Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. 1st World Library-Literary Society is a non-profit educational organization. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG IT was approaching nightfall. The sexton, Savely Gykin, was lying in his huge bed in the hut adjoining the church. He was not asleep, though it was his habit to go to sleep at the same time as the hens. His coarse red hair peeped from under one end of the greasy patchwork quilt, made up of coloured rags, while his big unwashed feet stuck out from the other. He…mehr
Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. 1st World Library-Literary Society is a non-profit educational organization. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG IT was approaching nightfall. The sexton, Savely Gykin, was lying in his huge bed in the hut adjoining the church. He was not asleep, though it was his habit to go to sleep at the same time as the hens. His coarse red hair peeped from under one end of the greasy patchwork quilt, made up of coloured rags, while his big unwashed feet stuck out from the other. He was listening. His hut adjoined the wall that encircled the church and the solitary window in it looked out upon the open country. And out there a regular battle was going on. It was hard to say who was being wiped off the face of the earth, and for the sake of whose destruction nature was being churned up into such a ferment; but, judging from the unceasing malignant roar, someone was getting it very hot. A victorious force was in full chase over the fields, storming in the forest and on the church roof, battering spitefully with its fists upon the windows, raging and tearing, while something vanquished was howling and wailing. . . . A plaintive lament sobbed at the window, on the roof, or in the stove. It sounded not like a call for help, but like a cry of misery, a consciousness that it was too late, that there was no salvation. The snowdrifts were covered with a thin coating of ice; tears quivered on them and on the trees; a dark slush of mud and melting snow flowed along the roads and paths. In short, it was thawing, but through the dark night the heavens failed to see it, and flung flakes of fresh snow upon the melting earth at a terrific rate. And the wind staggered like a drunkard. It would not let the snow settle on the ground, and whirled it round in the darkness at random.Hinweis: Dieser Artikel kann nur an eine deutsche Lieferadresse ausgeliefert werden.
One of the finest authors of all time is Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, a Russian playwright and short-story writer who lived from 29 January 1860 to 15 July 1904. His four plays from his theatrical career are considered classics, and writers and critics highly regard his best short stories. Chekhov is sometimes listed as one of the three key figures in the development of early modernism in theater, together with Henrik Ibsen and August Strindberg. Chekhov was a medical practitioner by trade. "Medicine is my lawful wife," he once stated, "and literature is my mistress." Chekhov delivers a "theatre of mood" and a "submerged life in the text" in place of traditional action in these four works, which poses a challenge to both the playing group and the spectator. Chekhov's plays evoked a little eerie mood for the audience while remaining simple and easy to follow. At initially, Chekhov wrote stories to get money, but as his desire to express himself creatively grew, he introduced formal changes that helped shape the development of the contemporary short story. He insisted that an artist's job was to pose questions, not to provide answers, and offered no apology for the challenges this presented to readers.
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