Nuestra editorial se especializa en publicar libros en espa脙卤ol. Para encontrar otros t脙颅tulos busque 芒鈧揈ditorial Med脙颅芒鈧�. Contamos con mas vol脙潞menes en espa脙卤ol que cualquier otra editorial para el kindle y continuamos creciendo.
Dramas, such as The Seagull (1896, revised 1898), and including "A Dreary Story" (1889) of Russian writer Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, also Chekov, concern the inability of humans to communicate.
Born (袗薪褌芯薪 袩邪胁谢芯胁懈褔 效械褏芯胁) in the small southern seaport of Taganrog, the son of a grocer. His grandfather, a serf, bought his own freedom and that of his three sons in 1841. He also taught to read. A cloth merchant fathered Yevgenia Morozova, his mother.
"When I think back on my childhood," Chekhov recalled, "it all seems quite gloomy to me." Tyranny of his father, religious fanaticism, and long nights in the store, open from five in the morning till midnight, shadowed his early years. He attended a school for Greek boys in Taganrog from 1867 to 1868 and then Taganrog grammar school. Bankruptcy of his father compelled the family to move to Moscow. At the age of 16 years in 1876, independent Chekhov for some time alone in his native town supported through private tutoring.
In 1879, Chekhov left grammar school and entered the university medical school at Moscow. In the school, he began to publish hundreds of short comics to support his mother, sisters and brothers. Nicholas Leikin published him at this period and owned Oskolki (splinters), the journal of Saint Petersburg. His subjected silly social situations, marital problems, and farcical encounters among husbands, wives, mistresses, and lust; even after his marriage, Chekhov, the shy author, knew not much of whims of young women.
Nenunzhaya pobeda, first novel of Chekhov, set in 1882 in Hungary, parodied the novels of the popular M贸r J贸kai. People also mocked ideological optimism of J贸kai as a politician.
Chekhov graduated in 1884 and practiced medicine. He worked from 1885 in Peterburskaia gazeta.
In 1886, Chekhov met H.S. Suvorin, who invited him, a regular contributor, to work for Novoe vremya, the daily paper of Saint Petersburg. He gained a wide fame before 1886. He authored The Shooting Party, his second full-length novel, later translated into English. Agatha Christie used its characters and atmosphere in later her mystery novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. First book of Chekhov in 1886 succeeded, and he gradually committed full time. The refusal of the author to join the ranks of social critics arose the wrath of liberal and radical intelligentsia, who criticized him for dealing with serious social and moral questions but avoiding giving answers. Such leaders as Leo Tolstoy and Nikolai Leskov, however, defended him. "I'm not a liberal, or a conservative, or a gradualist, or a monk, or an indifferentist. I should like to be a free artist and that's all..." Chekhov said in 1888.
The failure of The Wood Demon, play in 1889, and problems with novel made Chekhov to withdraw from literature for a period. In 1890, he traveled across Siberia to Sakhalin, remote prison island. He conducted a detailed census of ten thousand convicts and settlers, condemned to live on that harsh island. Chekhov expected to use the results of his research for his doctoral dissertation. Hard conditions on the island probably also weakened his own physical condition. From this journey came his famous travel book.
Chekhov practiced medicine until 1892. During these years, Chechov developed his concept of the dispassionate, non-judgmental author. He outlined his program in a letter to his brother Aleksandr: "1. Absence of lengthy verbiage of political-social-economic nature; 2. total objectivity; 3. truthful descriptions of persons and objects; 4. extreme brevity; 5. audacity and originality; flee the stereotype; 6. compassion." Because he objected that the paper conducted against Alfred Dreyfus, his friendship with Suvorin ended
Can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to him? But the crowds flit by heedless of him and his misery鈥is misery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona鈥檚 heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet is it not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight.
First published in 1886, this heart-wrenching story on the old sledge-driver Iona whose son died in the hospital a week ago and in his need to pour his heart out finds no-one prepared to lend him a listening ear is a shattering depiction of that all too common but fatally human flaw: the indifference to the woes of other human beings.
Holding up a mirror to the reader, Chekhov uncovers the carelessness with which we turn someone the cold shoulder, cruelly ignoring one鈥檚 suffering simply because we are too preoccupied with our own toils and tribulations, driving them into despair when they need warmth.
Misery is a masterful and deeply affecting story, once more showcasing Chekhov as a tremendously insightful and empathic observer of the human psyche, suffering and needs.
The story can be read .
We kill at every step, not only in wars, riots and executions. We kill when we close our eyes to poverty, suffering and shame. In the same way all disrespect for life, all hard-heartedness, all indifference, all contempt is nothing else than killing. (Hermann Hesse).
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov. the Best Short Stories: Misery, Anton Chekhov
Misery is an 1886 short story by Anton Chekhov. The cabman Iona's son recently died. He desperately and unsuccessfully tries to have a talk with the people he meets and tell them of how shattered he is. He ends up talking to his horse.
Iona is a sledge driver/cabman, out in the depths of winter, snow falling thick and fast - there he sits, waiting/ hoping for a fare. He waits and waits - at this rate he won鈥檛 even make enough to feed his mare. Eventually he gets a fare and then another, but when he tries to talk to them about the death of his son a few days ago, no one wants to listen. Published in 1886, this is a heartbreaking tale, where not a single soul is willing to give him comfort in his grief - they鈥檙e only interested in themselves.
"With a look of anxiety and suffering, Iona's eyes stray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the street: can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to him?"
This is a very short, yet deeply upsetting, tale in which one man's loneliness and grief is compounded by the insensitivity of others.
Covered in falling snow, Iona Potapov, an impoverished sledge driver in 19th century Saint Petersburg, is aboard his ride, hunched as a heron and white as a ghost. He is beset by a solitary misery that he needs to share but not one of his discourteous passengers is inclined to listen.
One senses that Chekhov, a great humanitarian, must have often witnessed such unforgivable callousness at close quarters. I just wish I could have been there to give poor Iona a big hug before treating him and his horse to a meal.
This is a five-minute short story that is free to read online >>
My thanks to Ilse for drawing my attention to this poignant tale. Her review can be read HERE . .
Misery by Anton Chekhov, although published in 1886, could have been updated to represent social interaction in our current world. In modern times, empathy and understanding are in short supply. We live in a me society where no one is listening, as in the case of a lonely sledge driver, trying to make enough money in fares to feed himself and his horse on a snowy, blizzard-like night. "I have not earned enough to pay for the oats...That's why I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his work...who has had enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at ease." The driver is reeling as well from the death of his son one week ago. Passengers are disinterested in his feelings of anguish. Finally, a listener that allows him to unburden his soul.
A short free read ...
Thank you Ilse and Kevin for bringing this five minute read to my attention.
Bereavement comes in many ways and many waves. A sudden death creates different ripples from one after a protracted illness: not harder or easier for loved ones left behind, but different. Some try to suppress their feelings, while others need to talk, remember, cry, and be heard. In the words of a Russian folk song that is the subtitle of this piece, 鈥淭o whom shall I tell my grief?鈥�. Two circumstances are especially hard: when the reasons are unknown or inexplicable, and when 鈥�death has come in at the wrong door鈥� (a child dying before their parents). Both apply here.
This is a vignette, not a story; there is no plot to spoil.
The setting
The opening sentences, in the present tense, are immediately immersive: 鈥�The twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted.鈥�
Iona Potapov is a sledge-driver in Petersburg. He鈥檚 at least middle-aged, has had no customers for hours, and he and his horse are white and motionless in the snow. Very different from the happy and festive images that sledges conjure for many modern readers.
At last, he's hailed - by an officer, no less. Joy? No. The officer gets in, but angrily criticises Iona's driving, then a coachman swears at him, and a pedestrian glares. Nevertheless, Iona鈥檚 lonely grief overrides the usual etiquette: 鈥�My son died this week, sir鈥� Three days in the hospital and then he died. . . God鈥檚 will.鈥� The officer asks what he died of, but isn鈥檛 really interested and gets out moments after. More hours pass without customers. 鈥�Again the wet snow paints him and his horse white.鈥�
Image: Russian sleigh driver, St Petersburg, c1860s (~20 years before this story was published), by William Carrick. ()
Three rowdy young men, one a hunchback, ask for a ride, offering well below the usual fare. Once on board, they mock Iona, swear at him, and hit him. 鈥�He hears abuse addressed to him, he sees people, and the feeling of loneliness begins little by little to be less heavy on his heart.鈥� Just as any fare is better than none, so any attention is better than none. This is the agonising truth for victims of abuse, bereavement, and other traumas. So he tells them his son died, only to be rebuffed by the hunchback retorting 鈥�We shall all die鈥�.
Day's end
Iona heads back to the yard, without having earned enough for the horse鈥檚 oats. He tries to talk to another cabbie, without success.
鈥�His misery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona鈥檚 heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight.鈥�
Image: Illustration of Iona and his little mare, M Efimov, 1904 ()
The end?
Shakespeare鈥檚 Richard III would have given his kingdom for a horse. Iona鈥檚 needs are more fundamental: the comfort of a listening ear so he can ride the waves of grief, rather than drown in the sea of despair.
He is an old cabman waiting for a fare in the cold snowy night. His son has died recently and he is desperate to give voice to his misery; to talk to anyone who would listen. Would he be able to find someone compassionate and caring enough to pause, listen and mourn along with a miserable old soul?
It takes talent to convey so much in just a few pages and Chekhov is a genius when it comes to short story writing.
鈥淚ona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent.鈥�
From the outset, the cold seeped into my bones as I imagined the forlorn Iona, his heart in tatters, snow gently blanketing him and his mare. As he drives his sledge, conveying a succession of uncaring passengers to and fro, he tries to unburden himself by revealing his recent loss. But none will grace him with a moment of their precious time.
In the space of five pages, Chekov made me long to wrap an arm around Iona and intently listen so he could share his pain. To evoke such deep emotion with a finite number of words is a true gift.
Misery by Anton Chekov is a 5 star, 5 page masterpiece.
So sledge driver Iona Potapov waits in the freezing white snow, bent over, waiting for rare paltry fares. His poor mare drew more pity from me as the poor skinny girl even had a layer of snow on her back, she must鈥檝e been freezing cold 鈥� and hungry.
The core of this story involves the recent death of the poor man鈥檚 son, he has nobody to tell. He thinks some of his fares may be interested in his sad story 鈥� no such luck, the only fares he scored couldn鈥檛 give a hoot 鈥� in fact, worse still, they mock him.
The poor guy decides to quit his shift early. He hasn鈥檛 even earned enough to feed his poor mare oats. This man is so lonely.
He decides to go outside, in the freezing weather and tell his beautiful horse about the death of his son. Naturally, she listens because animals are beautiful and humanity is shit.
This story of abject loneliness in an uncaring cold, dark world smacked me right between the eyes and stamped on my chest.
An impactful story about a sledge-driver whose emotions aren鈥檛 as important to his customers as his services are.
Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is waiting in the snow for a fare. When a military officer approaches him to ride to Vyborgskaya, the sledge driver sets off with his mare. But the journey doesn鈥檛 begin well as Iona is clearly battling some deep emotions. He gets more customers along the way, but all of them are intent on only one thing 鈥� reaching their destination. No one notices the poor driver who is desperate to unburden his grief. As the day goes on, Iona knows he can鈥檛 hold on to his feelings any more. And there鈥檚 only one party left who will give him a patient ear.
Iona鈥檚 misery comes out of every sentence, hinted at the start, vivid at the end. One can鈥檛 help feel sorry for him as his loss is huge but he has no one to share it with. With his beautiful prose, Chekov manages to depict the turmoil of the poor driver, that seems to borrow a lot from the dark and snowy atmosphere of the town.
If you love classic short stories, you can鈥檛 miss this one. Anton Chekov is one of the best short story writers, and this gem will show you why.
4.25 stars.
As this story is in the public domain, it can be read online for free on various sites. I read it from the below link:
鈥斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌� Connect with me through: | | |
You know the old saying: 鈥淚 can鈥檛 complain 鈥� nobody listens!鈥� Chekhov gives us a beautifully drawn character, Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, to show us this painful truth.
There is so much feeling packed into these few pages. I read it slow, sipping, and swear I felt the loneliness and sorrow seeping into my very soul. Some very relatable comfort awaited me at the end though.