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St. Piony and Epinach. ii March, Pupli 13 m.
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Poetry and works of art contain not what is needed but what people desire; they do not go further than the crowd and they express only what the best in the crowd desire.
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A little man is very cautious; he sends even letters of congratulation by registered post in order to get a receipt.
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Russia is an enormous plain across which wander mischievous men.
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Platonida Ivanovna.
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If you are politically sound, that is enough for you to be considered a perfectly satisfactory citizen; the same thing with radicals, to be politically unsound is enough, everything else will be ignored.
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A man who when he fails opens his eyes wide.
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Ziuzikov.
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A Councillor of State, a respectable man; it suddenly comes out that he has secretly kept a brothel.
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N. has written a good play; no one praises him or is pleased; they all say: "We'll see what you write next."
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The more important people came in by the front door, the simple folk by the back door.
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He: "And in our town there lived a man whose name was Kishmish (raisin). He called himself Kishmish, but every one knew that he was Kishmish."
She (after some thought): "How annoying … if only his name had been
Sultana, but Kishmish!…"
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Blagovospitanny.
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Most honored Iv-Iv-itch!
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How intolerable people are sometimes who are happy and successful in everything.
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They begin gossiping that N. is living with Z.; little by little an atmosphere is created in which a liaison of N. and Z. becomes inevitable.
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When the locust was a plague, I wrote against the locust and enchanted every one, I was rich and famous; but now, when the locust has long ago disappeared and is forgotten, I am merged in the crowd, forgotten, and not wanted.
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Merrily, joyfully: "I have the honor to introduce you to Iv. Iv.
Izgoyev, my wife's lover."
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Everywhere on the estate are notices: "Trespassers will be prosecuted," "Keep off the flowers," etc.
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In the great house is a fine library which is talked about but is never used; they give you watery coffee which you cannot drink; the garden is tasteless with no flowers in it—and they pretend that all this is something Tolstoian.
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He learnt Swedish in order to study Ibsen, spent a lot of time and trouble, and suddenly realized that Ibsen is not important; he could not conceive what use he could now make of the Swedish language.[1]
[Footnote 1: Ibsen wrote in Norwegian of course. Responding to a request for his interpretation of this curious paragraph. Mr. Koteliansky writes:
"Chekhov had a very high opinion of Ibsen; the paragraph, I am sure, is by no means aimed at Ibsen. Most probably the paragraph, as well as many others in the Notes, is something which C. either personally or indirectly heard someone say. You will see that Kuprin ["Reminiscences of Chekhov," by Gorky, Kuprin and Bunin, New York: Huebsch.] told C. the anecdote about the actor whose wife asked him to whistle a melody on the stage during a rehearsal. In C.'s Notes you have that anecdote, somewhat shortened and the names changed, without mentioning the source."
"The reader, on the whole, may puzzle his head over many paragraphs in the Notes, but he will hardly find explanations each time. What the reader has to remember is that the Notes are material used by C. in his creative activity and as such it throws a great deal of light on C.'s mentality and process of working."]
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N. makes a living by exterminating bugs; and for the purposes of his trade he reads the works of ——. If in "The Cossacks," bugs are not mentioned, it means that "The Cossacks" is a bad book.
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Man is what he believes.
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A clever girclass="underline" "I cannot pretend … I never tell a lie … I have principles"—and all the time "I … I … I …"
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N. is angry with his wife who is an actress, and without her knowledge gets abusive criticisms published about her in the newspapers.
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A nobleman boasts "This house of mine was built in the time of Dmitry
Donskoy."
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"Your Worship, he called my dog a bad name: 'son of a bitch.'"
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The snow fell and did not lie on the ground reddened with blood.
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He left everything to charity, so that nothing should go to his relations and children, whom he hated.
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A very amorous man; he is no sooner introduced to a girl than he becomes a he-goat.
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A nobleman Drekoliev.
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I dread the idea that a chamberlain will be present at the opening of my petition.
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He was a rationalist, but he had to confess that he liked the ringing of church bells.
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The father a famous general, nice pictures, expensive furniture; he died; the daughters received a good education, but are slovenly, read little, ride, and are dull.
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They are honest and truthful so long as it is unnecessary.
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A rich merchant would like to have a shower bath in his W.C.
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In the early morning they ate okroshka.[1]
[Footnote 1: A cold dish composed of cider and hash.]
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"If you lose this talisman," said grandmother, "you will die." And suddenly I lost it, tortured myself, was afraid that I would die. And now, imagine, a miracle happened: I found it and continued to live.
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Everybody goes to the theatre to see my play, to learn something instantly from it, to make some sort of profit, and I tell you: I have not the time to bother about that canaille.
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The people hate and despise everything new and useful; when there was cholera, they hated and killed the doctors and they love vodka; by the people's love or hatred one can estimate the value of what they love or hate.
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Looking out of the window at the corpse which is being borne to the cemetery: "You are dead, you are being carried to the cemetery, and I will go and have my breakfast."
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A Tchech Vtitchka.
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A man, forty years old, married a girl of twenty-two who read only the very latest writers, wore green ribbons, slept on yellow pillows, and believed in her taste and her opinions as if they were law; she is nice, not silly, and gentle, but he separates from her.
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When one longs for a drink, it seems as though one could drink a whole ocean—that is faith; but when one begins to drink, one can only drink altogether two glasses—that is science.
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For a farce: Fildekosov, Poprygunov.
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In former times a nice man, with principles, who wanted to be respected, would try to become a general or priest, but now he goes in for being a writer, professor….
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There is nothing which history will not justify.
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Zievoulia.[1]
[Footnote 1: A name or word invented by Chekhov meaning "One who yawns for a long time with pleasure."]
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The crying of a nice child is ugly; so in bad verses you may recognize that the author is a nice man.
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