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Ward No. 6 and Other Stories
Ward No. 6 and Other Stories, by Anton Chekhov, is part of the Barnes & Noble Classics (1899), as well as several lesser-known works, no less masterful in their composition. David Plante is a Professor of Writing at Columbia University. He is the author of many novels, including The Ghost of Henry James, The Family (nominated for the National Book Award), and The Woods. He has been a contributor to The New Yorker, Esquire, and Vogue, and a reviewer and features writer for the New York Times Book Review.
The cook's wedding --
The witch --
A dead body --
Easter Eve --
On the road --
The dependents --
Grisha --
The kiss --
Typhus --
The pipe --
The princess --
Neighbours --
The grasshopper --
In exile --
Ward No. 6 --
Rothschild's fiddle --
The student --
The darling --
A doctor's visit --
Gooseberries --
The Lady with the dog --
In the ravine --
The bishop.
The cook's wedding --
The witch --
A dead body --
Easter Eve --
On the road --
The dependents --
Grisha --
The kiss --
Typhus --
The pipe --
The princess --
Neighbours --
The grasshopper --
In exile --
Ward No. 6 --
Rothschild's fiddle --
The student --
The darling --
A doctor's visit --
Gooseberries --
The Lady with the dog --
In the ravine --
The bishop.
400 pages, Paperback
First published November 1, 1892
406 people are currently reading
8976 people want to read
About the author
Anton Chekhov
5,513 books9,561 followersDramas, such as
The Seagull
(1896, revised 1898), and including "A Dreary Story" (1889) of Russian writer Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, also Chekov, concern the inability of humans to communicate.
Born ( Антон Павлович Чехов ) in the small southern seaport of Taganrog, the son of a grocer. His grandfather, a serf, bought his own freedom and that of his three sons in 1841. He also taught to read. A cloth merchant fathered Yevgenia Morozova, his mother.
"When I think back on my childhood," Chekhov recalled, "it all seems quite gloomy to me." Tyranny of his father, religious fanaticism, and long nights in the store, open from five in the morning till midnight, shadowed his early years. He attended a school for Greek boys in Taganrog from 1867 to 1868 and then Taganrog grammar school. Bankruptcy of his father compelled the family to move to Moscow. At the age of 16 years in 1876, independent Chekhov for some time alone in his native town supported through private tutoring.
In 1879, Chekhov left grammar school and entered the university medical school at Moscow. In the school, he began to publish hundreds of short comics to support his mother, sisters and brothers. Nicholas Leikin published him at this period and owned Oskolki (splinters), the journal of Saint Petersburg. His subjected silly social situations, marital problems, and farcical encounters among husbands, wives, mistresses, and lust; even after his marriage, Chekhov, the shy author, knew not much of whims of young women.
Nenunzhaya pobeda , first novel of Chekhov, set in 1882 in Hungary, parodied the novels of the popular Mór Jókai. People also mocked ideological optimism of Jókai as a politician.
Chekhov graduated in 1884 and practiced medicine. He worked from 1885 in Peterburskaia gazeta.
In 1886, Chekhov met H.S. Suvorin, who invited him, a regular contributor, to work for Novoe vremya, the daily paper of Saint Petersburg. He gained a wide fame before 1886. He authored The Shooting Party , his second full-length novel, later translated into English. Agatha Christie used its characters and atmosphere in later her mystery novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd . First book of Chekhov in 1886 succeeded, and he gradually committed full time. The refusal of the author to join the ranks of social critics arose the wrath of liberal and radical intelligentsia, who criticized him for dealing with serious social and moral questions but avoiding giving answers. Such leaders as Leo Tolstoy and Nikolai Leskov, however, defended him. "I'm not a liberal, or a conservative, or a gradualist, or a monk, or an indifferentist. I should like to be a free artist and that's all..." Chekhov said in 1888.
The failure of The Wood Demon , play in 1889, and problems with novel made Chekhov to withdraw from literature for a period. In 1890, he traveled across Siberia to Sakhalin, remote prison island. He conducted a detailed census of ten thousand convicts and settlers, condemned to live on that harsh island. Chekhov expected to use the results of his research for his doctoral dissertation. Hard conditions on the island probably also weakened his own physical condition. From this journey came his famous travel book.
Chekhov practiced medicine until 1892. During these years, Chechov developed his concept of the dispassionate, non-judgmental author. He outlined his program in a letter to his brother Aleksandr: "1. Absence of lengthy verbiage of political-social-economic nature; 2. total objectivity; 3. truthful descriptions of persons and objects; 4. extreme brevity; 5. audacity and originality; flee the stereotype; 6. compassion." Because he objected that the paper conducted against Alfred Dreyfus, his friendship with Suvorin ended
Born ( Антон Павлович Чехов ) in the small southern seaport of Taganrog, the son of a grocer. His grandfather, a serf, bought his own freedom and that of his three sons in 1841. He also taught to read. A cloth merchant fathered Yevgenia Morozova, his mother.
"When I think back on my childhood," Chekhov recalled, "it all seems quite gloomy to me." Tyranny of his father, religious fanaticism, and long nights in the store, open from five in the morning till midnight, shadowed his early years. He attended a school for Greek boys in Taganrog from 1867 to 1868 and then Taganrog grammar school. Bankruptcy of his father compelled the family to move to Moscow. At the age of 16 years in 1876, independent Chekhov for some time alone in his native town supported through private tutoring.
In 1879, Chekhov left grammar school and entered the university medical school at Moscow. In the school, he began to publish hundreds of short comics to support his mother, sisters and brothers. Nicholas Leikin published him at this period and owned Oskolki (splinters), the journal of Saint Petersburg. His subjected silly social situations, marital problems, and farcical encounters among husbands, wives, mistresses, and lust; even after his marriage, Chekhov, the shy author, knew not much of whims of young women.
Nenunzhaya pobeda , first novel of Chekhov, set in 1882 in Hungary, parodied the novels of the popular Mór Jókai. People also mocked ideological optimism of Jókai as a politician.
Chekhov graduated in 1884 and practiced medicine. He worked from 1885 in Peterburskaia gazeta.
In 1886, Chekhov met H.S. Suvorin, who invited him, a regular contributor, to work for Novoe vremya, the daily paper of Saint Petersburg. He gained a wide fame before 1886. He authored The Shooting Party , his second full-length novel, later translated into English. Agatha Christie used its characters and atmosphere in later her mystery novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd . First book of Chekhov in 1886 succeeded, and he gradually committed full time. The refusal of the author to join the ranks of social critics arose the wrath of liberal and radical intelligentsia, who criticized him for dealing with serious social and moral questions but avoiding giving answers. Such leaders as Leo Tolstoy and Nikolai Leskov, however, defended him. "I'm not a liberal, or a conservative, or a gradualist, or a monk, or an indifferentist. I should like to be a free artist and that's all..." Chekhov said in 1888.
The failure of The Wood Demon , play in 1889, and problems with novel made Chekhov to withdraw from literature for a period. In 1890, he traveled across Siberia to Sakhalin, remote prison island. He conducted a detailed census of ten thousand convicts and settlers, condemned to live on that harsh island. Chekhov expected to use the results of his research for his doctoral dissertation. Hard conditions on the island probably also weakened his own physical condition. From this journey came his famous travel book.
Chekhov practiced medicine until 1892. During these years, Chechov developed his concept of the dispassionate, non-judgmental author. He outlined his program in a letter to his brother Aleksandr: "1. Absence of lengthy verbiage of political-social-economic nature; 2. total objectivity; 3. truthful descriptions of persons and objects; 4. extreme brevity; 5. audacity and originality; flee the stereotype; 6. compassion." Because he objected that the paper conducted against Alfred Dreyfus, his friendship with Suvorin ended
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February 5, 2025
Due to Anton Chekhov’s unique mastery a great many short story writers later literally followed in his footsteps.
There is a town… In the town there is a hospital… In the hospital there is a doctor… And there also is a very special ward…
Ward No. 6 seems to be one of the most merciless and dark story by Anton Chekhov. With his sharp eye he could see any psychological quirks and weaknesses in human nature and showed them to others with an implacable precision and at that he always managed to remain sympathetic towards a little man.
To be different is a disease… On the grey background you must be grey otherwise they will see you and you will be eaten.
There is a town… In the town there is a hospital… In the hospital there is a doctor… And there also is a very special ward…
And of all the inhabitants of Ward No. 6, he is the only one who is allowed to go out of the lodge, and even out of the yard into the street. He has enjoyed this privilege for years, probably because he is an old inhabitant of the hospital – a quiet, harmless imbecile, the buffoon of the town, where people are used to seeing him surrounded by boys and dogs.
Ward No. 6 seems to be one of the most merciless and dark story by Anton Chekhov. With his sharp eye he could see any psychological quirks and weaknesses in human nature and showed them to others with an implacable precision and at that he always managed to remain sympathetic towards a little man.
My only illness is that in twenty years I’ve found only one intelligent man in the whole town, and he’s mad. There is no illness at all, I simply got into a magic circle that I can’t get out of. It makes no difference to me, I’m ready for everything.
To be different is a disease… On the grey background you must be grey otherwise they will see you and you will be eaten.
January 29, 2021
مجموعة من ثمان قصص قصيرة بالإضافة إلى نوفيلا تحمل عنوان المجموعة
لم تكن القصص جيدة كما توقعت، ربما باستثناء قصة "البدين والنحيف" والتي وصفها عبدالوهاب مطاوع في بعض مقالاته وعثرت عليها أخيرا في تلك المجموعة، بالإضافة إلى قصة "المغفلة" .. النوفيلا كانت جيدة، بدأت بشكل يتسم بالبطء نوعا ما، حتى وصلت إلى الحوار الدائر بين الطبيب والمجنون والذي كان عبقريا وأشبه بمبارزة فكرية ممتعة، تمنيت فقط أن يكون أطول من ذلك، ثم النهاية المنطقية التي اضافت أبعادا أخرى للعمل
لم تكن القصص جيدة كما توقعت، ربما باستثناء قصة "البدين والنحيف" والتي وصفها عبدالوهاب مطاوع في بعض مقالاته وعثرت عليها أخيرا في تلك المجموعة، بالإضافة إلى قصة "المغفلة" .. النوفيلا كانت جيدة، بدأت بشكل يتسم بالبطء نوعا ما، حتى وصلت إلى الحوار الدائر بين الطبيب والمجنون والذي كان عبقريا وأشبه بمبارزة فكرية ممتعة، تمنيت فقط أن يكون أطول من ذلك، ثم النهاية المنطقية التي اضافت أبعادا أخرى للعمل
May 27, 2016
I finally understand why Chekhov has earned the title of undisputable master of the short story. He is a genius of brevity. Never had I encountered such eloquent, detailed descriptions, both physical and psychological, of characters in so few lines.
The seven stories in this volume put their emphasis on the gentry or on the professional class, with a preeminent recurrence of doctors as protagonists, which might have a direct correlation to Chekhov’s real life experiences, for he graduated in medicine before he became a self-supporting writer.
What most struck me about Chekhov’s narrative voice is the biting realism of the sketches he so dexterously portrays. They are horrifying precisely because of their familiarity, which is so reminiscent of everyday life. Empathizing character over plot, with a terse, almost laconic style, he evokes the complexities of the human psyche with a full palette of thematic patterns: lunacy, unfaithfulness, boredom, the tediousness that ails the accommodated middle class… he brings it all with an economy of language that leaves the reader rather stunned by time the plotline reaches a generally anti-dramatic conclusion, something that differs from other Russian writers like Tolstoy or Dostoevsky. Instead, there is a deadly tension in everything that has consciously been left unsaid until it’s too late to put amends to sloth, pride, delusional idealizations or merely the unfair business that life is.
Failure at communication between the flawed characters, which get transfigured from hero to villain in the span of a few pages, is at the core of the dissatisfying existence they lead.
Religion is treated with an incredulousness that borders distrust, just like art and the creative process, which are superficial means to escape a rather grey reality.
The action takes place in anonymous towns or cities and food holds a place of honor in almost every story.
Women are presented as deluded victims with second-rate minds that end up tricked by their misconceptions on love, passion and desire.
There is no preaching or overly moralizing undertone in Chekhov’s fluctuating prose, and yet one can’t ignore the careful symmetry, the sharp irony and self-criticism that permeate his stories.
In looking back to past memories, usually through the rose-tinted glasses of childhood, or in looking forward to a better future that won’t ever materialize, the characters of Chekhov’s haunting tales reflect an erratic, imperfect world where inabilities timidly blossom, only to gradually expand among those who care about them until they die a natural death that showcase their latent insignificance.
Cynicism dulls the pain, the narrator of "An anonymous story" warns the reader. Chekhov wasn’t a cynic, but he didn’t allow himself the luxury of living a parallel life made of false illusions. He was too observant, too pragmatic and too deliciously inconsistent and in love with aesthetics to indulge himself in such luxury.
The seven stories in this volume put their emphasis on the gentry or on the professional class, with a preeminent recurrence of doctors as protagonists, which might have a direct correlation to Chekhov’s real life experiences, for he graduated in medicine before he became a self-supporting writer.
What most struck me about Chekhov’s narrative voice is the biting realism of the sketches he so dexterously portrays. They are horrifying precisely because of their familiarity, which is so reminiscent of everyday life. Empathizing character over plot, with a terse, almost laconic style, he evokes the complexities of the human psyche with a full palette of thematic patterns: lunacy, unfaithfulness, boredom, the tediousness that ails the accommodated middle class… he brings it all with an economy of language that leaves the reader rather stunned by time the plotline reaches a generally anti-dramatic conclusion, something that differs from other Russian writers like Tolstoy or Dostoevsky. Instead, there is a deadly tension in everything that has consciously been left unsaid until it’s too late to put amends to sloth, pride, delusional idealizations or merely the unfair business that life is.
Failure at communication between the flawed characters, which get transfigured from hero to villain in the span of a few pages, is at the core of the dissatisfying existence they lead.
Religion is treated with an incredulousness that borders distrust, just like art and the creative process, which are superficial means to escape a rather grey reality.
The action takes place in anonymous towns or cities and food holds a place of honor in almost every story.
Women are presented as deluded victims with second-rate minds that end up tricked by their misconceptions on love, passion and desire.
There is no preaching or overly moralizing undertone in Chekhov’s fluctuating prose, and yet one can’t ignore the careful symmetry, the sharp irony and self-criticism that permeate his stories.
In looking back to past memories, usually through the rose-tinted glasses of childhood, or in looking forward to a better future that won’t ever materialize, the characters of Chekhov’s haunting tales reflect an erratic, imperfect world where inabilities timidly blossom, only to gradually expand among those who care about them until they die a natural death that showcase their latent insignificance.
Cynicism dulls the pain, the narrator of "An anonymous story" warns the reader. Chekhov wasn’t a cynic, but he didn’t allow himself the luxury of living a parallel life made of false illusions. He was too observant, too pragmatic and too deliciously inconsistent and in love with aesthetics to indulge himself in such luxury.
April 19, 2024
"I was going along not meddling with anyone, and all at once such an affliction."
Every story in this collection is a towering achievement, every one makes the case for Chekhov as the greatest short-story writer ever. All stories tie together to convey that human misery is a never-ending WHY. Why, even in the time of great rejoicing, a man cannot forget his sorrows? Why sit in comfort doing nothing? Why the nightingales don't sing tonight? Why does the heart grieve and refuse to listen to reason? Why does one want to weep bitterly? Why joke? Why lie? Why love? Why silence? Why misery?
A kaleidoscopic vision of the world as a suffering ward that turns people into cold-hearted lunatics crying, leaping, mumbling, screaming, lying simply to forget some miseries and remember some others.
Every story in this collection is a towering achievement, every one makes the case for Chekhov as the greatest short-story writer ever. All stories tie together to convey that human misery is a never-ending WHY. Why, even in the time of great rejoicing, a man cannot forget his sorrows? Why sit in comfort doing nothing? Why the nightingales don't sing tonight? Why does the heart grieve and refuse to listen to reason? Why does one want to weep bitterly? Why joke? Why lie? Why love? Why silence? Why misery?
A kaleidoscopic vision of the world as a suffering ward that turns people into cold-hearted lunatics crying, leaping, mumbling, screaming, lying simply to forget some miseries and remember some others.
February 2, 2015
Introduction
Further Reading
Chronology
Note on Text
Patronymics
--The Grasshopper
--Ward No. 6
--Ariadna
--The Black Monk
--Murder
--A Woman's Kingdom
--The Two Volodyas
--Three Years
--The Student
Publishing History and Notes
Further Reading
Chronology
Note on Text
Patronymics
--The Grasshopper
--Ward No. 6
--Ariadna
--The Black Monk
--Murder
--A Woman's Kingdom
--The Two Volodyas
--Three Years
--The Student
Publishing History and Notes
July 25, 2022
3,5*
Que agradável era estar imóvel, deitado no sofá, com a sensação de não haver mais ninguém no quarto! Sem solidão é impossível a verdadeira felicidade. O anjo caído atraiçoou provavelmente a Deus, porque sentia desejos de uma solidão que os anjos não conhecem.
Na obra “Figuras numa Paisagem”, Paul Theroux refere o conto “Enfermaria Nº 6” como sendo um dos preferidos do neurologista Oliver Sacks. Fiquei muito intrigada com a história tal como a contavam, a de um médico que é confundido com um dos doentes da ala psiquiátrica, mas ainda que seja igualmente assustadora, é intencional e não acidental a forma como o Andrei Efimich acaba compulsivamente internado.
Andrei Efimich não tem a mínima vocação para a medicina e exercê-la é para ele um sacrifício e uma inutilidade.
Além do mais, para quê impedir que as pessoas morram, se a morte é o fim normal e lógico de cada um? Que acontecia se um ricaço ou funcionário vivia 5 ou 10 anos mais? Se se considera que o objectivo da Medicina consiste em aliviar a dor, surge a pergunta: para quê aliviá-la? Em primeiro lugar, dizem que a dor leva o homem à perfeição. (...) Pushkin, na hora da sua morte, sofreu dores horríveis, o pobre Heine esteve paralítico vários anos. Então, por que razão não havia de padecer doenças qualquer Andrei Efimich ou qualquer Mastriona Savishna, cujas vidas não possuíam qualquer conteúdo e seriam completamente vazias e parecidas com as de uma ameba se não fossem os sofrimentos?
Feroz é a crítica a todo o sistema de saúde, ou não fosse o próprio Tchekov um médico que custeou os seus estudos escrevendo contos.
É na Enfermaria Nº 6 que Andrei Efimich conhece a única pessoa que o estimula intelectualmente, um homem internado por mania da perseguição, mas isso não é bem visto pela comunidade hospitalar, que segue o provérbio “diz-me com quem andas e dir-te-ei quem és”.
Não acredite! É um engano! A minha única doença é que depois de 20 anos não encontrei em toda a cidade mais do que um homem inteligente e esse está louco. Não há qualquer doença; apenas entrei num círculo vicioso de que não há saída.
Anton Tchekov é muito habilidoso a pegar em personagens fracas, desenxabidas e insatisfeitas e a dar-lhes alguma iniciativa ou uma breve hipótese de alterarem o destino aparentemente traçado. Não é em vão que é considerado um dos melhores contistas de sempre, mas creio que era mais refinado nas histórias protagonizadas por mulheres. Se “Dô-Doce” é uma mulher que só sabe viver apaixonada...
E comparava-se às galinhas, que também não dormem de noite e se sentem inquietas quando não há um galo na capoeira.
...a “Boticária” é uma esposa entediada num momento de coquetismo com um desconhecido...
- Que infeliz eu sou!- diz a boticária, olhando enraivecida o marido, que despe rapidamente o roupão para voltar para a cama. – Que desgraçada! – repete e, de repente, desata num pranto amargo. - E ninguém, ninguém sabe...
...enquanto a “Corista” se vê confrontada com a esposa do seu amante.
- Que é isso que me dá? – perguntou. – Não lhe estou a pedir esmola, mas o que me pertence... aquilo que você, valendo-se da sua situação, tirou a meu marido...a esse desgraçado sem força de vontade... Na quinta-feira, quando a vi na doca, com ele, você ostentava uns broches e pulseiras de grande valor. Portanto, não finja: não é um cordeirinho inocente. É a última vez que lhe peço: dá-me as jóias ou não?
A Enfermaria Nº 6 - 4*
Vizinhos – 4*
Dô-Doce – 4*
Um Assassinato – DNF
O Mendigo – 3*
Sem título – 4*
O adulador – 3*
A boticária – 4*
Uma corista – 4*
Que agradável era estar imóvel, deitado no sofá, com a sensação de não haver mais ninguém no quarto! Sem solidão é impossível a verdadeira felicidade. O anjo caído atraiçoou provavelmente a Deus, porque sentia desejos de uma solidão que os anjos não conhecem.
Na obra “Figuras numa Paisagem”, Paul Theroux refere o conto “Enfermaria Nº 6” como sendo um dos preferidos do neurologista Oliver Sacks. Fiquei muito intrigada com a história tal como a contavam, a de um médico que é confundido com um dos doentes da ala psiquiátrica, mas ainda que seja igualmente assustadora, é intencional e não acidental a forma como o Andrei Efimich acaba compulsivamente internado.
Andrei Efimich não tem a mínima vocação para a medicina e exercê-la é para ele um sacrifício e uma inutilidade.
Além do mais, para quê impedir que as pessoas morram, se a morte é o fim normal e lógico de cada um? Que acontecia se um ricaço ou funcionário vivia 5 ou 10 anos mais? Se se considera que o objectivo da Medicina consiste em aliviar a dor, surge a pergunta: para quê aliviá-la? Em primeiro lugar, dizem que a dor leva o homem à perfeição. (...) Pushkin, na hora da sua morte, sofreu dores horríveis, o pobre Heine esteve paralítico vários anos. Então, por que razão não havia de padecer doenças qualquer Andrei Efimich ou qualquer Mastriona Savishna, cujas vidas não possuíam qualquer conteúdo e seriam completamente vazias e parecidas com as de uma ameba se não fossem os sofrimentos?
Feroz é a crítica a todo o sistema de saúde, ou não fosse o próprio Tchekov um médico que custeou os seus estudos escrevendo contos.
É na Enfermaria Nº 6 que Andrei Efimich conhece a única pessoa que o estimula intelectualmente, um homem internado por mania da perseguição, mas isso não é bem visto pela comunidade hospitalar, que segue o provérbio “diz-me com quem andas e dir-te-ei quem és”.
Não acredite! É um engano! A minha única doença é que depois de 20 anos não encontrei em toda a cidade mais do que um homem inteligente e esse está louco. Não há qualquer doença; apenas entrei num círculo vicioso de que não há saída.
Anton Tchekov é muito habilidoso a pegar em personagens fracas, desenxabidas e insatisfeitas e a dar-lhes alguma iniciativa ou uma breve hipótese de alterarem o destino aparentemente traçado. Não é em vão que é considerado um dos melhores contistas de sempre, mas creio que era mais refinado nas histórias protagonizadas por mulheres. Se “Dô-Doce” é uma mulher que só sabe viver apaixonada...
E comparava-se às galinhas, que também não dormem de noite e se sentem inquietas quando não há um galo na capoeira.
...a “Boticária” é uma esposa entediada num momento de coquetismo com um desconhecido...
- Que infeliz eu sou!- diz a boticária, olhando enraivecida o marido, que despe rapidamente o roupão para voltar para a cama. – Que desgraçada! – repete e, de repente, desata num pranto amargo. - E ninguém, ninguém sabe...
...enquanto a “Corista” se vê confrontada com a esposa do seu amante.
- Que é isso que me dá? – perguntou. – Não lhe estou a pedir esmola, mas o que me pertence... aquilo que você, valendo-se da sua situação, tirou a meu marido...a esse desgraçado sem força de vontade... Na quinta-feira, quando a vi na doca, com ele, você ostentava uns broches e pulseiras de grande valor. Portanto, não finja: não é um cordeirinho inocente. É a última vez que lhe peço: dá-me as jóias ou não?
A Enfermaria Nº 6 - 4*
Vizinhos – 4*
Dô-Doce – 4*
Um Assassinato – DNF
O Mendigo – 3*
Sem título – 4*
O adulador – 3*
A boticária – 4*
Uma corista – 4*
October 23, 2019
Not so long ago, while reading Ward No. 6 I watched this pretty fresh interview on youtube with Lyudmila Ulitskaya and she said that she was rereading Ward No. 6 just about that time and her conclusion was that Chekhov hated people. She said some more things with which I agree but this particular thing about hating people - I disagree. I think he really saw through people, he was a great psychologist as a writer and he had a deep understanding of human nature. All through his life and his medical practice he saw a lot, to say the least. And he wrote about people just as he saw them - without covering ugly details, without having favourite characters, without all this writer's "make up". But through all the pessimism and hopelessness there's forgiveness. I don't see condemnation in his words, just a sad smile, if we are discussing Ward No. 6.
Chekhov is one of my favourite writers, but I don't read him too often, because he's just a bit too depressing.
Chekhov is one of my favourite writers, but I don't read him too often, because he's just a bit too depressing.
February 14, 2021
یک شهر سمی
یک جامعه بیمار
یک مرد دانا که میگویند دیوانه است!
عالی بود
یک جامعه بیمار
یک مرد دانا که میگویند دیوانه است!
عالی بود
March 6, 2019
Pirmoji pažintis su ponu Chekhov'u, kuri nei kiek nenuvylė ir kuri netgi sužadino susidomėjimą šiuo autoriumi.
Už ką tokie aukšti balai?
+ už filosofinį požiūrį į gyvenimą ir mirtį, kuris toks artimas manąjam. Stiprūs ir gilūs filosofiniai apmąstymai ir išgyvenimai, kurie palieka pėdsakus veikėjo mąstysenoje ir charakteriuose. Šiose novelėse veikėjai nuolat daugiau ar mažiau kenčia ieškodami prasmės;
+ už mintis, kurias vis žymėdavausi ir žymėdavausi. Citatos, kurios tiesiog vers permąstyti savo požiūrį, koreguoti jį, o kai kurias tiesiog nebus įmanoma nenorėti persirašyti kažkur;
+ už skaitymo malonumą ir jo išaukštinimą. Dabar paaiškinsiu - skaityti šią knygutę buvo tiek malonumas akimis, tiek sielai, o apie skaitymo išaukšinimą kalbama šioje knygoje - dauguma veikėjų yra apsiskaitę, inteligentiški žmonės, abejojantys esamo pasaulio realumu ir humaniškumu ir bandantys atsakymus ieškoti tarp knygos puslapių;
+ už komplikuotus veikėjus, kurie ieško prasmės, kovoja su šio pasaulio neteisybėmis, ir visuomenę, kuri atbuko kitų skausmui ir yra apatiški kenčiantiems žmonėms. Netiesiogiai keliamos šio kūrinio vertybės yra aktualios ir šiandienos žmogui;
+ už išsilavinusią ir inteligentišką žodyną, kuris kuria įtaigų ir įdomų pasakojimą, kuriuo negali nuoširdžiai nesižavėti.
Kadangi pastaruoju metu tik teskaičiau romanus, todėl žiupsnelis filosofijos, besislepiančios tarp šios knygos puslapių buvo tikra atgaiva sielai. Knyga šie tiek atsiduoda „451 Farenheito" aura, nors ir ne visiškai tiesiogiai - tikrai, manau, kad turėtų šios knygos gerbėjams patikti.
Už ką tokie aukšti balai?
+ už filosofinį požiūrį į gyvenimą ir mirtį, kuris toks artimas manąjam. Stiprūs ir gilūs filosofiniai apmąstymai ir išgyvenimai, kurie palieka pėdsakus veikėjo mąstysenoje ir charakteriuose. Šiose novelėse veikėjai nuolat daugiau ar mažiau kenčia ieškodami prasmės;
+ už mintis, kurias vis žymėdavausi ir žymėdavausi. Citatos, kurios tiesiog vers permąstyti savo požiūrį, koreguoti jį, o kai kurias tiesiog nebus įmanoma nenorėti persirašyti kažkur;
+ už skaitymo malonumą ir jo išaukštinimą. Dabar paaiškinsiu - skaityti šią knygutę buvo tiek malonumas akimis, tiek sielai, o apie skaitymo išaukšinimą kalbama šioje knygoje - dauguma veikėjų yra apsiskaitę, inteligentiški žmonės, abejojantys esamo pasaulio realumu ir humaniškumu ir bandantys atsakymus ieškoti tarp knygos puslapių;
+ už komplikuotus veikėjus, kurie ieško prasmės, kovoja su šio pasaulio neteisybėmis, ir visuomenę, kuri atbuko kitų skausmui ir yra apatiški kenčiantiems žmonėms. Netiesiogiai keliamos šio kūrinio vertybės yra aktualios ir šiandienos žmogui;
+ už išsilavinusią ir inteligentišką žodyną, kuris kuria įtaigų ir įdomų pasakojimą, kuriuo negali nuoširdžiai nesižavėti.
Kadangi pastaruoju metu tik teskaičiau romanus, todėl žiupsnelis filosofijos, besislepiančios tarp šios knygos puslapių buvo tikra atgaiva sielai. Knyga šie tiek atsiduoda „451 Farenheito" aura, nors ir ne visiškai tiesiogiai - tikrai, manau, kad turėtų šios knygos gerbėjams patikti.
August 13, 2017
Tchekhov foi para mim foi uma estreia no formato livro (só conhecia o autor do teatro).
Muito francamente, estava preparada para alguma dose de seca, mas fui surpreendida pela capacidade do autor de caracterizar personagens de forma muito completa e contar histórias com princípio, meio e fim em tão poucas páginas, que fiquei a perguntar-me como tal é possível. Tenho lido alguns livros com várias centenas de páginas, que não chegam aos pés deste, neste aspecto em particular.
Posto isto, não gostei igualmente de todos os contos. Aquele de que mais gostei foi, precisamente, o que dá título ao livro: a Enfermaria nº6. Por acaso é o mais longo e, quanto a mim, o mais bem conseguido. Também gostei bastante de Dô-Doce e de Um Assassinato. Depois houve outros em que apreciei a ironia, mas achei que acabavam de forma demasiado abrupta, como, por exemplo O Adulador ou A Boticária, a fazer lembrar um pouco o formato das fábulas.
Muito francamente, estava preparada para alguma dose de seca, mas fui surpreendida pela capacidade do autor de caracterizar personagens de forma muito completa e contar histórias com princípio, meio e fim em tão poucas páginas, que fiquei a perguntar-me como tal é possível. Tenho lido alguns livros com várias centenas de páginas, que não chegam aos pés deste, neste aspecto em particular.
Posto isto, não gostei igualmente de todos os contos. Aquele de que mais gostei foi, precisamente, o que dá título ao livro: a Enfermaria nº6. Por acaso é o mais longo e, quanto a mim, o mais bem conseguido. Também gostei bastante de Dô-Doce e de Um Assassinato. Depois houve outros em que apreciei a ironia, mas achei que acabavam de forma demasiado abrupta, como, por exemplo O Adulador ou A Boticária, a fazer lembrar um pouco o formato das fábulas.
January 29, 2023
خیلی خوب بود.... خییییلییییی 🥺🥺🥺😍💙
January 9, 2018
در ازای درد و رنج انسان، تلخ و مایه تاسفه که پایانِ زندگی چیزی بجز مرگ نصیبش نمیشه.
نه پاداشی و نه صحنهای شبیه به یک اپرا، با یه صخره با شکوه. در چنین پایانی بالاخره نوبت به موژیکها میرسه که بیان و دست و پای جنازه رو بگیرن، کِشون کِشون ببرنش به زیرزمین. البته اشکالی نداره، شاید اون دنیا خوشی نصیب ما بشه. اما ممکنه که به سایه تبدیل بشیم و برگردیم تا این کثافتا رو حسابی بترسونیم.
بعد از هجده سال با چخوف آشتی کردم.
قهر نبودیم، اما سراغی هم از هم نمیگرفتیم.
از دیدنت خوشحال شدم، چخوف عزیز.
نه پاداشی و نه صحنهای شبیه به یک اپرا، با یه صخره با شکوه. در چنین پایانی بالاخره نوبت به موژیکها میرسه که بیان و دست و پای جنازه رو بگیرن، کِشون کِشون ببرنش به زیرزمین. البته اشکالی نداره، شاید اون دنیا خوشی نصیب ما بشه. اما ممکنه که به سایه تبدیل بشیم و برگردیم تا این کثافتا رو حسابی بترسونیم.
بعد از هجده سال با چخوف آشتی کردم.
قهر نبودیم، اما سراغی هم از هم نمیگرفتیم.
از دیدنت خوشحال شدم، چخوف عزیز.
February 26, 2020
"Ward #6"
Outwardly, the horrific account of a sympathetic doctor losing his sanity as he exchanges on a regular basis with one of his patients.
You're done with this book in a couple of sittings!
Matching juke-box :
Piano Quartet in A minor For Piano and Strings Trio - Gustav Mahler
---------------------------
Salle No.6
Le récit glaçant d'un praticien en asile qui perd sa santé mentale, enfin, ce qu'on conçoit comme la santé mentale dans son établissement.
Le rythme est conduit de main de maître par Tchekhov.
Dans les enceintes :
Piano Quartet in A minor For Piano and Strings Trio - Gustav Mahler
Outwardly, the horrific account of a sympathetic doctor losing his sanity as he exchanges on a regular basis with one of his patients.
You're done with this book in a couple of sittings!
Matching juke-box :
Piano Quartet in A minor For Piano and Strings Trio - Gustav Mahler
---------------------------
Salle No.6
Le récit glaçant d'un praticien en asile qui perd sa santé mentale, enfin, ce qu'on conçoit comme la santé mentale dans son établissement.
Le rythme est conduit de main de maître par Tchekhov.
Dans les enceintes :
Piano Quartet in A minor For Piano and Strings Trio - Gustav Mahler
Read
July 28, 2011"El pabellón número 6"
Parece ser que Dostoyevski decía, de manera pragmática e irónica, que sólo sabía que no estaba loco porque no estaba encerrado en un manicomio. Chejov, en este extraordinario relato, nos sumerge en el inquietante carácter ubicuo de la locura al que la sociedad intenta hacer frente mediante el levantamiento de barreras que delimitan lo normal, lo racional, lo moralmente aceptable frente a lo Otro de la locura, una fuerza oscura aún no configurada por los mecanismos de poder social y por lo tanto peligrosa en tanto que factor perturbador del orden establecido potencialmente subversivo. El carácter discrecional del límite se pone de manifiesto en el personaje del médico, que pasa de ser la figura de autoridad en el pabellón a convertirse en un paciente más sometido al trato vejatorio del guardián. La señal de advertencia es clara: quien se atreva a indagar en las razones de la locura, quien socave los fundamentos de nuestra tranquilidad de conciencia perderá los privilegios de los normales y será encerrado con el estigma de loco.
La narración se abre a la manera clásica chejoviana, mediante sutiles pinceladas que muestran los conflictos morales (o su ausencia) en el interior de los personajes y plantean los claroscuros y las contradicciones de la realidad social. En las conversaciones entre el loco ilustrado y el médico (dos personajes quijotescos infectados por la enfermedad de la lectura) se desarrolla una vibrante lucha (¿de clases?) entre una actitud contemplativa hacia la vida y otra de transformación a través de la actividad política. Chejov es de una claridad absoluta a la hora de sacar a la luz lo que P. Bourdieu define como las condiciones de posibilidad social de la mirada contemplativa: el teórico puede mirar a la realidad de manera no comprometida porque “nunca ha sufrido; no ha hecho otra cosa que nutrirse de los sufrimientos ajenos, como una sanguijuela” y lo hace para defender sus intereses de clase porque esta “filosofía es la que más conviene a un haragán ruso”. Pero estamos a finales del siglo XIX y la conciencia de la clase oprimida empieza a despertarse y sin complejo de inferioridad afirma el encerrado que se considera “superior y más competente que usted [el médico] en todos los sentidos. No puede usted darme lecciones”. Y va aún más lejos afirmando, de forma visionaria y exaltada, que “resplandecerá la aurora de una nueva vida, la verdad triunfará y también nosotros tendremos motivos de celebración”. Entendemos por qué este relato impresionara en su tiempo al joven Lenin...
Pero lo más fascinante está por llegar porque en el desenlace de la narración el autor parece perder el control de sí mismo. Ese orden, ese equilibrio tan chejoviano en el que todo más que mostrarse se insinúa en su justa medida, se derrumba arrastrado por el torrente angustioso de la narración y el relato se transforma en una pesadilla misteriosa y escalofriante. Chejov convertido en Poe. El médico, engañado, es conducido al pabellón y allí se le encierra. Se entiende, el límite entre lo normal y lo otro es tan arbitrario e injusto que necesita de la astucia y del engaño para ejercerse. Pero el pabellón ya no es sólo el lugar del encierro en vida sino también la antesala de la muerte inminente. El médico desespera, intenta mostrar resistencia (me recuerda a esos relatos de Poe en los que se interesa por el intersticio entre la vida y la muerte, los últimos movimientos del cuerpo ya fallecido que se descubren al exhumar los cadáveres), pero ya está del otro lado, es un loco y casi un muerto, y no obtiene más que los golpes del guardián (el mismo guardián…) como respuesta. Entonces su compañero le hace comprender y al mismo tiempo le sentencia: “lo más ofensivo es que la vida no termina con una recompensa por los sufrimientos padecidos ni con una apoteosis, como en la ópera, sino con la muerte; vendrán los celadores, cogerán el cadáver por los pies y por las manos y lo llevarán al sótano”. Chejov otra vez Chejov, sobrio, concluye. “Llegaron unos celadores, lo cogieron por los brazos y por las piernas y se lo llevaron a la capilla”.
Parece ser que Dostoyevski decía, de manera pragmática e irónica, que sólo sabía que no estaba loco porque no estaba encerrado en un manicomio. Chejov, en este extraordinario relato, nos sumerge en el inquietante carácter ubicuo de la locura al que la sociedad intenta hacer frente mediante el levantamiento de barreras que delimitan lo normal, lo racional, lo moralmente aceptable frente a lo Otro de la locura, una fuerza oscura aún no configurada por los mecanismos de poder social y por lo tanto peligrosa en tanto que factor perturbador del orden establecido potencialmente subversivo. El carácter discrecional del límite se pone de manifiesto en el personaje del médico, que pasa de ser la figura de autoridad en el pabellón a convertirse en un paciente más sometido al trato vejatorio del guardián. La señal de advertencia es clara: quien se atreva a indagar en las razones de la locura, quien socave los fundamentos de nuestra tranquilidad de conciencia perderá los privilegios de los normales y será encerrado con el estigma de loco.
La narración se abre a la manera clásica chejoviana, mediante sutiles pinceladas que muestran los conflictos morales (o su ausencia) en el interior de los personajes y plantean los claroscuros y las contradicciones de la realidad social. En las conversaciones entre el loco ilustrado y el médico (dos personajes quijotescos infectados por la enfermedad de la lectura) se desarrolla una vibrante lucha (¿de clases?) entre una actitud contemplativa hacia la vida y otra de transformación a través de la actividad política. Chejov es de una claridad absoluta a la hora de sacar a la luz lo que P. Bourdieu define como las condiciones de posibilidad social de la mirada contemplativa: el teórico puede mirar a la realidad de manera no comprometida porque “nunca ha sufrido; no ha hecho otra cosa que nutrirse de los sufrimientos ajenos, como una sanguijuela” y lo hace para defender sus intereses de clase porque esta “filosofía es la que más conviene a un haragán ruso”. Pero estamos a finales del siglo XIX y la conciencia de la clase oprimida empieza a despertarse y sin complejo de inferioridad afirma el encerrado que se considera “superior y más competente que usted [el médico] en todos los sentidos. No puede usted darme lecciones”. Y va aún más lejos afirmando, de forma visionaria y exaltada, que “resplandecerá la aurora de una nueva vida, la verdad triunfará y también nosotros tendremos motivos de celebración”. Entendemos por qué este relato impresionara en su tiempo al joven Lenin...
Pero lo más fascinante está por llegar porque en el desenlace de la narración el autor parece perder el control de sí mismo. Ese orden, ese equilibrio tan chejoviano en el que todo más que mostrarse se insinúa en su justa medida, se derrumba arrastrado por el torrente angustioso de la narración y el relato se transforma en una pesadilla misteriosa y escalofriante. Chejov convertido en Poe. El médico, engañado, es conducido al pabellón y allí se le encierra. Se entiende, el límite entre lo normal y lo otro es tan arbitrario e injusto que necesita de la astucia y del engaño para ejercerse. Pero el pabellón ya no es sólo el lugar del encierro en vida sino también la antesala de la muerte inminente. El médico desespera, intenta mostrar resistencia (me recuerda a esos relatos de Poe en los que se interesa por el intersticio entre la vida y la muerte, los últimos movimientos del cuerpo ya fallecido que se descubren al exhumar los cadáveres), pero ya está del otro lado, es un loco y casi un muerto, y no obtiene más que los golpes del guardián (el mismo guardián…) como respuesta. Entonces su compañero le hace comprender y al mismo tiempo le sentencia: “lo más ofensivo es que la vida no termina con una recompensa por los sufrimientos padecidos ni con una apoteosis, como en la ópera, sino con la muerte; vendrán los celadores, cogerán el cadáver por los pies y por las manos y lo llevarán al sótano”. Chejov otra vez Chejov, sobrio, concluye. “Llegaron unos celadores, lo cogieron por los brazos y por las piernas y se lo llevaron a la capilla”.
February 17, 2021
“I will confess to you as a friend that in moments of depression I have sometimes pictured to myself the hour of my death. My fancy invented thousands of the gloomiest visions, and I have succeeded in working myself up to an agonizing exaltation, to a state of nightmare, and I assure you that that did not seem to me more terrible than reality. What I mean is, apparitions are terrible, but life is terrible, too. I don’t understand life and I am afraid of it, my dear boy; I don’t know. Perhaps I am a morbid person, unhinged. It seems to a sound, healthy man that he understands everything he sees and hears, but that ‘seeming’ is lost to me, and from day to day I am poisoning myself with terror. There is a disease, the fear of open spaces, but my disease is the fear of life. When I lie on the grass and watch a little beetle which was born yesterday and understands nothing, it seems to me that its life consists of nothing else but fear, and in it I see myself.”
“What is it exactly you are frightened of?” I asked.
“I am afraid of everything. I am not by nature a profound thinker, and I take little interest in such questions as the life beyond the grave, the destiny of humanity, and, in fact, I am rarely carried away to the heights. What chiefly frightens me is the common routine of life from which none of us can escape. I am incapable of distinguishing what is true and what is false in my actions, and they worry me. I recognize that education and the conditions of life have imprisoned me in a narrow circle of falsity, that my whole life is nothing else than a daily effort to deceive myself and other people, and to avoid noticing it; and I am frightened at the thought that to the day of my death I shall not escape from this falsity. To-day I do something and to-morrow I do not understand why I did it. I entered the service in Petersburg and took fright; I came here to work on the land, and here, too, I am frightened. . . . I see that we know very little and so make mistakes every day. We are unjust, we slander one another and spoil each other’s lives, we waste all our powers on trash which we do not need and which hinders us from living; and that frightens me, because I don’t understand why and for whom it is necessary. I don’t understand men, my dear fellow, and I am afraid of them. It frightens me to look at the peasants, and I don’t know for what higher objects they are suffering and what they are living for. If life is an enjoyment, then they are unnecessary, superfluous people; if the object and meaning of life is to be found in poverty and unending, hopeless ignorance, I can’t understand for whom and what this torture is necessary. I understand no one and nothing.”
“What is it exactly you are frightened of?” I asked.
“I am afraid of everything. I am not by nature a profound thinker, and I take little interest in such questions as the life beyond the grave, the destiny of humanity, and, in fact, I am rarely carried away to the heights. What chiefly frightens me is the common routine of life from which none of us can escape. I am incapable of distinguishing what is true and what is false in my actions, and they worry me. I recognize that education and the conditions of life have imprisoned me in a narrow circle of falsity, that my whole life is nothing else than a daily effort to deceive myself and other people, and to avoid noticing it; and I am frightened at the thought that to the day of my death I shall not escape from this falsity. To-day I do something and to-morrow I do not understand why I did it. I entered the service in Petersburg and took fright; I came here to work on the land, and here, too, I am frightened. . . . I see that we know very little and so make mistakes every day. We are unjust, we slander one another and spoil each other’s lives, we waste all our powers on trash which we do not need and which hinders us from living; and that frightens me, because I don’t understand why and for whom it is necessary. I don’t understand men, my dear fellow, and I am afraid of them. It frightens me to look at the peasants, and I don’t know for what higher objects they are suffering and what they are living for. If life is an enjoyment, then they are unnecessary, superfluous people; if the object and meaning of life is to be found in poverty and unending, hopeless ignorance, I can’t understand for whom and what this torture is necessary. I understand no one and nothing.”
January 15, 2019
Seguramente es uno de los relatos más oscuros de Chéjov, no por sí retrato de la condición humana sino por la desesperanza en las posibilidades de una vida plena que destila. La vida alrededor de un manicomio de una pequeña ciudad de provincias, en realidad un infierno anticipado, es un símbolo obvio de la marginación a la que la sociedad convencional somete al diferente. Pero el relato va más allá, prefigurando elementos kafkianos y surrealistas, distópicos, que se adelantan a gran parte de la literatura mejor del siglo XX.
December 14, 2014
!!بـیـماری مـن فـقـط ایـن اســت که پـس از بیـسـت سـال در تمــام این شـهر فقـط یـک مـرد دانا پـیـدا کرده ام و او هــم دیـوانه اسـت
July 21, 2020
Este livro só vem reafirmar a minha certeza de que, ninguém consegue penetrar nos recessos da alma, como os escritores russos.
October 8, 2024
This is the second of a fine three-volume edition of Chekov’s stories published by Penguin paperbacks. Each volume is arranged more or less chronologically, is annotated, and accompanied with a brief and often interesting account of the publishing history of each tale in the collection. One can clearly see how much Chekov has progressed from the earlier stories of vol 1!
Here are my (purely personal) ranking:
Ward No. 6 & Other Stories, 1892-1896 (368 pg.)
“The Black Monk” (1894) [5+] — the mystic
“Ward No. 6” (1892) [5] (novella) — Kafkaesque
“Ariadna” (1895) [5] — the misogynist
“The Two Volodyas” (1893) [4.5] — a nice little vignette
“The Gasshopper” (1892) [4]
“Three Years” (1895) [4] — long novella, charming, but vague
“A Woman’s Kingdom” (1894) [3.5]
“The Student” (1894) [3.5] - one of Chekov’s favorites
“Murder” (1895) [2]
Here are my (purely personal) ranking:
Ward No. 6 & Other Stories, 1892-1896 (368 pg.)
“The Black Monk” (1894) [5+] — the mystic
“Ward No. 6” (1892) [5] (novella) — Kafkaesque
“Ariadna” (1895) [5] — the misogynist
“The Two Volodyas” (1893) [4.5] — a nice little vignette
“The Gasshopper” (1892) [4]
“Three Years” (1895) [4] — long novella, charming, but vague
“A Woman’s Kingdom” (1894) [3.5]
“The Student” (1894) [3.5] - one of Chekov’s favorites
“Murder” (1895) [2]
November 8, 2020
Near perfection.
Perhaps one of the most comprehensive and meticulous examinations of how individuals navigate their world, in particular, because of the demands placed on them by their society. Each one of these stories considers a different reaction to the despair caused by societal and cultural standards, by the painful lesson of one's own choices, and the reminder of one's own insignificance; no matter how one responds to the unfairness -- or more aptly, the apathy -- of the world, the remainder is always the same.
If you believe that the answer of how to manage one's perspectives to mitigate the world's influence is to remove oneself spiritually and emotionally from the world and merely examine dispassionately and stoically: then, "Ward Six" may perhaps change your mind. How about intellectualising meaning, giving oneself to the purpose of ferreting out "truth"? "A Dull Story" shows that doing so may very well cause one to relinquish one's emotional connectivity. Perhaps instead, one needs to uphold family values? See: "In the Ravine". How about becoming a tourist, as Jarvis Cocker calls it, through the social classes to best understand the needs of the people? Eh... pay attention then to "My Life."
What each of these stories share in common is their unrelenting perspective of how impossible it is to live with integrity, to manage expectations, to connect, to love, to feel: and yet... they feel alive. They live and breathe as flawed human beings, prideful, and painfully foolish. Their choices are idiotic, bred oftentimes either by weakness of character or misplaced arrogance. But of the protagonists of each story, they also do it out of the absurd belief in humanity despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
Chekhov is an absolute joy and Ward Six and other Short Stories is a wonderful example of his mastery in the truth that fiction can provide.
Perhaps one of the most comprehensive and meticulous examinations of how individuals navigate their world, in particular, because of the demands placed on them by their society. Each one of these stories considers a different reaction to the despair caused by societal and cultural standards, by the painful lesson of one's own choices, and the reminder of one's own insignificance; no matter how one responds to the unfairness -- or more aptly, the apathy -- of the world, the remainder is always the same.
If you believe that the answer of how to manage one's perspectives to mitigate the world's influence is to remove oneself spiritually and emotionally from the world and merely examine dispassionately and stoically: then, "Ward Six" may perhaps change your mind. How about intellectualising meaning, giving oneself to the purpose of ferreting out "truth"? "A Dull Story" shows that doing so may very well cause one to relinquish one's emotional connectivity. Perhaps instead, one needs to uphold family values? See: "In the Ravine". How about becoming a tourist, as Jarvis Cocker calls it, through the social classes to best understand the needs of the people? Eh... pay attention then to "My Life."
What each of these stories share in common is their unrelenting perspective of how impossible it is to live with integrity, to manage expectations, to connect, to love, to feel: and yet... they feel alive. They live and breathe as flawed human beings, prideful, and painfully foolish. Their choices are idiotic, bred oftentimes either by weakness of character or misplaced arrogance. But of the protagonists of each story, they also do it out of the absurd belief in humanity despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
Chekhov is an absolute joy and Ward Six and other Short Stories is a wonderful example of his mastery in the truth that fiction can provide.
July 27, 2013
تشيخوف مرة أخرى ...أكثر ما يبهرني في تشيخوف أنه عابر للبلدان و القارات و الازمنة و حتى اللغة هذا هو سر الادب الحقيقي الانساني أدب لكل البشر بصفات و خصائص و هوية الكاتب و بلاده ...
العنبر رقم ستة قصة قصيرة رائعة الافكار رائعة الاسلوب بسخريته السوداء و بكل ما تحمله من الغليان و من الثورة الكامنة تحت قشرة هزيلة من اللامبالاة المجتاحةالجميع ...اعجبني رصد الواقع جدا بما يحوي من قسوة و فساد و سرقة و بلادة انسانية .... اعجبني رصد احباط الانسان المتمثل بشخصية الدكتور اندريه يفيميش الذي ادى الى تراجعه الاخلاقي نسبيا و تهاونه بالعمل اسوة بالجو العام في المدينة و المشفى و وصوله الى تبرير كل هذا بالعدمية و احتقار الالم اذا كلنا سننتهي الى الموت من غير رجعة و اعجبني بالمقابل نقد هذه النظرية القاسية عن طريق الافكار انسانية القائمة على الاحساس بالفرح و الالم و بالاخرين بما تحمله من ايمان فطري حقيقي بالله ( فلسفة الفقراء )على لسان ايفان ديمترتش احد مجانيين العنبر رقم ستة ثم المفارقة بتجريب الطبيب لهذا العنبر بالنهاية ....
كما و يعرض علاقة افكار الانسان و معتقداته بشخصيته و تجاربه بالحياة و مكانته الاجتماعية و لذلك يدافع كل واحد منا حسب منظوره الخاص للاشياء و قد تتغير الافكار بتغير الظروف و هذا ما حصل فعلا في نهاية القصة و أخيرا ليس هناك حد فاصل حقيقي بين الجنون و التعقل .... كل اختلاف عنا و كل ما لا نستطيع فهمه او لا نريد هو جنون من نوع ما المختلف عن الغوغاء أيضا يعد مجنونا و يستحق النبذ و أكثر لاسيما عندما تغيب الانسانية قليلا
قرأت القصة بالعربية و الترجمة ممتازة جدا
العنبر رقم ستة قصة قصيرة رائعة الافكار رائعة الاسلوب بسخريته السوداء و بكل ما تحمله من الغليان و من الثورة الكامنة تحت قشرة هزيلة من اللامبالاة المجتاحةالجميع ...اعجبني رصد الواقع جدا بما يحوي من قسوة و فساد و سرقة و بلادة انسانية .... اعجبني رصد احباط الانسان المتمثل بشخصية الدكتور اندريه يفيميش الذي ادى الى تراجعه الاخلاقي نسبيا و تهاونه بالعمل اسوة بالجو العام في المدينة و المشفى و وصوله الى تبرير كل هذا بالعدمية و احتقار الالم اذا كلنا سننتهي الى الموت من غير رجعة و اعجبني بالمقابل نقد هذه النظرية القاسية عن طريق الافكار انسانية القائمة على الاحساس بالفرح و الالم و بالاخرين بما تحمله من ايمان فطري حقيقي بالله ( فلسفة الفقراء )على لسان ايفان ديمترتش احد مجانيين العنبر رقم ستة ثم المفارقة بتجريب الطبيب لهذا العنبر بالنهاية ....
كما و يعرض علاقة افكار الانسان و معتقداته بشخصيته و تجاربه بالحياة و مكانته الاجتماعية و لذلك يدافع كل واحد منا حسب منظوره الخاص للاشياء و قد تتغير الافكار بتغير الظروف و هذا ما حصل فعلا في نهاية القصة و أخيرا ليس هناك حد فاصل حقيقي بين الجنون و التعقل .... كل اختلاف عنا و كل ما لا نستطيع فهمه او لا نريد هو جنون من نوع ما المختلف عن الغوغاء أيضا يعد مجنونا و يستحق النبذ و أكثر لاسيما عندما تغيب الانسانية قليلا
قرأت القصة بالعربية و الترجمة ممتازة جدا
January 24, 2012
Serious Book Club, my selection *5 out of 5 stars
Still have 3 stories to finish -
I have always hated short stories and Chekhov has cured me. From the first "The Cook's Wedding" and on I am mesmerized. The author can take any universal theme and work magic in a few pages while I have been reading books doing the same thing sometines badly in over 800 pages. Granted with most authors you are happy to read that many pages but with Chekhov it it satisfying that he addressed adultery or poverty in 30 pages openly and left you with a clear understanding of humanity. I almost feel as if I'm reading a dignified reality show of old Russia, almsot everything is touched on and one sees into the lives of all classes in facinating ways.
Chekhov's style was not to judge his characters of fiction, he did not wish to impose his will on anyone, but reading each story one cannot help forming an oppinion of the events laid out so expertly by the author.
When I finish I will give you my favorite's.
Still have 3 stories to finish -
I have always hated short stories and Chekhov has cured me. From the first "The Cook's Wedding" and on I am mesmerized. The author can take any universal theme and work magic in a few pages while I have been reading books doing the same thing sometines badly in over 800 pages. Granted with most authors you are happy to read that many pages but with Chekhov it it satisfying that he addressed adultery or poverty in 30 pages openly and left you with a clear understanding of humanity. I almost feel as if I'm reading a dignified reality show of old Russia, almsot everything is touched on and one sees into the lives of all classes in facinating ways.
Chekhov's style was not to judge his characters of fiction, he did not wish to impose his will on anyone, but reading each story one cannot help forming an oppinion of the events laid out so expertly by the author.
When I finish I will give you my favorite's.
May 30, 2019
عاقلتر از آنم که به این اثر فوقالعاده چخوف کمتر از چهار ستاره بدهم، اما فکر میکنم هنوز آنقدری عاقل نشدهام که پنج ستارهاش کنم. :)
1. هفت داستان کوتاه از آنتوان چخوف که اثر برجسته در این بین، اتاق شماره شش بود، حقیقتاً از بهترین تجربههای داستان خوانی من بود.
2. آثار دیگر به جز اثر اصلی، فراز و فرودهایی داشتند و یکی دو مورد از آنها از بقیه اندکی ضعیفتر بودند. اما علاوه بر اتاق شماره شش، که هدف اصلی من از خواندن کتاب بود، با چند داستان بسیار کوتاه (کمتر از بیست صفحه) برخوردم که حقیقتاً من را شگفتزده کرد.
3. اولین تجربه لذتبخش و موفق از برقراری ارتباط با نویسندگان سرزمین سرد روسیه، پس از یکی دو تلاش ناموفق و به بن بست خورده؛ یحتمل کم کم بتوانم بهتر با چخوف، داستایفسکی و سایر هموطنانشان ارتباط برقرار کنم.
1. هفت داستان کوتاه از آنتوان چخوف که اثر برجسته در این بین، اتاق شماره شش بود، حقیقتاً از بهترین تجربههای داستان خوانی من بود.
2. آثار دیگر به جز اثر اصلی، فراز و فرودهایی داشتند و یکی دو مورد از آنها از بقیه اندکی ضعیفتر بودند. اما علاوه بر اتاق شماره شش، که هدف اصلی من از خواندن کتاب بود، با چند داستان بسیار کوتاه (کمتر از بیست صفحه) برخوردم که حقیقتاً من را شگفتزده کرد.
3. اولین تجربه لذتبخش و موفق از برقراری ارتباط با نویسندگان سرزمین سرد روسیه، پس از یکی دو تلاش ناموفق و به بن بست خورده؛ یحتمل کم کم بتوانم بهتر با چخوف، داستایفسکی و سایر هموطنانشان ارتباط برقرار کنم.
April 19, 2025
“بی شک شما هم میدانید که در این جهان بجز مرحله عالی تظاهرات عقل بشری،همه چیز دیگر بی ارزش و بی اهمیت است. تنها عقل است که حد فاصل و سر حد بین انسانیت و حیوانیت به شمار میرود، بشر را اشرف مخلوقات جلوه میدهد و او را به مرحله کمال و مقام خدایی میرساند و او را که چون موجودات دیگر میمیرد، تا اندازه ای فناناپذیر و جاودان مینماید. از این رو، عقل یگانه سرچشمه لذات بشر به شمار میآید و چون ما در اطراف خود مردمان عاقل نمیبینیم و سخنان عاقلانه نمیشنویم، از هر گونه لذتی بیبهرهایم. درست است که ما کتاب میخوانیم اما کتاب بکلی با مکالمه زنده و معاشرت با مردم اختلاف دارد. اگرچه این مقایسه کاملا صحیح و درست نیست، ولی اجازه میخواهم بگویم که کتاب چون نت موسیقی، و گفتوگو و مکالمه مانند آواز است”
February 5, 2018
English title
: Ward No. 6
Note: the edition I've shelved is for the short story collection, but I read and reviewed only the singular story/novella.
Taking this off my short-stories shelf, because this is most definitely not a short story, but a novella. *Shakes fist* at goodreads for convincing me that this would be a much shorter read than it actually was! (Because I was reading on Kindle, I couldn't actually tell how long it was going to be...) Having said that it was utterly brilliant and I'm very glad to have read it.
My first thought on starting the novella was: why I have read so little Chekhov? I've seen some of his plays and know the general storylines to a lot of his most well-known works, but I can't really remember ever having sat down to read anything by him. I think the main reason for this is that Chekhov was such a prolific writer, and wrote so much, that I almost get decision fatigue when trying to decide what to start with. I picked this up as it themes on mental illness and treatment towards characters deemed to be "different" is something I am hopefully going to be writing about for the final semester of my undergrad. If this story hadn't sounded so perfect for that, then who knows how long it would have been before I'd finally have picked up a book by Chekhov.
Ward No. 6 is set in a provincial hospital and centres on the conflict between a mediocre and indifferent doctor, Andrei Efimich, and one of his mentally-ill patients, Ivan Dmitrii. Written in the 1890s, years before solid developments in clinical psychology, it's remarkable that Chekhov was able a story that discusses issues surrounding mental illness with such depth and insightfulness. Chekhov asks questions that are undoubtedly still relevant today; he questions what it is to be human, how does society judge us to be "mentally ill", how do we decide that one person is right (sane) and one person is wrong (insane), and what happens to those we deem "wrong"? We separate them from society, and whose benefit do you think that's really for? Certainly not the residents of ward no.6 themselves, perhaps for society as a whole. The doctor compares the hospital to the nearby prison, when in reality the inmates of both buildings are treated little differently in the wider, outside world:
Note: the edition I've shelved is for the short story collection, but I read and reviewed only the singular story/novella.
Taking this off my short-stories shelf, because this is most definitely not a short story, but a novella. *Shakes fist* at goodreads for convincing me that this would be a much shorter read than it actually was! (Because I was reading on Kindle, I couldn't actually tell how long it was going to be...) Having said that it was utterly brilliant and I'm very glad to have read it.
My first thought on starting the novella was: why I have read so little Chekhov? I've seen some of his plays and know the general storylines to a lot of his most well-known works, but I can't really remember ever having sat down to read anything by him. I think the main reason for this is that Chekhov was such a prolific writer, and wrote so much, that I almost get decision fatigue when trying to decide what to start with. I picked this up as it themes on mental illness and treatment towards characters deemed to be "different" is something I am hopefully going to be writing about for the final semester of my undergrad. If this story hadn't sounded so perfect for that, then who knows how long it would have been before I'd finally have picked up a book by Chekhov.
Ward No. 6 is set in a provincial hospital and centres on the conflict between a mediocre and indifferent doctor, Andrei Efimich, and one of his mentally-ill patients, Ivan Dmitrii. Written in the 1890s, years before solid developments in clinical psychology, it's remarkable that Chekhov was able a story that discusses issues surrounding mental illness with such depth and insightfulness. Chekhov asks questions that are undoubtedly still relevant today; he questions what it is to be human, how does society judge us to be "mentally ill", how do we decide that one person is right (sane) and one person is wrong (insane), and what happens to those we deem "wrong"? We separate them from society, and whose benefit do you think that's really for? Certainly not the residents of ward no.6 themselves, perhaps for society as a whole. The doctor compares the hospital to the nearby prison, when in reality the inmates of both buildings are treated little differently in the wider, outside world:
Раз существуют тюрьмы и сумасшедшие дома, то должен же кто-нибудь сидеть в них. Не вы - так я, не я - так кто-нибудь третий. Погодите, когда в далеком будущем закончат свое существование тюрьмы и сумасшедшие дома, то не будет ни решеток на окнах, ни халатов. Конечно, такое время рано или поздно настанет.(Note: please don't judge Chekhov's writing on my poor translation!!) Ivan questions why it has to be him that has lost his freedom and must be left to rot in the asylum. What right does society have to inflict such an existence on a person?
Once prisons and asylums exist, then there must be someone to live in them. If not you, me, and if not me, then someone else. In the distant future, when there are no longer prisons or asylums, then there will be neither bars on the windows nor hospital smocks. Such a time will come, sooner or later.
- А за что вы меня здесь держите?It's striking how observant and insightful Chekhov's writing is; he understands what it means to be human. He writes of a world as his characters and he himself sees it to be, not the world that we may wish to exist. Sometimes this gritty, dark realism is overwhelming, but I do see sparks of hope in his words as well, no matter how difficult and upsetting the experiences of his characters may be. The fact that he can write from the characters' perspectives in a way that makes the reader truly sympathise with them is remarkable in some ways. One character in particular I was not expecting to feel anything for, but by the end couldn't help feeling a rush of empathy for him. There is a poetic justice to his ending, but it is not a happy one, one that I have no doubt will haunt as I continue to ponder what Chekhov was observing in human nature.
- За то, что вы больны.
- Да, болен. Но ведь десятки, сотни сумасшедших гуляют на свободе, потому что ваше невежество не способно отличить их от здоровых. [...] Вы, фельдшер, смотритель и вся ваша больничная сволочь в нравственном отношении неизмеримо ниже каждого из нас, почему же мы сидим, а вы нет? Где логика?
- Why do you keep me here?
- Because you are ill.
- Yes, I'm ill. But dozens, hundreds of other madmen walk about in freedom, because your ignorance is incapable of distinguishing us from the healthy. [...] You, your assistant, caretaker and all the hospital scoundrels have morals far lower than ours, so why are we stuck here and you're not? Where is the logic?
July 27, 2016
این کتاب شامل 7 داستان از چخوف بود که یکی از یکی بهتر بود - بر اساس ویکی پدیا چخوف در طول حیاتش 700 اثر ادبی نوشته و من که شاید 20 داستان کوتاه بیشتر از او نخوندم باید بگم هیچکدام از داستانهاش متوسط نیست و همه عالی هستند معلوم نیست مغز چخوف این همه سوژه و شخصیت را از کجا می آورد و این همه داستان را چگونه به زیبایی می نویسد
حیف که این نویسنده عمر طولانی نداشته و در 44 سالگی فوت کرده است
حیف که این نویسنده عمر طولانی نداشته و در 44 سالگی فوت کرده است
August 17, 2025
راستی بین این هزاران نفر که بالا و پایین می روند، حتی یک تن هم پیدا نمی شود که به سخنان یو آن گوش بدهد؟
ولی جمعیت بی آن که به او توجه داشته باشد و به اندوه درونی اش اعتنایی کند در حرکت است.... اندوه وی بس گران است و آن را پایانی نیست. اگر ممکن بود سینه یو آن را بشکافند و آن اندوه طاقت فرسا را از درون قلبش بیرون کشند شاید سراسر جهان را فرا میگرفت اما با وجود این نمایان نیست و خود را طوری در این حفره کوچک پنهان ساخته است که حتی موقع روز با چراغ هم نمی توان آن را پیدا کرد.
«اندوه»
داستان :
اتاق شماره ۶
به دنبال خدمت
درباره ی عشق
کالای جاندار
داستان نقاش
اندوه
خودکشی (خون میخواهم!خون.)
اتاق شماره ی ۶:
داستان پزشکی که زندگی یکنواخت،کسالت بار در عین حال بی دغدغه ای داره.یک بیمارستان رو اداره میکنه و درمان مردم گاها فریب به کار میبره.
((راگین :گذشته از همه اینها وقتی مرگ را پایان عادی و طبیعی همه چیزها بدانیم، دیگر لزومی ندارد از مردن مردم جلوگیری کنیم. فرضاً اگر یک کاسب یا مستخدم اداره پنج سال یا ده سال هم زیادتر عمر کند چه استفاده ای از حیات او حاصل میشود.))
و یک بیمار مبتلا به پارانویا (گروموف)بستری در اتاق شماره ۶، انسانی با تفکرات فلسفی.
پزشک که از همصحبتی با مردم عادی به صحبت های با ایوان گروموف روی میاره و در این مصاحبت زمان از کف میده.
راگین زندگی رو پوچ و بی معنی و فاقد ارزش میدونه درصورتی که گروموف با اینکه در چهاردیواری تاریک و کثیف زندگی میکنه همچنان زندگی رو صاحب ارزش میدونه.
در آخر وقتی راگین در موقعیت سختی چون گروموف قرار میگیره نمیتونه تحمل کنه؟
به دنبال خدمت:
پزشک و بازپرسی در پی خودکشی یک مامور بیمه به دهکده ای دور از مسکو راهی میشوند. و در آنجا با تفاوت سختی زندگی افراد در اون دهکده ی دور افتاده با دو فرد تازه وارد که در بدو ورود حس بدبختی و ملالت میکردن رو میبینیم.
((سیترین به سخنان این پیر فرتوت گوش می داد و با خود می اندیشید که او دیر یا زود به مسکو مراجعت خواهد کرد؛ اما این پیرمرد بینوا تا آخر عمر در این دهکده ویران و دورافتاده می ماند و پیوسته باید در زیر بار فشار و زحمت توان فرسای زندگی آشفته و نابسامان خود رنج و مشقت برد. اما راستی در این اجتماع فاسد چه بسیارند از این پیران فرسوده و فرتوت که صدر نشینان ارزش انسانی برایشان قایل نیستند و آنها را چون بهایم می شمارند. این مردم رنجدیده با کسب یک نیم روبل و تحصیل استگانی عرق خشنود و راضی اند و با این اندیشه باطل و خرافی که ظلم و جور در این جهان پایدار نمیماند دلخوش دارند. اما سرانجام سیترین از شنیدن این سخنان ملول شد و دستور داد که فراش بستری از علف خشک برایش بگسترد.))
درباره ی عشق:
داستان عشق زندگی آلیوخین که مثل یک چرخ در دهکده دور خودش میچرخه .
آلیوخین: در عشق و دلباختگی جز در مورد مسائل عالی و والاتر قضاوت در مورد سعادت و فلاکت و عاقبت عشق بی معنیه؟
کالای جاندار:
داستان خیلی برام عجیب بود.
به بهانه ی یک عشق آرمانی زنی توسط معشوق خود از همسرش خرید میشود.در ازای صد و پنجاه هزار روبل بوگوروف لیزا همسرش و مادر فرزندش را در ازای پول و آمال و آرزوهایش میفروشد . گراخولسکی عشق رو تا حد یک معامله خرید و فروش تنزل میده. و درمیانه داستان شوهر سابق که اکنون به واسطه فروختن همسرش پولدار شده هرچند تصنعی گوی سبقت از گراخولسکی می دزده و لیزا علی رغم اینکه بخاطر عشق خود زندگی و خانه و فرزندش رو رها کرد تمایل به بازگشت دوباره پیش بوگوروف داره و بوگوروف دوباره و دوباره به واسطه پول و ملکی که گراخولسکی بهش میبخشد میدان رو ترک میکنه اما اینبار لیزا از گراخولسکی برای رسیدن به خانواده اش فرار میکنه و در آخر گراخولسکی ، لیزا و بوگوروف هر سه در یک خانه زندگی میکنند.
داستان یک نقاش:
داستان جدل یک نقاش که معتقده انسان ها نیاز به دواخانه و درمانگاه و مدرسه ندارند بلکه بهتر اون ها رو از کار زیاد سخت رها کنیم تا بتوانند روی رشد فکری و معنوی خود کارکنند و دختربزرگ(یک معلم) از یک خانواده شامل دو فرزند و مادر که در تلاشه که بتونه به مردم روستا برای داشتن یک زندگی بهتر کمک کنه.
اندوه:
داستان پیرمرد درشکه چی که پسرش رو از دست داده و کسی رو ندارم براش درد و دل کنه و مسافرانی که باهاش همسفر میشوند کوچک ترین توجهی به غم یک پدر که فرزندش رو از دست داده ندارند و خیلی ساده از این موضوع میگذرند.پیر مرد در آخر با اسب درشکه در اصطبل به دردودل مینشینه.
خودکشی:
جالب ترین داستان برای من خودکشی بود . مرد یک خانواده خسته و هلاک از مشکلات و درگیری ها در طلب یک تپانچه از آشنایان برای فیصله دادن به مصائب روزانه.
به درد و دل مینشیند و از سختی هایی که در روز از سر کار گرفته تا سفارشات خرید همسایه ها تا فردا دوباره سر کار سفره دل میگشاید و بلند میشود که راهی خانه شود با کوهی از وسایل سفارشات که باید تا خانه حمل کند و صاحب خانه موراشکین در این هنگام انگار نه انگار چندی پیش تولکاخوف قصد انهدام داشته سفارش میکنه که قفس قناری و چرخ خیاطی هم باخودت ببر.
دو داستان آخر رو من خیلی دوست داشتم
چخوف واقعا خیلی قشنگ میتونه احساسات رو از طریق متن منتقل کنه.
ولی جمعیت بی آن که به او توجه داشته باشد و به اندوه درونی اش اعتنایی کند در حرکت است.... اندوه وی بس گران است و آن را پایانی نیست. اگر ممکن بود سینه یو آن را بشکافند و آن اندوه طاقت فرسا را از درون قلبش بیرون کشند شاید سراسر جهان را فرا میگرفت اما با وجود این نمایان نیست و خود را طوری در این حفره کوچک پنهان ساخته است که حتی موقع روز با چراغ هم نمی توان آن را پیدا کرد.
«اندوه»
داستان :
اتاق شماره ۶
به دنبال خدمت
درباره ی عشق
کالای جاندار
داستان نقاش
اندوه
خودکشی (خون میخواهم!خون.)
اتاق شماره ی ۶:
داستان پزشکی که زندگی یکنواخت،کسالت بار در عین حال بی دغدغه ای داره.یک بیمارستان رو اداره میکنه و درمان مردم گاها فریب به کار میبره.
((راگین :گذشته از همه اینها وقتی مرگ را پایان عادی و طبیعی همه چیزها بدانیم، دیگر لزومی ندارد از مردن مردم جلوگیری کنیم. فرضاً اگر یک کاسب یا مستخدم اداره پنج سال یا ده سال هم زیادتر عمر کند چه استفاده ای از حیات او حاصل میشود.))
و یک بیمار مبتلا به پارانویا (گروموف)بستری در اتاق شماره ۶، انسانی با تفکرات فلسفی.
پزشک که از همصحبتی با مردم عادی به صحبت های با ایوان گروموف روی میاره و در این مصاحبت زمان از کف میده.
راگین زندگی رو پوچ و بی معنی و فاقد ارزش میدونه درصورتی که گروموف با اینکه در چهاردیواری تاریک و کثیف زندگی میکنه همچنان زندگی رو صاحب ارزش میدونه.
در آخر وقتی راگین در موقعیت سختی چون گروموف قرار میگیره نمیتونه تحمل کنه؟
به دنبال خدمت:
پزشک و بازپرسی در پی خودکشی یک مامور بیمه به دهکده ای دور از مسکو راهی میشوند. و در آنجا با تفاوت سختی زندگی افراد در اون دهکده ی دور افتاده با دو فرد تازه وارد که در بدو ورود حس بدبختی و ملالت میکردن رو میبینیم.
((سیترین به سخنان این پیر فرتوت گوش می داد و با خود می اندیشید که او دیر یا زود به مسکو مراجعت خواهد کرد؛ اما این پیرمرد بینوا تا آخر عمر در این دهکده ویران و دورافتاده می ماند و پیوسته باید در زیر بار فشار و زحمت توان فرسای زندگی آشفته و نابسامان خود رنج و مشقت برد. اما راستی در این اجتماع فاسد چه بسیارند از این پیران فرسوده و فرتوت که صدر نشینان ارزش انسانی برایشان قایل نیستند و آنها را چون بهایم می شمارند. این مردم رنجدیده با کسب یک نیم روبل و تحصیل استگانی عرق خشنود و راضی اند و با این اندیشه باطل و خرافی که ظلم و جور در این جهان پایدار نمیماند دلخوش دارند. اما سرانجام سیترین از شنیدن این سخنان ملول شد و دستور داد که فراش بستری از علف خشک برایش بگسترد.))
درباره ی عشق:
داستان عشق زندگی آلیوخین که مثل یک چرخ در دهکده دور خودش میچرخه .
آلیوخین: در عشق و دلباختگی جز در مورد مسائل عالی و والاتر قضاوت در مورد سعادت و فلاکت و عاقبت عشق بی معنیه؟
کالای جاندار:
داستان خیلی برام عجیب بود.
به بهانه ی یک عشق آرمانی زنی توسط معشوق خود از همسرش خرید میشود.در ازای صد و پنجاه هزار روبل بوگوروف لیزا همسرش و مادر فرزندش را در ازای پول و آمال و آرزوهایش میفروشد . گراخولسکی عشق رو تا حد یک معامله خرید و فروش تنزل میده. و درمیانه داستان شوهر سابق که اکنون به واسطه فروختن همسرش پولدار شده هرچند تصنعی گوی سبقت از گراخولسکی می دزده و لیزا علی رغم اینکه بخاطر عشق خود زندگی و خانه و فرزندش رو رها کرد تمایل به بازگشت دوباره پیش بوگوروف داره و بوگوروف دوباره و دوباره به واسطه پول و ملکی که گراخولسکی بهش میبخشد میدان رو ترک میکنه اما اینبار لیزا از گراخولسکی برای رسیدن به خانواده اش فرار میکنه و در آخر گراخولسکی ، لیزا و بوگوروف هر سه در یک خانه زندگی میکنند.
داستان یک نقاش:
داستان جدل یک نقاش که معتقده انسان ها نیاز به دواخانه و درمانگاه و مدرسه ندارند بلکه بهتر اون ها رو از کار زیاد سخت رها کنیم تا بتوانند روی رشد فکری و معنوی خود کارکنند و دختربزرگ(یک معلم) از یک خانواده شامل دو فرزند و مادر که در تلاشه که بتونه به مردم روستا برای داشتن یک زندگی بهتر کمک کنه.
اندوه:
داستان پیرمرد درشکه چی که پسرش رو از دست داده و کسی رو ندارم براش درد و دل کنه و مسافرانی که باهاش همسفر میشوند کوچک ترین توجهی به غم یک پدر که فرزندش رو از دست داده ندارند و خیلی ساده از این موضوع میگذرند.پیر مرد در آخر با اسب درشکه در اصطبل به دردودل مینشینه.
خودکشی:
جالب ترین داستان برای من خودکشی بود . مرد یک خانواده خسته و هلاک از مشکلات و درگیری ها در طلب یک تپانچه از آشنایان برای فیصله دادن به مصائب روزانه.
به درد و دل مینشیند و از سختی هایی که در روز از سر کار گرفته تا سفارشات خرید همسایه ها تا فردا دوباره سر کار سفره دل میگشاید و بلند میشود که راهی خانه شود با کوهی از وسایل سفارشات که باید تا خانه حمل کند و صاحب خانه موراشکین در این هنگام انگار نه انگار چندی پیش تولکاخوف قصد انهدام داشته سفارش میکنه که قفس قناری و چرخ خیاطی هم باخودت ببر.
دو داستان آخر رو من خیلی دوست داشتم
چخوف واقعا خیلی قشنگ میتونه احساسات رو از طریق متن منتقل کنه.
March 26, 2024
Pobrecito chejov estaba muy triste con la vida, le hacia falta un abrazo y un chocolatito caliente. Pero que bien escribe, es sincero y simple, me dejo pensativa en el tren.
June 26, 2025
Anton,
I received your picture; Hina is comfortable in the crook of your arm. A week ago there was a small blizzard in the hills. You would have found it spectacular, dragging Hina through three-foot snow drifts.
It has taken months to read your stories. I could blame my eyesight but that would be a lie. I have a tendency to pause, collect my thoughts, look out the window -- one evening I saw a pudgy pigeon -- and fall asleep. Dreams would follow, carrying your stories with them.
Some of my thoughts are on the verge of insightful: others nonsensical.
Take them as they are, regardless of their lack of ingenuity. I stand by my ignorance dressed in mediocre, yet --
You and Hina look happy.
Have curious days,
Mr. James
--------------------------------------------
The Cook's Wedding: Within six pages Chekhov depicts authentic characters and dialogue wrapped in a memorable story. It's a precise rendering of women's oppression in the late 19th century.
The Witch: The imagery gives you goosebumps: blustery wind, snow on a flushed face, and the warmth of a fire. Bitterness and cold are represented in the “witch," who must endure psychological abuse from an insecure husband. Only at the onset of losing her does he realize what he’s done.
A Dead Body: Two peasants keep vigil over a dead body for three days. In four and a half pages Chekhov's message is clear: death does not discriminate and neither does corruption.
Easter Eve: A man crosses the Goltva river to attend an Easter Eve festival. The monk steering the ferry laments the death of his friend and mentor -- he can’t attend the festival since he operates the ferry. At the festival, the narrator notices the crowd is ignoring the fireworks, a spectacle the monk would adore. Chekhov shows how loss and grief attack an innocent heart. He also plays with light and dark: the night sky ablaze with fireworks, then as the rising sun approaches, the mystique of the night disappears.
On the Road: Descriptive native: if done poorly, the pictures clutter, leaving little “imagination oxygen” -- as I like to say. The story is set at a tavern; the characters are in the travelers’ room. Chekov eloquently sets the stage with characters trapped inside as a snowstorm rages -- it feels like a one-act play. Chekhov’s descriptions are paintings penned with words -- the visualization was natural: not forced.
I was sitting in the back corner of the tavern, hidden from lamp light, cloaked in shadows, drinking a pint; the play was stunning. This was achieved in two and a half pages. Chekov proves that teleportation is possible. It’s a reminder: we lie to ourselves in order to survive.
The Dependents: The cast: one mangy dog, one decrepit horse, and one embittered old man -- now marry the three. The man is filled with physical and psychological pain. The hardships of poverty have broken him; feeding his animals is a nightmarish burden. His dependents are a diseased dog and starving horse: neglect illustrates character.
Grisha: Grisha is a two and a half year old toddler. His universe grows from a nursery to the expanding -- and seemingly endless --landscape. “Out there” there are several "mammas" and "nurses" and everything is ready to be taken; when little Grisha waddles home, a tragic comedy is showcased. The world outside is ugly, but occasionally… adorable.
The Kiss: A war weary brigade looks for respite in a local town. They have traveled across a war infested land. The local Letinutent General offers the soldiers a night of food and comradery at his home.
The men are received by the General's family. The home is opulent, a stark contrast to the unit's disheveled appearance. It's filled with visitors, all of which convey annoyance at the brigade's intrusion. However, tensions relax: food and wine are severed; all engage in a night of merriment. All, except one.
The lone soldier, the outsider, the socially awkward warrior, stands aside, and takes the narrative. He quietly observes his hosts and comrades. He explores the house, enters a darkened room, and is kissed by a woman he can't see. She withdraws, knowing from touch this man was not the one she expected.
Typus: Lieutenant Klimov travels to Moscow by train; his agitation towards people attest to his prejudices. His intolerance stems from the suggestive story title: disease and sickness alter one's nature. I've never had typus; yet the story convinced me otherwise. It has an impactful and unexpected conclusion.
The Pipe: "Back in my day,” is a lovely idiom: it's gratifying when it’s your turn to use it. Nevertheless, A man who wants the past will ruin the present, and undoubtable handicap the future. "He still wanted to think of something which had not yet been touched by death."
The Princess: A delusional Princess conceals her true "self" through status and privilege -- she creates a fictional "me" to survive. When the metaphorically fog clears the Princess doesn't like the view. What would one do in this circumstance? -- probably return to the mist.
Neighbors: Let’s tell a story about loss. A man is driven to find his estranged sister: resentment and fear are his playmates. Ask yourself, is he angry about his sister leaving? or bitter because he didn't do it first?
Grasshopper: "Mr. Chekhov, you have a marvelous sense of humor," I say, while shaking your hand so vigorously your spectacles fall off.
Artists have inflated egos and delusions of grandeur. Checov says, “Back off bro.”
The story is hysterical and dark. A woman artist marries a "simple" doctor; her artist friends wonder, Why marry beneath you? A simple credo: artistic creation exceeds medical advancement. Chekov is reminding us to stay humble. Subjective truth: Value is where we place it.
In Exile It serves as a warning: beware of want.
Ward No 6: I've been wanting to read this since 2004, says the faded receipt tucked between the last page and back cover.
This novella addresses the conditions of mental institutions without flinching. It opens with an absorbing second person POV, which has you walking towards Ward No. 6, a dilapidated lodge on the grounds of an insane asylum.
It’s about the growing relationship between a doctor and a sophisticated patient. Fyodor Dostoevsky is summoned; and his philosophy comes into play: suffering heightens life, those that lack it don't live. In other words: the privileged who have never suffered a day in their life, can't understand what it means to live. How can you know joy without pain?
*It's also a commentary on how individuals with intelligence are neglected, ignored, and abused if they don't meet social expectations.
--------------------------------------------
*"The smartest man I knew dropped out of middle school and was a self made carpenter; the dumbest had a doctorate - a scholar that lived in a castle made of jade," Mr. James says to an audience that's left the theater.
Rothschild's Fiddle: What did you lose? Is it in a cardboard box labeled: Lost & Found? What was it? Did you look under your bed? "Sorry, just dirty dishes. Forgot about that peanut butter sandwich." Are you sure you lost something? Perhaps a phone: Pinterest lock screen? "No." [...] I understand now. The loss is out there: somewhere; between the new synagogue and the old cemetery.
The Student: realizes words from 1912, scribbled in a loose leaf notebook, resemble a text message from 2054.
The Darling: The theater; that's where you belong. You can play any part... Yes, costumes get musty. How about the timber trade? Calculations! And making pieces fit! I know, dry rot is unforgiving. Animals then... you could be a veterinarian. You have the touch. True, arthritis. My dear, what then. What do you want? Oh... I see... OK. But first tell me why.
A Doctor's Visit: The doctor walks through the tenant buildings, touching the top button of his morning coat every eleventh step, and stops just outside the factory; smoke billows from the farthest stack. He whispers, "All of these improvements," he thumbs the button on his coat, "all of these improvements... are nothing but incurable diseases."
Gooseberries: A man wears a heavy overcoat on a hot day; his undershirt is soaked with sweat. With his left hand he reaches into his right pocket, pulls out a handful of gooseberries and shoves them into his mouth. His face pukers and he spits them out -- his palm is stained red. He steps back as a peasant woman passes, kneels, and picks up the berries. Once she is gone he licks his palm.
The Lady with the Dog: The beast pulls southwest, on a leash made from braided rope; your father's Derby shoes are broken. He pisses on flag poles and shits on Ms. Sheber's tomatoes, taking breaks to scratch his mange and turn to growl. Die, you think: an Eldorado passes, backfires, startles -- the rope falls from your hand. The beast sprints down Tender St.; the clicks on tarmac fade and disappear.
In the Ravine: You're looking scruff... stand straight... that forearm hangs loose: stand still. (SNAP!) Don't grimace; it's unbecoming. That ankle needs fixing; time is small -- later perhaps; you're pretty. Take this plate of caviar and feed it to your husband. The caviar, not the plate. When he smiles, nod. You'll be stuck in the ravine, but when he comes to your chamber, he'll realize, so is he.
The Bishop: Bret had been an altar boy for two weeks. Two hours before mass he went into Sacristy and opened a cardboard box filled with bags of unconsecrated hosts. Bret stuffed several into his backpack, opened one and ate ravenously; when he stood Father Cliff appeared, holding a bottle of wine. With slurred speech he said, "This," he paused, taping the bottle, "is mine."
---------------------------------
“You are right in demanding that an artist should take an intelligent attitude to his work, but you confuse two things: solving a problem and stating a problem correctly. It is only the second that is obligatory for the artist.”― Anton Chekhov
I received your picture; Hina is comfortable in the crook of your arm. A week ago there was a small blizzard in the hills. You would have found it spectacular, dragging Hina through three-foot snow drifts.
It has taken months to read your stories. I could blame my eyesight but that would be a lie. I have a tendency to pause, collect my thoughts, look out the window -- one evening I saw a pudgy pigeon -- and fall asleep. Dreams would follow, carrying your stories with them.
Some of my thoughts are on the verge of insightful: others nonsensical.
Take them as they are, regardless of their lack of ingenuity. I stand by my ignorance dressed in mediocre, yet --
You and Hina look happy.
Have curious days,
Mr. James
--------------------------------------------
The Cook's Wedding: Within six pages Chekhov depicts authentic characters and dialogue wrapped in a memorable story. It's a precise rendering of women's oppression in the late 19th century.
The Witch: The imagery gives you goosebumps: blustery wind, snow on a flushed face, and the warmth of a fire. Bitterness and cold are represented in the “witch," who must endure psychological abuse from an insecure husband. Only at the onset of losing her does he realize what he’s done.
A Dead Body: Two peasants keep vigil over a dead body for three days. In four and a half pages Chekhov's message is clear: death does not discriminate and neither does corruption.
Easter Eve: A man crosses the Goltva river to attend an Easter Eve festival. The monk steering the ferry laments the death of his friend and mentor -- he can’t attend the festival since he operates the ferry. At the festival, the narrator notices the crowd is ignoring the fireworks, a spectacle the monk would adore. Chekhov shows how loss and grief attack an innocent heart. He also plays with light and dark: the night sky ablaze with fireworks, then as the rising sun approaches, the mystique of the night disappears.
On the Road: Descriptive native: if done poorly, the pictures clutter, leaving little “imagination oxygen” -- as I like to say. The story is set at a tavern; the characters are in the travelers’ room. Chekov eloquently sets the stage with characters trapped inside as a snowstorm rages -- it feels like a one-act play. Chekhov’s descriptions are paintings penned with words -- the visualization was natural: not forced.
I was sitting in the back corner of the tavern, hidden from lamp light, cloaked in shadows, drinking a pint; the play was stunning. This was achieved in two and a half pages. Chekov proves that teleportation is possible. It’s a reminder: we lie to ourselves in order to survive.
The Dependents: The cast: one mangy dog, one decrepit horse, and one embittered old man -- now marry the three. The man is filled with physical and psychological pain. The hardships of poverty have broken him; feeding his animals is a nightmarish burden. His dependents are a diseased dog and starving horse: neglect illustrates character.
Grisha: Grisha is a two and a half year old toddler. His universe grows from a nursery to the expanding -- and seemingly endless --landscape. “Out there” there are several "mammas" and "nurses" and everything is ready to be taken; when little Grisha waddles home, a tragic comedy is showcased. The world outside is ugly, but occasionally… adorable.
The Kiss: A war weary brigade looks for respite in a local town. They have traveled across a war infested land. The local Letinutent General offers the soldiers a night of food and comradery at his home.
The men are received by the General's family. The home is opulent, a stark contrast to the unit's disheveled appearance. It's filled with visitors, all of which convey annoyance at the brigade's intrusion. However, tensions relax: food and wine are severed; all engage in a night of merriment. All, except one.
The lone soldier, the outsider, the socially awkward warrior, stands aside, and takes the narrative. He quietly observes his hosts and comrades. He explores the house, enters a darkened room, and is kissed by a woman he can't see. She withdraws, knowing from touch this man was not the one she expected.
Typus: Lieutenant Klimov travels to Moscow by train; his agitation towards people attest to his prejudices. His intolerance stems from the suggestive story title: disease and sickness alter one's nature. I've never had typus; yet the story convinced me otherwise. It has an impactful and unexpected conclusion.
The Pipe: "Back in my day,” is a lovely idiom: it's gratifying when it’s your turn to use it. Nevertheless, A man who wants the past will ruin the present, and undoubtable handicap the future. "He still wanted to think of something which had not yet been touched by death."
The Princess: A delusional Princess conceals her true "self" through status and privilege -- she creates a fictional "me" to survive. When the metaphorically fog clears the Princess doesn't like the view. What would one do in this circumstance? -- probably return to the mist.
Neighbors: Let’s tell a story about loss. A man is driven to find his estranged sister: resentment and fear are his playmates. Ask yourself, is he angry about his sister leaving? or bitter because he didn't do it first?
Grasshopper: "Mr. Chekhov, you have a marvelous sense of humor," I say, while shaking your hand so vigorously your spectacles fall off.
Artists have inflated egos and delusions of grandeur. Checov says, “Back off bro.”
The story is hysterical and dark. A woman artist marries a "simple" doctor; her artist friends wonder, Why marry beneath you? A simple credo: artistic creation exceeds medical advancement. Chekov is reminding us to stay humble. Subjective truth: Value is where we place it.
In Exile It serves as a warning: beware of want.
Ward No 6: I've been wanting to read this since 2004, says the faded receipt tucked between the last page and back cover.
This novella addresses the conditions of mental institutions without flinching. It opens with an absorbing second person POV, which has you walking towards Ward No. 6, a dilapidated lodge on the grounds of an insane asylum.
It’s about the growing relationship between a doctor and a sophisticated patient. Fyodor Dostoevsky is summoned; and his philosophy comes into play: suffering heightens life, those that lack it don't live. In other words: the privileged who have never suffered a day in their life, can't understand what it means to live. How can you know joy without pain?
*It's also a commentary on how individuals with intelligence are neglected, ignored, and abused if they don't meet social expectations.
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*"The smartest man I knew dropped out of middle school and was a self made carpenter; the dumbest had a doctorate - a scholar that lived in a castle made of jade," Mr. James says to an audience that's left the theater.
Rothschild's Fiddle: What did you lose? Is it in a cardboard box labeled: Lost & Found? What was it? Did you look under your bed? "Sorry, just dirty dishes. Forgot about that peanut butter sandwich." Are you sure you lost something? Perhaps a phone: Pinterest lock screen? "No." [...] I understand now. The loss is out there: somewhere; between the new synagogue and the old cemetery.
The Student: realizes words from 1912, scribbled in a loose leaf notebook, resemble a text message from 2054.
The Darling: The theater; that's where you belong. You can play any part... Yes, costumes get musty. How about the timber trade? Calculations! And making pieces fit! I know, dry rot is unforgiving. Animals then... you could be a veterinarian. You have the touch. True, arthritis. My dear, what then. What do you want? Oh... I see... OK. But first tell me why.
A Doctor's Visit: The doctor walks through the tenant buildings, touching the top button of his morning coat every eleventh step, and stops just outside the factory; smoke billows from the farthest stack. He whispers, "All of these improvements," he thumbs the button on his coat, "all of these improvements... are nothing but incurable diseases."
Gooseberries: A man wears a heavy overcoat on a hot day; his undershirt is soaked with sweat. With his left hand he reaches into his right pocket, pulls out a handful of gooseberries and shoves them into his mouth. His face pukers and he spits them out -- his palm is stained red. He steps back as a peasant woman passes, kneels, and picks up the berries. Once she is gone he licks his palm.
The Lady with the Dog: The beast pulls southwest, on a leash made from braided rope; your father's Derby shoes are broken. He pisses on flag poles and shits on Ms. Sheber's tomatoes, taking breaks to scratch his mange and turn to growl. Die, you think: an Eldorado passes, backfires, startles -- the rope falls from your hand. The beast sprints down Tender St.; the clicks on tarmac fade and disappear.
In the Ravine: You're looking scruff... stand straight... that forearm hangs loose: stand still. (SNAP!) Don't grimace; it's unbecoming. That ankle needs fixing; time is small -- later perhaps; you're pretty. Take this plate of caviar and feed it to your husband. The caviar, not the plate. When he smiles, nod. You'll be stuck in the ravine, but when he comes to your chamber, he'll realize, so is he.
The Bishop: Bret had been an altar boy for two weeks. Two hours before mass he went into Sacristy and opened a cardboard box filled with bags of unconsecrated hosts. Bret stuffed several into his backpack, opened one and ate ravenously; when he stood Father Cliff appeared, holding a bottle of wine. With slurred speech he said, "This," he paused, taping the bottle, "is mine."
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“You are right in demanding that an artist should take an intelligent attitude to his work, but you confuse two things: solving a problem and stating a problem correctly. It is only the second that is obligatory for the artist.”― Anton Chekhov
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