"Life is boring," I philosophized to myself as I tried not to fall. "This isn't a life, but an empty, dull existence. Day after day, year after year, all the while still the same inside, no different than when you were young. Many years pass while you still only drink, eat, and sleep. In the end, they dig a grave for you, bury you, and have a party after your funeral with free food, telling each other, "He was a good man, but he didn't leave enough money behind for us, the scoundrel.'"
In this story, the narrator, drunk, stumbles unknowingly into a cemetery where he becomes petrified with fear.
No!
What is funny is that he is not the narrator! This story is in the third person, but barely so. A few sentences let us know that Ivan Ivanovich is telling this story at a party. Hmmm.
This Chekhov, he is capable of saying these things. He had TB for most of his life. He was alone most of his life. He was fairly confident that his work would disappear with him. He was a doctor who spent a great deal of time helping others, often for free. If this man didn't have a full life, I am not sure who does. He was also taken with wondering what it was all about.
Great people wonder what it is all about. So to, do men who are not so great. I think of Bruckner, and wonder whether doubt ever showed it's face to him.
When I am unable to do anything else, I eat peanuts. Peanuts provide me with great comfort.
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