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The time has come for writers, especially those who are artists, to admit that in this world one cannot make anything out, just as Socrates once admitted it, just as Voltaire admitted it.
Anton Chekhov
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Interpretation

What this quote means

Writers must acknowledge the complexities of existence and the limitations of their craft.

In this quote, Anton Chekhov emphasizes the idea that true artists, particularly writers, should recognize the inherent difficulties in capturing the essence of life in their work. Just as historical figures like Socrates and Voltaire faced the ambiguity of human experience, contemporary creators are reminded of the challenges they encounter in attempting to express the inexpressible through their art.

Themes

WritersArtistsCreativityExpressionExistence

In practice

Example use cases

During a literary workshop, one might use this quote to illustrate the challenges writers face.

More from Anton Chekhov

If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don't put it there.
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There are still many more days of failure ahead, whole seasons of failure, things will go terribly wrong, you will have huge disappointments , but you have to prepare for that, you have to expect it and be resolute and follow your own path.
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Any idiot can face a crisis - it's day to day living that wears you out.
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To a chemist, nothing on earth is unclean. A writer must be as objective as a chemist; he must abandon the subjective line; he must know that dungheaps play a very respectable part in a landscape, and that evil passions are as inherent in life as good ones.
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When you want to touch the reader's heart, try to be colder. It gives their grief as it were, a background, against which it stands out in greater relief.
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Why are we worn out? Why do we, who start out so passionate, brave, noble, believing, become totally bankrupt by the age of thirty or thirty-five? Why is it that one is extinguished by consumption, another puts a bullet in his head, a third seeks oblivion in vodka, cards, a fourth, in order to stifle fear and anguish, cynically tramples underfoot the portrait of his pure, beautiful youth? Why is it that, once fallen, we do not try to rise, and, having lost one thing, we do not seek another? Why?
Anton ChekhovRead

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