….whenever the sky is too bright and I feel the shadow of last night’s optimism burning me, laughing, and the wife is off at Wholefoods spending the Easter money, and the child is awash in digital machinery, clucking like a happy hen, I like to turn to the Russians who can always bring me back down to where a part of me is sure I must more properly belong.
I was reading this by old Anton (the fucker) and swore I could hear his voice:
“There ought to be a man with a hammer behind the door of every happy man, to remind him by his constant knocks that there are unhappy people, and that happy as he himself may be, life will sooner or later show him its claws, catastrophe will overtake him—sickness, poverty, loss—and nobody will see it, just as he now neither sees nor hears the misfortunes of others. But there is no man with a hammer, the happy man goes on living and the petty vicissitudes of life touch him lightly, like the wind in an aspen-tree, and all is well.”—Anton Chekhov
Yes. The man with a hammer. Lords knows we know that bloke well enough, Of course, his middle name was Pavlovich, which catches you just between Anna Pavlova and that other fellow with his ‘psychic secretions’ who made the dogs dribble.