"... I took refuge in this peasant's hut, by which time it was already light and there were golden tones in the sky and the heathcock was calling. I fell asleep for a time and dreamed of my own bed in my own room: I dreamed I was sitting at my own table and telling my friends how I was nearly killed by a carriage on the Siberian highway. Then I woke and realised where I was. I had a good look around: it's quite charming. The peasant and his wife have decorated their walls with sweet wrappers and vodka labels, and someone's painted a tree on the door growing out of a vase, and some red flowers, and birds that look more like fish. The demand for art is here, but the good Lord has sent no artists. How can a peasant think about art? For nine months of the year he can't even take off his mittens and straighten his fingers, and when the summer comes his back aches with labour.
My first visitor was grandpa, very interested in me.
-Are you from Russia, your Honour?
-Yes, that's right, from Russia.
.....
-It's a crying shame because a Siberian's a good man. He's soft-hearted and honest and he doesn't drink - he's a treasure, not a man, but his life is wasting, like a mosquito, shall we say, or a fly. What's he living for, your Honour?
-Well, I suppose he works and eats and clothes himself. What more does a man want?
-Your Honour. A human being is not a horse."
(from Michael Pennington's one-man-show on Anton Chekhov taken from Are You There, Crocodile? - Inventing Anton Chekhov by Michael Pennington - If you ever have the opportunity to watch it, surely do it ;) )
