Friday, February 8, 2013

Dead, too, were trysts and moonlit nights, and white figures with slender waists, and mysterious shadows, and towers and parks, and such "types" as Sergei Sergeych and such as himself, Podgorin, with his cold boredom, constant annoyance, inability to adapt himself to real life, inability to take from it what it was capable of giving, the exhausting, aching thirst for what did not and could not exist on earth.                      
A Visit To Friends, Anton Chekhov