(no subject)
I don't know anything about Anton Chekhov.
Let me tell you a story.
When it comes to discussing russian literature, I have these coke-head inclinations to blabber endless philosophical rants. In Russia, during the first session of my contemporary russian literature class, we read Shadowed Paths by Bunin and I went off on this crazy rant about the book of Job (punishment sans crime) and shadowed paths as symbols for faith in retribution.
Anyway I was totally wrong in my analysis. Turns out Bunin believed in life having a climax, a moment of perfection that can never be recreated, and that after this moment, sane people should kill themselves because there's no hope for anything better than the memory of that single experience.
I felt very confident with my ranting and I was dead wrong.
Now I'm doing work on my ISP, trying to write about a good chunk of short stories by Chekhov, and I keep feeling inhibited by my experience with Bunin in Russia. I don't know how Chekhov thinks.. I suspect Ward No. 6 is supposed to be comical but have no real grounds for that idea. I can argue it, but it all depends of Chekhov's sympathy toward the brooding superfluous man.
So I'm just going to fucking go for it and write and hope not to get ass raped again by the author's predisposition.
P.S. I started listening to nothing but obnoxiously loud music. Like Van Halen.. REALLY LOUD.
Let me tell you a story.
When it comes to discussing russian literature, I have these coke-head inclinations to blabber endless philosophical rants. In Russia, during the first session of my contemporary russian literature class, we read Shadowed Paths by Bunin and I went off on this crazy rant about the book of Job (punishment sans crime) and shadowed paths as symbols for faith in retribution.
Anyway I was totally wrong in my analysis. Turns out Bunin believed in life having a climax, a moment of perfection that can never be recreated, and that after this moment, sane people should kill themselves because there's no hope for anything better than the memory of that single experience.
I felt very confident with my ranting and I was dead wrong.
Now I'm doing work on my ISP, trying to write about a good chunk of short stories by Chekhov, and I keep feeling inhibited by my experience with Bunin in Russia. I don't know how Chekhov thinks.. I suspect Ward No. 6 is supposed to be comical but have no real grounds for that idea. I can argue it, but it all depends of Chekhov's sympathy toward the brooding superfluous man.
So I'm just going to fucking go for it and write and hope not to get ass raped again by the author's predisposition.
P.S. I started listening to nothing but obnoxiously loud music. Like Van Halen.. REALLY LOUD.