عيبعليك ايها الشاب!ربما كانت خطبتك مناسبة للمرحوم،ولكنها محض سخرية بالنسبة لشخص حى!ما هذا الذى قلته؟متفان،نزيه،لا يقبض رشاوى!هذا الكلام عن شخص حى ليس إلا سخرية
Anton ChekhovWhen a lot of remedies are suggested for a disease, that means it cannot be cured.
Anton ChekhovMots clés medical-treatment
If you are afraid of loneliness, don't marry.
Anton ChekhovВодката е бяла, но зачервява носа и очерня репутацията.
Anton ChekhovA infelicidade não une, mas separa os homens e, mesmo nos ambientes em que, parece, eles deveriam ficar unidos pela paridade do infortúnio, cometem-se muito mais injustiças e crueldades que num meio de gente relativamente satisfeita
Anton ChekhovMots clés sofrimento
At Oreanda they sat on a beach not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was barely visible through the morning mist; white clouds rested motionlessly on the mountaintops. The leaves did not stir on the trees, cicadas twanged, and the monotonous muffled sound of the sea that rose from below spoke of the peace, the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it rumbled below when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it rumbles now, and it will rumble as indifferently and as hollowly when we are no more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing advance of life upon earth, of unceasing movement towards perfection.
Anton ChekhovThere sprang up between them the light jesting conversation of people who are free and satisfied, to whom it does not matter where they go or what they talk about.
Anton ChekhovHow many happy, satisfied people there are, after all, I said to myself. What an overwhelming force! Just consider this life--the insolence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and bestiality of the weak, all around intolerable poverty, cramped dwellings, degeneracy, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lying...and yet peace and order apparently prevail in all those homes and in the streets. Of the fifty thousand inhabitants of a town, not one will be found to cry out, to proclaim his indignation aloud. We see those who go to the market to buy food, who eat in the daytime and sleep at night, who prattle away, marry, grow old, carry their dead to the cemeteries. But we neither hear nor see those who suffer, and the terrible things in life are played out behind the scenes. All is calm and quiet, and statistics, which are dumb, protest: so many have gone mad, so many barrels of drink have been consumed, so many children died of malnutrition...and apparently this is as it should be. Apparently those who are happy can only enjoy themselves because the unhappy bear their burdens in silence, and but for this silence happiness would be impossible. It is a kind of universal hypnosis. There ought to be a man with a hammer behind the door of every happy man, to remind him by his constant knocks that there are unhappy people, and that happy as he himself may be, life will sooner or later show him its claws, catastrophe will overtake him--sickness, poverty, loss--and nobody will see it, just as he now neither sees nor hears the misfortunes of others. But there is no man with a hammer, the happy man goes on living and the petty vicissitudes of life touch him lightly, like the wind in an aspen-tree, and all is well.
Anton ChekhovAs he was speaking, he kept reminding himself that he was going to a rendezvous and that not a living soul knew about it, or, probably, ever would. He led a double life--one in public, in the sight of all whom it concerned, full of conventional truth and conventional deception, exactly like the lives of his friends and acquaintances, and another which flowed in secret. And, owing to some strange, possibly quite accidental chain of circumstances, everything that was important, interesting, essential, everything about which he was sincere and never deceived himself, everything that composed the kernel of his life, went on in secret, while everything that was false in him, everything that composed the husk in which he hid himself and the truth which was in him--his work at the bank, discussions at the club, his 'lower race,' his attendance at anniversary celebrations with his wife--was on the surface. He began to judge others by himself, no longer believing what he saw, and always assuming that the real, the only interesting life of every individual goes on as under cover of night, secretly. Every individual existence revolves around mystery, and perhaps that is the chief reason that all cultivated individuals insisted so strongly on the respect due to personal secrets.
Anton Chekhovهذه هى المسالة فعلا.وهل معيشتنا فى المدينة ،فى الجو الخانق والزحام،وكتاباتنا لأوراق لا حاجة إليها،،ولعبنا الورق..أليس هذا علبة؟
وهل قضاؤنا لعمرنا كله بين كسالى،عاطلين،ونساء حمقاوات فارغات،وتحدثنا وسماعنا لشتى ألوان الهراء..أليس هذا علبة؟
« ; premier précédent
Page 5 de 30.
suivant dernier » ;
Data privacy
Imprint
Contact
Diese Website verwendet Cookies, um Ihnen die bestmögliche Funktionalität bieten zu können.