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"Farewell my concubine"
From the collection of Anton chekhov's letters (1888)
You say that writers are God’s elect. I will not contradict you. Shtcheglov calls me the Potyomkin of literature, and so it is not for me to speak of the thorny path, of disappointments, and so on. I do not know whether I have ever suffered more than shoemakers, mathematicians, or railway guards do; I do not know who speaks through my lips - God or someone worse.
I will allow myself to mention only one little drawback which I have experienced and you probably know from experience also. It is this. You and I are fond of ordinary people; but other people are fond of us because they think we are not ordinary. Me, for instance, they invite everywhere and regale me with food and drink like a general at a wedding. My sister is indignant that people on all sides invite her simply because she is a writer’s sister. No one wants to love the ordinary people in us.
Hence it follows that if in the eyes of our friends we should appear tomorrow as ordinary mortals, they will leave off loving us, and will only pity us. And that is horrid. It is horrid, too, that they like the very things in us which we often dislike and despise in ourselves. It is horrid that I was right when I wrote the story "The First-Class Passenger," in which an engineer and a professor talk about fame
You say that writers are God’s elect. I will not contradict you. Shtcheglov calls me the Potyomkin of literature, and so it is not for me to speak of the thorny path, of disappointments, and so on. I do not know whether I have ever suffered more than shoemakers, mathematicians, or railway guards do; I do not know who speaks through my lips - God or someone worse.
I will allow myself to mention only one little drawback which I have experienced and you probably know from experience also. It is this. You and I are fond of ordinary people; but other people are fond of us because they think we are not ordinary. Me, for instance, they invite everywhere and regale me with food and drink like a general at a wedding. My sister is indignant that people on all sides invite her simply because she is a writer’s sister. No one wants to love the ordinary people in us.
Hence it follows that if in the eyes of our friends we should appear tomorrow as ordinary mortals, they will leave off loving us, and will only pity us. And that is horrid. It is horrid, too, that they like the very things in us which we often dislike and despise in ourselves. It is horrid that I was right when I wrote the story "The First-Class Passenger," in which an engineer and a professor talk about fame
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Forwarded from I'm thinking of ending things
خاورمیانهای بودن جالب نبود. هرچیزی رو هنوز صدای انفجار میشنوم.
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I genuinely cannot talk anymore cause I know if I open my mouth so many hateful shit will come out, its not even funny.
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Forwarded from Thy neighborhood Crow
"for that is love"
Love came not lightly, but with weight,
A shadow slipping through my heart's gate.
No bloom it brought, no merry, no song,
Just silence deep, and all things wrong.
Never a friend did Love appear,
But veiled in guilt, adorned with fear.
Its wine was bitter, dark, and deep,
It smiled with lies it couldn’t keep.
Among the lovers, love drew shame,
A silent sin, denied by name.
Among the kin, it wore a crown,
“Bow down,” it said, “be not your own.”
“If you love, then you obey;
Its will, not yours, must guide your way.
True Love,” they said, “is silent pain,
The more you bleed, the more you gain.”
So I drank that bitter wine,
And called it holy, called it mine.
And when I asked, ‘Was I enough?’
They chant back: “You mattered not_for that is love.”
#poem
Love came not lightly, but with weight,
A shadow slipping through my heart's gate.
No bloom it brought, no merry, no song,
Just silence deep, and all things wrong.
Never a friend did Love appear,
But veiled in guilt, adorned with fear.
Its wine was bitter, dark, and deep,
It smiled with lies it couldn’t keep.
Among the lovers, love drew shame,
A silent sin, denied by name.
Among the kin, it wore a crown,
“Bow down,” it said, “be not your own.”
“If you love, then you obey;
Its will, not yours, must guide your way.
True Love,” they said, “is silent pain,
The more you bleed, the more you gain.”
So I drank that bitter wine,
And called it holy, called it mine.
And when I asked, ‘Was I enough?’
They chant back: “You mattered not_for that is love.”
#poem