Showing posts with label Chekhov. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chekhov. Show all posts

Monday, January 17, 2011

So he let his own water run

Today is the birthday of Anton Chekhov (born 1860), the Russian dramatist and short-story artist.


"And the whole world, the whole of life, seemed to Ryaobavich an aimless, unintelligible jest...The water was running, he knew not where or why...It had flowed into a great river, from the great river into the sea; then it had risen in vapor, turned into rain, and perhaps the very same water was running now before his eyes again...And why? For what purpose? -- "The Kiss."

   What had God hoped for, creating the universe? What was His goal? It had to have been a whim, Sully thought, a caprice, and given that, how could you take it seriously? How could you take yourself seriously? If God didn’t have a clue.  --  Chapter 21, The Misforgotten.