By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.
Everyone loves their own truths. Everyone has, as the Hindus acknowledge in their greeting, “namasté,” that part of them which is eternal. That is the important part.
By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.