I’ve been skimming through a complete collection of Chekhov’s stories. There’s lotsa chaff—small anecdotes published in newspapers from early days that don’t do much and weren’t intended for the ages. But then you come upon “an unpleasantness,” a long story from a later period that stands up like an erection. It’s about a doctor who runs […]

A friend writes from the French countryside: The invisible threat casts a shadow over an otherwise idyllic springtime. When normally one’s own sorrows are cast aside, albeit temporarily, by the blossoming of nature and its infectious sense of hope, this year comes with a malaise which seems to leach all sense of renewal; and so I find myself hesitant in all I do.

A friend writes from Berlin: Good news … I received 5000 euros from the city. I could hardly believe it when I looked at my bank account. That will come in handy. Now we simply have to survive. It was very generous to artists who live here, many of whom are wiped out by what has happened. The decisions were made quickly, based simply upon the evidence that an artist truly has been living and working on their art here. It all seems unreal…everything does now.