was not for anything. I had to grow myself, in the sweat of the face. And only after a while it became clear that the main harvest of this scarce land is not grain or lambs. It is because of them that these people have so much stumbled. The main harvest of this land is the people themselves. Persistent, persistent, accustomed to overcoming any difficulties. These people and conquered the world – the Romans.

A similar story has happened on different ways many times before and after. Before the Macedonians, then the Spaniards, the Germans, the English. And we Russians.

I am not calling for conquering the world, we passed. I am about the fact that the final product of training is not officially documented. This is not a bunch of serious documents for which students try - works, examination works, tables with assessments. In five years, all this will go to laundry according to the regulation. The final product of a strange land called the school is the man himself, beyond the Copy-Paste keys.

I may have written it all, but myself. Those who write themselves what they think are not ashamed.