This life of ours...human life is like a flower gloriously blooming in a meadow: along comes a goat, eats it up---no more flower.
Anton ChekhovYou ask me what life is. That's like asking what a carrot is. A carrot is a carrot, and there's nothing more to know.
Anton ChekhovAn actress without talent, forty years old, ate a partridge for dinner, and I felt sorry for the partridge, for it occurred to me that in its life it had been more talented, more sensible, and more honest than the actress.
Anton Chekhov