Nothing is more beautiful or frightening than an incoming storm.
Or several. Here in Northern California we are expecting another atmospheric river. The next time you hear from me, I might have gills.
“The open doors of small shops and taverns gaped wearily out at God’s world, like many hungry jaws.” From Chameleon
Meanwhile, closer to the ground, signs of Spring. Whenever the weather is as gloomy and grey as it has been, I’m drawn … once again and forever more to … Anton Chekhov. I’ve had a crush on him since I was a teenager … before the Beatles, before the Stones, there was Chekhov.
Anton Chekhov (1860-1904) was not only one of Russia’s most celebrated authors, he was also a doctor and a humanitarian. The misery he often wrote about, he’d seen first hand.
“This poor, foolish queer creature, whom I loved the more warmly the more ragged and dirty his smart summer overcoat became, had come to Moscow, five months before, to look for a job as copying-clerk.” From Oysters
“It seems to me that in the presence of Anton Pavlovich everyone felt an unconscious desire to be simpler, more truthful, more himself ... ” Maxim Gorky, after visiting Chekhov in his dying days
I’ve read that in Russia he is still most famous for the “comics” (100 word articles written under strict deadlines for newspaper). They’ve been described as “uninspired sneers at the weaknesses and follies of mankind,” “a sanctuary of every kind of vulgarity and bad taste,” “trivial buffoonery,” “lacking the normal gift of nonsense,” and finally, “unworthy of translation.” Ouch! But hey, we all have to start somewhere.
Are you drawn to read about long dead Russian authors on dark and dreary days? Or am I strange?
“Any idiot can face a crisis; it’s the day to day living that knocks you out.” Anton Chekhov
Saying nothing in particular 