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Quote by Anton Chekhov

Work

The Collected Works of Anton Chekhov: Novellas, Short Stories, Plays, Letters & Diary: Three Sisters, Seagull , The Shooting Party, Uncle Vanya, Cherry Orchard, Chameleon, Tripping Tongue, On The Road, Vanka, Ward No. Six, Swedish Match, Nightmare, Bear, Reluctant Hero, Joy…

The Collected Works of Anton Chekhov is a seminal compilation that showcases the breadth and depth of Chekhov's literary contributions. It encompasses his renowned novellas and short stories, his influential plays, and personal correspondence. This collection provides a comprehensive view into Chekhov's artistic vision and his exploration of human emotions, societal norms, and the complexities of life. The works included are celebrated for their psychological insight and narrative mastery, making this collection a must-read for fans of Chekhov's work and for those interested in the history of Russian literature. more

Author

Anton Chekhov
Anton Chekhov

Anton Chekhov, born on January 29, 1860, was a prominent Russian physician and short story writer. His works are renowned for their profound psychological insights and critical portrayal of social realities. Chekhov's short stories have had a profound impact on literature both in Russia and around the world. more

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“How many million Aprils came before I ever knew how white a cherry bough could be, a bed of squills, how blue And many a dancing April when life is done with me, will lift the blue flame of the flower and the white flame of the tree Oh burn me with your beauty then, oh hurt me tree and flower, lest in the end death try to take even this glistening hour.”

“All the wild sweetness of the flower Tangled against the wall. It was that magic, silent hour.... The branches grew so tall They twined themselves into a bower. The sun shown ... and the fall Of yellow blossom on the grass! You feel that golden rain? Both of you could not hold, alas, (both of you tried, in vain) A memory, stranger. So I pass.... It will not come again.”

“Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trails its wreath; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure; But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?”