ลทฑฆำ้ภึ

“Wisdom.... comes not from age, but from education and learning.”
― Anton Chekhov

“I kept thinking how marvellous it would be if I could somehow tear my heart, which felt so heavy, out of my chest.”
― Anton Chekhov

“She had a passionate longing for the garden, the darkness, the pure sky, the stars.”
― Anton Chekhov

“Medicine is my lawful wife, and literature is my mistress. When I get fed up with one, I spend the night with the other. Though it is irregular, it is less boring this way, and besides, neither of them loses anything through my infidelity.”
― Anton Chekhov

“The State is not God. It has no right to take away that which it cannot give back, if it should so desire.”
― Anton Chekhov, The Bet

“As a rule, however fine and deep a phrase may be, it only affects the indifferent, and cannot fully satisfy those who are happy or unhappy; that is why dumbness is most often the highest expression of happiness or unhappiness; lovers understand each other better when they are silent, and a fervent, passionate speech delivered by the grave only touches outsiders, while to the widow and children of the dead man it seems cold and trivial.”
― Anton Chekhov, The Essential Tales of Chekhov

“Faith is a capacity of the spirit. It is like talent: you have to be born with it.”
― Anton Chekhov, Love and Other Stories

“I've never been in love, never in my life.
Oh, I've dreamed of love, dreamed endlessly, day and night,
but my soul is like a fine piano that's locked,
and the key is lost.”
― Sarah Ruhl, Chekhov's Three Sisters & Woolf's Orlando

“In all nature there seemed to be a feeling of hopelessness and pain. The earth, like a ruined woman sitting alone in a dark room and trying not to think of the past, was brooding over memories of spring and summer and apathetically waiting for the inevitable winter. Wherever one looked, on all sides, nature seemed like a dark, infinitely deep, cold pit from which neither Kirilov nor Abogin nor the red half-moon could escape....”
― Anton Chekhov, The Essential Tales of Chekhov

“I think a person has to believe in something,
or search out some kind of faith;
otherwise life is empty, nothing.
How can you live not knowing why the cranes fly,
why children are born, why there are stars in the sky...
Either you know why you live,
or it's all small, unnecessary bits.”
― Sarah Ruhl, Chekhov's Three Sisters & Woolf's Orlando

“Every science has a beginning but no end.”
― Anton Chekhov, Love and Other Stories

“Oh, where is it, where did my past go, when I was young, happy and intelligent, when my dreams and thoughts had some grace, and the present and future were lit up with hope? Why is it, that when we've just started to live, we grow dull, gray, uninteresting, lazy, useless, with flattened-out souls?”
― Sarah Ruhl, Chekhov's Three Sisters & Woolf's Orlando

“Isn't it wonderful to be able to invite Anton Chekhov into your home?”
― Kevin Ansbro

“When you read a novel, it seems that everything is clear, trite and understandable. But when you yourself fall in love, you understand that nobody knows anything and everyone must decide for themselves.”
― Sarah Ruhl, Chekhov's Three Sisters & Woolf's Orlando

“My illness is only that in twenty years I have only found one intelligent man in the whole town, and he is mad.”
― Anton Chekhov, ะŸะฐะปะฐั‚ะฐ โ„� 6

“What silly little things sometimes take on meaning in life, suddenly, out of nowhere. And you know they're little nothings, and you laugh at them, but all the same, you go on feeling them, you can't stop...”
― Sarah Ruhl, Chekhov's Three Sisters & Woolf's Orlando

“แƒ›แƒแƒฆแƒแƒ–แƒ˜แƒแƒจแƒ� แƒจแƒ”แƒ•แƒ˜แƒซแƒ˜แƒœแƒ” แƒ“แƒแƒกแƒขแƒแƒ”แƒ•แƒกแƒ™แƒ˜แƒ� แƒฌแƒ˜แƒ’แƒœแƒ� แƒ“แƒ แƒแƒฎแƒšแƒ แƒ•แƒ™แƒ˜แƒ—แƒฎแƒฃแƒšแƒแƒ�. แƒ™แƒแƒ แƒ’แƒ˜แƒ, แƒ›แƒแƒ’แƒ แƒแƒ› แƒซแƒแƒšแƒ˜แƒแƒœ แƒ’แƒ แƒซแƒ”แƒšแƒ˜แƒ� แƒ“แƒ แƒ›แƒแƒฃแƒ แƒ˜แƒ“แƒ”แƒ‘แƒ”แƒšแƒ�, แƒซแƒแƒšแƒ˜แƒแƒœ แƒžแƒ แƒ”แƒขแƒ”แƒœแƒ–แƒ˜แƒฃแƒšแƒ�”
― Anton Chekhov

“ะ’ ั‡ะตะปะพะฒะตะบะต ะดะพะปะถะฝะพ ะฑั‹ั‚ัŒ ะฒัะต ะฟั€ะตะบั€ะฐัะฝะพ: ะธ ะปะธั†ะพ, ะธ ะพะดะตะถะดะฐ, ะธ ะดัƒัˆะฐ, ะธ ะผั‹ัะปะธ”
― Anton Chekhov

“Once or twice, at night, he planted himself in front of the type-writer, trying to get back to the book he'd come to New York to write. It was supposed to be about America, and freedom, and the kinship of time to pain, but in order to write about these things, he'd needed experience. Well, be careful what you wish for. For now all he seemed capable of producing was a string of sentences starting, Here was William. Here was William's courage, for example. And here was William's sadness, smallness of stature, size of hands. Here was his laugh in a dark movie theater, his unpunk love of the films of Woody Allen, not for any of the obvious ways they flattered his sensibility, but for something he called their tragic sense, which he compared to Chekhov's (whom Mercer knew he had not read). Here was the way he never asked Mercer about his work; the way he never talked about his own and yet seemed to carry it with him just beneath the skin; the way his skin looked in the sodium light from outside with the light off, with clothes off, in silver rain; the way he embodied qualities Mercer wanted to have, but without ruining them by wanting to have them; the way his genius overflowed its vessel, running off into the drain; the unfinished self-portrait; the hint of some trauma in his past, like the war a shell-shocked town never talks about; his terrible taste in friends; his complete lack of discipline; the inborn incapacity for certain basic things that made you want to mother him, fuck him, give your right and left arms for him, this man-child, this skinny American; and finally his wildness, his refusal to be imaginable by anyone.”
― Garth Risk Hallberg, City on Fire

“But he had to think like a character in a Chekhov play, forever taunted by desires but trapped in a life much too small to accommodate the entirety of a human being. That was why Chekhov was eternally beloved.”
― Gary Shteyngart, Our Country Friends

“When you snatch happiness in little bits, fits and starts, and lose it, like me, you become coarse, little by little, you become hateful.”
― Sarah Ruhl, Chekhov's Three Sisters & Woolf's Orlando

“แƒฆแƒแƒ›แƒ˜แƒ� แƒšแƒแƒ›แƒžแƒ˜แƒแƒœแƒ”แƒ‘แƒ˜, แƒ แƒแƒ’แƒแƒ แƒช แƒแƒ“แƒแƒ›แƒ˜แƒแƒœแƒ˜แƒ� แƒแƒ–แƒ แƒ”แƒ‘แƒ˜, แƒ˜แƒ›แƒแƒ•แƒ”แƒœแƒแƒ˜แƒ แƒแƒ� แƒฅแƒแƒแƒขแƒฃแƒ แƒแƒ“ แƒ›แƒ˜แƒ›แƒแƒคแƒแƒœแƒขแƒฃแƒšแƒœแƒ˜, แƒกแƒ แƒฃแƒš แƒกแƒ˜แƒ‘แƒœแƒ”แƒšแƒ”แƒจแƒ� แƒ›แƒ˜แƒ’แƒ•แƒ˜แƒซแƒฆแƒ•แƒ”แƒ‘แƒ˜แƒแƒ� แƒ แƒแƒ›แƒ”แƒšแƒ˜แƒฆแƒแƒ� แƒ’แƒแƒฃแƒ แƒ™แƒ•แƒ”แƒ•แƒ”แƒš แƒ›แƒ˜แƒ–แƒœแƒ˜แƒกแƒ™แƒ”แƒ�, แƒ•แƒ”แƒฆแƒแƒ� แƒแƒœแƒแƒ—แƒ”แƒ‘แƒ”แƒœ แƒฌแƒงแƒ•แƒ“แƒ˜แƒแƒ“แƒ˜แƒ� แƒฉแƒแƒ›แƒแƒฌแƒแƒšแƒ˜แƒ� แƒฆแƒแƒ›แƒ”แƒ�, แƒ“แƒ แƒฅแƒ แƒ”แƒ‘แƒ˜แƒแƒ� แƒกแƒแƒ“แƒฆแƒแƒช แƒจแƒแƒ แƒก, แƒกแƒ˜แƒ‘แƒ”แƒ แƒ”แƒจแƒ˜”
― Anton Chekhov

“แƒแƒ  แƒแƒ แƒ˜แƒก แƒแƒฃแƒชแƒ˜แƒšแƒ”แƒ‘แƒ”แƒšแƒ˜ แƒคแƒกแƒ˜แƒฅแƒแƒšแƒแƒ’แƒ� แƒ”แƒกแƒ›แƒแƒ“แƒ”แƒ� แƒ˜แƒก, แƒ แƒแƒกแƒแƒ� แƒ•แƒ”แƒ� แƒ’แƒ”แƒ‘แƒฃแƒšแƒแƒ‘แƒก. แƒ›แƒ”แƒขแƒ˜แƒ�, แƒคแƒกแƒ˜แƒฅแƒแƒšแƒแƒ’แƒ� แƒแƒ  แƒฃแƒœแƒ“แƒ แƒชแƒ“แƒ˜แƒšแƒแƒ‘แƒ“แƒ”แƒ� แƒ“แƒแƒ’แƒ•แƒแƒœแƒแƒฎแƒแƒก แƒ—แƒแƒ•แƒ˜แƒกแƒ˜ แƒ—แƒแƒ•แƒ˜ แƒ˜แƒกแƒ�, แƒ—แƒ˜แƒ—แƒฅแƒแƒก แƒงแƒ•แƒ”แƒšแƒแƒคแƒ”แƒ แƒ� แƒ˜แƒชแƒ˜แƒก. แƒแƒ  แƒ›แƒกแƒฃแƒ แƒ� แƒจแƒแƒ แƒšแƒแƒขแƒแƒœแƒแƒ‘แƒ�, แƒžแƒ˜แƒ แƒ“แƒแƒžแƒ˜แƒ , แƒ’แƒฃแƒšแƒฌแƒ แƒคแƒ”แƒšแƒแƒ“ แƒ•แƒแƒชแƒฎแƒแƒ“แƒ”แƒ‘, แƒ แƒแƒ� แƒ•แƒ”แƒ แƒแƒคแƒ”แƒ แƒก แƒ•แƒ”แƒ� แƒ’แƒแƒ˜แƒ’แƒ”แƒ‘ แƒชแƒ˜แƒกแƒ แƒฅแƒ•แƒ”แƒจแƒ�. แƒงแƒ•แƒ”แƒšแƒแƒคแƒ”แƒ แƒ� แƒ˜แƒชแƒ˜แƒแƒ� แƒ“แƒ แƒงแƒ•แƒ”แƒšแƒแƒคแƒ”แƒ แƒ� แƒ”แƒกแƒ›แƒ˜แƒ� แƒ›แƒฎแƒแƒšแƒแƒ“ แƒ‘แƒ แƒ˜แƒงแƒ•แƒ”แƒ‘แƒก แƒ“แƒ แƒจแƒแƒ แƒšแƒแƒขแƒแƒœแƒ”แƒ‘แƒ�”
― Anton Chekhov

“แƒ›แƒแƒฅแƒกแƒ˜แƒ› แƒ’แƒแƒ แƒ™แƒ�: แƒ แƒแƒ›แƒ”แƒšแƒ˜ แƒฃแƒคแƒ แƒ แƒ’แƒ˜แƒงแƒ•แƒแƒ แƒ� - แƒ‘แƒ”แƒ แƒซแƒœแƒ”แƒ‘แƒ˜ แƒ—แƒฃ แƒ—แƒฃแƒ แƒฅแƒ”แƒ‘แƒ�?
แƒแƒœแƒขแƒแƒ� แƒฉแƒ”แƒฎแƒแƒ•แƒ˜: แƒ›แƒ” แƒ›แƒ˜แƒงแƒ•แƒแƒ แƒ� แƒ›แƒแƒ แƒ›แƒ”แƒšแƒแƒ“แƒ�”
― Anton Chekhov

“แƒแƒ แƒแƒคแƒ”แƒ แƒ� แƒ›แƒแƒฅแƒ•แƒ� แƒกแƒแƒ”แƒ แƒ—แƒ แƒ—แƒ”แƒแƒขแƒ แƒ—แƒแƒœ แƒแƒœ แƒแƒ“แƒแƒ›แƒ˜แƒแƒœแƒ—แƒ� แƒ›แƒแƒ“แƒ’แƒ›แƒแƒกแƒ—แƒแƒœ. แƒฏแƒแƒœแƒ“แƒแƒ‘แƒแƒ›แƒ“แƒ” แƒ’แƒ–แƒ� แƒฐแƒฅแƒแƒœแƒ˜แƒแƒ�”
― Anton Chekhov

“Notre vieโ€� la vie humaineโ€� est semblable ร  une fleur qui sโ€™รฉpanouit dans un champ : vient ร  passer un bouc, il la bouffe โ€� finie la fleurโ€ฆย�”
― Anton Chekhov, Ivanov

“You are right in demandยญing that an artist should take an intelยญliยญgent attiยญtude to his work, but you conยญfuse two things: solvยญing a probยญlem and statยญing a probยญlem corยญrectly. It is only the secยญond that is obligยญaยญtory for the artist.”
― Anton Chekhov, A Life in Letters