Re-reading In my craft or sullen art the personal declaration doesn’t sound like a revolution, or even just a reason for writing words, perhaps because of sullen, a word meaning resentment, moody, bad-tempered, morose, uncommunicative, a word that sets the tone. And though uncommunicative, the art or craft is not still or too moody but Exercised in the still night, a time When only the moon rages , giving credence to the claim that he is exercised though everything else, bar the moon, is still. Except, either in his mind or to acknowledge their certain presence And the lovers lie abed , as night will have it, though unexpectedly not with ardour or passion or mutuality but With all their griefs in their arms . The words, having set out their condition, then turn to a series of opposing purposes for writing words: I labour by singing light. Does he even sing for his supper? Apparently Not for ambition or bread , even if he’s doing a good job of keeping our attention while staying ...
Anton Chekhov: 16 June 1904 Gregorian Calendar 29 June I just cannot get used to German silence and calm. One day is like any other day in Badenweiler. There’s not a sign of good taste or talent anywhere. At 7 in the morning a band plays in the garden: they’re awful. But there’s loads of order and formality and honesty. Names: Doktor Formula, Frau und Fraulein Bassoon, Herr Lipp. My health has improved, not so much out of breath. Never submit a manuscript to two publishers at once. They might both publish at once, ignoring your protests. Out walking I don’t notice I’m ill, no aches and pains. My legs are thinner than ever they’ve been. Anyway, my play would seem to have been received well. At 7.30 a German visits, a kind of masseur. Herr Spa rubs me over with water, then I rest a while. Idea for a novella: all one man’s thoughts over course of one day. His thoughts about their thoughts and so on and so forth. At 8 I drink some acorn cocoa....