She Was Like Marat Only With Nobody

No Author Has Created With Less Emphasis Such Pathetic Characters As Chekhov Has.

Look At This Tangle Of Thorns.

I Was The Shadow Of The Waxwing Slain/by The False Azure In The Windowpane.

His Wings Were Failing, But He Refused To Fall Without A Struggle.

Suddenly For No Earthly Reason I Felt Immensely Sorry For Him And Longed To Say Something Real, Something With Wings And A Heart, But The Birds I Wanted Settled On My Shoulders And Head Only Later When I Was Alone And Not In Need Of Words.