December 2008


If I could live again my life,

In the next – I’ll try,

– to make more mistakes,

I won’t try to be so perfect,

I’ll be more relaxed,

I’ll be more full – than I am now,

In fact, I’ll take fewer things seriously,

I’ll be less hygenic,

I’ll take more risks,

I’ll take more trips,

I’ll watch more sunsets,

I’ll climb more mountains,

I’ll swim more rivers,

I’ll go to more places – I’ve never been,

I’ll eat more ice creams and less (lime) beans,

I’ll have more real problems – and less imaginary


I was one of those people who live

prudent and prolific lives –

each minute of his life,

Offcourse that I had moments of joy – but,

if I could go back I’ll try to have only good moments,


If you don’t know – thats what life is made of,

Don’t lose the now!


He was under forty, but he had a daughter already twelve years old, and two sons at school. He had been married young, when he was a student in his second year, and by now his wife seemed half as old again as he.  She was a tall, erect woman with dark eyebrows, staid and dignified, and, as she said herself, intellectual. She read a great deal, used phonetic spelling, called her husband, not Dmitri, but Dimitri, and he secretly considered her unintelligent, narrow, inelegant, was afraid of her, and did not like to be at home. He had begun being unfaitful to her long ago — and had been unfaithful to her often, and, probably on that account, almost always spoke ill of women, and when they were talked about in his presence used to call them the ‘lower race’.

The Lady with the Little Dog, Anton Chekhov

(Unknown), John Currin





* The Lady in the Car with Glasses and a Gun, Sebastien Japrisot.

She looked at him with dread, with entreaty, with love; she looked at him intently, to keep his features more distinctly in her memory.

“I am so unhappy,” she went on, not heeding him. “I have thought of nothing but you all the time; I live only in the thought of you. And I wanted to forget, to forget you; but why, oh, why, have you come?

The Lady with the Little Dog, Anton Chekhov

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