"The Russian is a strange creature!" he [Chekhov] said once. "He lets everything through, like a sieve. In his youth he avidly fills his soul with everything that comes his way, and then, after thirty, all that remains is some gray waste. In order to live a good, humane life one needs to work! Work with love, with faith. But that's something we are unable to do. Having built two or three fine houses, the architect becomes a card player, plays for the rest of his life, or else spends it sitting backstage in the theater.
Anton Chekhov and His Times compiled by Andrei Turkov. 1995. Page 159.
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