The Naked and the Dead
by Norman Mailer · 20 Jul 2010 · 879pp · 272,328 words
. “Three hours’ guard tonight,” he realized with dread. Morosely he began to put on his shoes. Minetta was waiting for him in the machine-gun emplacement. “Jesus, it’s spooky tonight,” he whispered. “I thought I’d be on forever.” “Anything happen?” Minetta gazed out at the black jungle before them. It
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woman with kids, it’s disgustin’ the way they all act. Brown took his rifle off his knees and laid it against the machine gun. It’s bad enough with all a man’s got to worry about out here, with guys like that fuggin Roth who fall asleep on guard, and
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like pups licking the wounds of their mother. Wyman began to blubber with exhaustion. The accident caused a great deal of confusion. Croft’s team was on the gun waiting behind them, and he began to shout, “What’s holdin’ you up? What’s happening down there?” “We had … trouble,” Toglio shouted
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two seconds later if he didn’t. For this reason, Wyman felt a dulled sense of affection for Goldstein. Croft stood up. “Well, that’s one gun they ain’t going to rescue for a little while,” he said. “I bet it stays there for the whole campaign.” He was enraged enough
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about a hundred yards down the river. Your squad can sleep in these holes tonight, and set up a guard right along here. They’s two machine guns set up for you.” “What’s doing?” Croft whispered. “I dunno. I heard they expect an attack all up and down the line about
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are sleeping are to git up goddam fast and move to help us. It’s only a couple of yards from our tents to Wilson’s machine gun, and it ain’t much further to mine. It shouldn’t be takin’ you all more than about three hours to reach us.” Again
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a thin patch of jungle. He peered across the river, trying to determine where the foliage was least dense. At a point between his gun and Wilson’s there was a grove of a few coconut trees sparse enough to allow men to assemble; as he stared into that patch of wood
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. He wondered if Wilson had noticed the sounds, and then in answer to his question, there was the loud unmistakable clicking of a machine gun bolt. To Croft’s keyed senses, the sound echoed up and down the river, and he was furious that Wilson should have revealed his position. The rustling
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shouted. All the men in recon began to fire again, and Croft raked the jungle for a minute in short bursts. He could hear Wilson’s machine gun pounding steadily. “I guess we gave ’em something,” Croft told Gallagher. The flare was going out, and Croft stood up. “Who was hit?” he
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points a few inches below the muscle of the foreleg. Ah’m goin’ to git him through the heart. BAA-WOWWW! It is someone else’s gun, and the deer drops. The boy runs forward almost weeping. Who shot him? That was mah deer. I’ll kill the sonofabitch who shot him
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pulsing. Croft actually was not thinking at all; he was bothered by an intense sense of incompletion. He was still expecting the burst that Red’s gun had never fired. Even more than Red, he had been anticipating the quick lurching spasms of the body when the bullets would crash into it
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in a duplication of the panic that had caught him when he was walking alone on the trail and had heard the shot from Croft’s gun. “All we ever do is screw each other anyway, what the hell.” He could not shake the death of the Japanese prisoner. It had been
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mash of pulp, and its body quivered frenetically for many seconds. The men watched intently, awe-struck, their ears deafened by the noise of Red’s gun. “Let’s get out of here,” Gallagher cried. They stumbled over one another in their sudden frenzy to get out. All of them had an
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his bonds, and he roared, “COME AND GET ME!” The sweat formed on his face, and then he was crawling along the ground toward Wilson’s gun. “RECON, UP, UP ON THE LINE!” he bellowed. He was still uncertain whether they were on the river or not. Wilson fired again, and Croft
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’s an unfair proposition. You’re settling a difference between us by…” “You remember when I gave that lecture about the man with the gun?” “Yes.” “It’s not an accident that I have this power. Nor is it that you’re in a situation like this. If you’d been more
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drawls. If we had a decent program we could get her in, and have some decent training in the method. Oh, lovely, let’s do Chekhov. A slim youth with horn-rimmed glasses is on his feet, demanding to be heard. If we’re going to shed the chrysalis, then I
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a Jap outside the fuggin tent, there’s a Jap right over there, right over there.” He looked about wildly, and shouted, “Where’s a gun, gimme a gun.” He was shaking with excitement. He picked up his rifle, and pointed it through the door of the tent. “There’s the Jap, there
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the flares?” Wilson bawled. He was grasping a machine-gun handle in his left palm, his forefinger extended to the trigger. “Who the hell’s at the other gun? I cain’t remember.” Ridges shook his head. “He’s talkin’ ’bout that Jap attack on the river.” Something of Wilson’s panic
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the last unconscious shudders of a dying animal. Another soldier walked up, nuzzled the body under the poncho with the muzzle of his gun, located the wounded man’s head, and pulled the trigger. There were other variations. Occasionally they would take prisoners, but if this was late in the day and
Overcomplicated: Technology at the Limits of Comprehension
by Samuel Arbesman · 18 Jul 2016 · 222pp · 53,317 words
desires for either biological or physics thinking. Some stories are finely crafted machines with no extraneous parts; everything fits together. We see this in “Chekhov’s Gun,” dramatist Anton Chekhov’s principle that any element introduced in a story must be crucial to advancing the plot. A loaded rifle introduced early in the first
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, Mass., 101 cancer, 126 Carew, Diana, 46 catastrophes, interactions in, 126 Challenger disaster, 9, 11, 12, 192 Chandra, Vikram, 77 Chaos Monkey, 107, 126 Chekhov, Anton, 129 Chekhov’s Gun, 129 chess, 84 Chiang, Ted, 230 clickstream, 141–42 Clock of the Long Now, The (Brand), 39–40 clouds, 147 Code of Federal Regulations
The Uninhabitable Earth: Life After Warming
by David Wallace-Wells · 19 Feb 2019 · 343pp · 101,563 words
pollution, and with those death tolls, and hardly notice them; the curving concrete towers of nuclear plants, by contrast, stand astride the horizon like Chekhov’s proverbial gun. Today, despite a variety of projects aimed at producing cheap nuclear energy, the price of new plants remains high enough that it is hard to
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languages, and it casts a shadow over nearly every project of popular, long-view history undertaken since, from Kenneth Clark’s Civilisation to Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs, and Steel. Sapiens: That this kind of total skepticism won Harari such an admiring audience among so many leading avatars of technocratic progress is
A Gentleman in Moscow
by Amor Towles · 5 Sep 2016
and was filling them to the brim. “Thank you, Audrius.” “My pleasure, Your Excellency.” “Number one,” said the Count, adding a pause for dramatic effect: “Chekhov and Tolstoy.” The German let out a grunt. “Yes, yes. I know what you’re going to say: that every nation has its poets in
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the pantheon. But with Chekhov and Tolstoy, we Russians have set the bronze bookends on the mantelpiece of narrative. Henceforth, writers of fictions from wheresoever they hail, will place themselves
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continuum that begins with the one and ends with the other. For who, I ask you, has exhibited better mastery of the shorter form than Chekhov in his flawless little stories? Precise and uncluttered, they invite us into some corner of a household at some discrete hour in which the entire
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their university days, Viktor Shalamov was now the senior editor at Goslitizdat. It was his idea to have Mishka edit their forthcoming volumes of Anton Chekhov’s collected letters—a project that Mishka had been slaving over since 1934. “Ah,” said the Count brightly. “You must be nearly done.” “Nearly done
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. It was an elision in the letter of the sixth of June 1904. Mishka knew the letter well. It was the bittersweet missive written by Chekhov to his sister, Maria, in which he predicts his full recovery just a few weeks before his death. During typesetting, a word must have been
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and anyone else who’s interested that I’m on my way to recovery or even that I’ve already recovered . . . Etc., etc. Yours, A. Chekhov Mishka read the passage once, then read it again while calling up in his mind’s eye an image of the original letter. After four
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is missing. It is that something must be taken out. Here.” Shalamov reached across the desk in order to point to the lines in which Chekhov had shared his first impressions of Berlin, but particularly his praise for their amazing bread, and his observations that Russians who hadn’t traveled had
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of a few hundred thousand.” The Count pointed out that on the balance, Mikhail had so much to be proud of. An authoritative collection of Chekhov’s letters was long overdue. It promised to inspire a whole new generation of scholars and students, readers and writers. And Shalamov? With his long
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of The Cherry Orchard or The Seagull. It was a passage that might have appeared in the correspondence of any traveler in Europe and that Chekhov himself had, in all probability, composed without a second thought. But after dressing and eating a late breakfast, when Mishka headed to the Central House
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’s only contribution to the West and who challenged anyone to name three more.” “I remember it well. I borrowed your observation that Tolstoy and Chekhov were the bookends of narrative, invoked Tchaikovsky, and then ordered the brute a serving of caviar.” “That’s it.” Mishka shook his head and then
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the minutes that followed, once again the services of Sam Spade were enlisted by the alluring, if somewhat mysterious, Miss Wonderly. Once again, Spade’s partner was gunned down in an alley just hours before Floyd Thursby met a similar fate. And once again Joel Cairo, the Fat Man, and Brigid O
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not continue much further. For rather than extending into the present, the survey ended in June 1904, with the sentences that Mishka had cut from Chekhov’s letter all those years ago: Here in Berlin, we’ve taken a comfortable room in the best hotel. I am very much enjoying the
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of the 1930s, the Count supposed he could understand why Shalamov (or his superiors) had insisted upon this little bit of censorship—having presumed that Chekhov’s observation could only lead to feelings of discontent or ill will. But the irony, of course, was that
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Chekhov’s observation was no longer even accurate. For surely, by now, the Russian people knew better than anyone in Europe how good a piece of
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upon your point of view. Meanwhile, at the Maly Theatre, where Anna Urbanova—in a wig tinged with gray—was appearing as Irina Arkadina in Chekhov’s The Seagull, the audience let out muted exclamations of concern. Though Anna and her fellow actors were well practiced at leaving the stage in
How to Write Like Tolstoy: A Journey Into the Minds of Our Greatest Writers
by Richard Cohen · 16 May 2016
try. The subject of revising, whether done by oneself or responding to the advice of others, is crucial. “Abridge, abridge! Begin on the second page,” Chekhov advised his brother, who longed to be a writer too. Yet while revision most often involves cutting, pruning, cleaning up, at its best it is
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: How far in advance had you realized that this was where the book was heading? AB: Never. I was totally amazed to find the gun in the kid’s hands. But then I remembered there had been that odd box which belonged to Parker’s grandfather. SECOND INTERVIEWER [SINDA GREGORY]: So you
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: “Will you honor the King’s English?” One author who would never have made the club, had it been instituted in his day, was Anton Chekhov, who in 1884 employed a narrator who turns out to be the murderer in a 180-page melodrama, The Shooting Party, his one novel. *4
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-Gabrielle Colette (1873–1954), the French writer and performer (Picture Post/Felix Mann and Kurt Hutton) There were interesting suggestions for successful attempts, such as Chekhov’s story “The Kiss” and even Mrs. Dalloway’s love for Sally Seton, but the best overall contribution was from Edmund White. He liked to
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revision is small changes and knowing when and what to omit. Hemingway once wryly observed that half of what he wrote he left out. Anton Chekhov, besieged by writers wanting his opinion on their work, would advise them all, “Cut, cut, cut!” “Writing a book is like building a coral reef
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switch easily from one to the other, so it is well to find out early whether one is good at editing one’s own work. Chekhov wrote: “Dissatisfaction with oneself is one of the cornerstones of every real talent.” Maybe, but it can also be destructive. Cyril Connolly ruined his creative
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, have English names.’ ” Jorge Luis Borges, Selected Nonfictions (New York: Viking, 1999), p. 111. *4 How writers react to criticism after publication is another matter. Chekhov called professional critics horseflies that keep the horse from plowing, Flaubert “the leprosy of letters,” while Sainte-Beuve commented that “No one will ever create
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. 222–23, and Michael Shelden, Orwell: The Authorized Biography (New York: Harper, 1991), p. 119. “Abridge, abridge! Begin on the second page”: Chekhov, quoted in Janet Malcolm, Reading Chekhov: A Critical Journey (New York: Random House, 2002), p. 172. “they cannot read while working”: Francine Prose, Reading Like a Writer: A Guide
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, from which I have taken my two examples. Toward the end of his life I commissioned Pritchett to write a biography of Chekhov. At lunch, I asked him if Chekhov had any lessons for him. For a moment, modesty battled with truthfulness; then he said, “No, I don’t think so.” “For
The Wise Men: Six Friends and the World They Made
by Walter Isaacson and Evan Thomas · 28 Feb 2012 · 1,150pp · 338,839 words
Russians cannot say five words.” One night spent around a samovar of tea discussing philosophy and reciting poetry, he said, “was so like one of Chekhov’s plays you would have died.” Bohlen got his first glimpse of Russia when a friend from Harvard came for a visit. The two of
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I’m the source.” It was an attitude that would later cause Eugene Rostow to disparage Kennan as “an impressionist, a poet, not an earthling.” Chekhov remained his primary passion. Hoping to write a biography of the great nineteenth-century writer, Kennan read all thirty volumes of his works and six
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, have been no finer grounding in the atmosphere of prerevolutionary Russia,” he later noted. He sent unsolicited to the Yale Review an article titled “Anton Chekhov and the Bolsheviks.” Said the State Department officer charged with clearing the essay: “If Yale can stand it, I can.” Yale apparently could not. Citing
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his desire to study the Chekhov archives, Kennan applied for permission to visit Moscow in the summer of 1932. The State Department denied the request, declaring that the young Russian specialists
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reports on Siberia. The books, he said to Kennan’s astonishment, were the bible of the early Bolsheviks. Harpo and Kennan shared an interest in Chekhov, and they took a group to see a performance of The Cherry Orchard at the Moscow Art Theater. Harpo erupted in “solitary, unrestrained gales of
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laughter” throughout the play; Kennan got to meet with Chekhov’s widow, Knipper-Chekova, and discussed his plans for a biography. In a grand ceremony in the Kremlin, Bullitt presented his credentials to the Soviet
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possible, a mandate that Kennan pursued with an intensity his colleagues found amusing. He forayed alone by train to sketch medieval churches and search for Chekhov memorabilia. Bohlen and Thayer, much to the consternation of their secret-police escorts, took the opportunity to hunt wild boar near Baku in the Caucasus
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companions by reading aloud, as his father had once done, from Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and Chekhov’s plays. Annelise, after a few drinks, would have to remind him somewhat forcefully that not everyone was interested in hearing these recitations. Indeed, despite
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war—meant that victory in Europe would not end America’s involvement in the world beyond her shores. Despite his refusal to jump the gun in proclaiming Germany’s surrender, Truman ended up scooping Stalin by more than a day. George Kennan, holding down the shop at the Moscow embassy in Harriman
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Soviet commander, for speeding through the Western zone of Berlin on his way home to a suburb in the Eastern zone. A U.S. soldier put a tommy gun to the Soviet marshal’s stomach. Soviet guards reached for their guns. The tense moment passed, Sokolovsky was released, but nerves stretched tighter
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for Democratic Action, 27 Amherst College, 68–70 Andropov, Yuri, 20, 728–29 Anglo–American coalition, Churchill’s iron curtain speech and, 362–64 “Anton Chekhov and the Bolsheviks” (Kennan), 154 Arden (Harrimans’ estate), 43–45, 63, 106–7, 285 arms control, 435, 577, 737 Acheson on, 33, 324–26, 356
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Chamberlain, Neville, 175, 484 Chambers, Whittaker, 567 Chase Manhattan Bank, McCloy as chairman of, 23, 571, 599 Chayes, Abram, 611 Chekhov, Anton, 151, 154, 158–59, 161 Cherry Orchard, The (Chekhov), 158–59 Chiang Kai–shek, 390, 530, 557, 565 Acheson and, 474–77, 508 MacArthur and, 521–23, 548–49 Chicago
Ghost Train to the Eastern Star: On the Tracks of the Great Railway Bazaar
by Paul Theroux · 9 Sep 2008 · 651pp · 190,224 words
the Malay Archipelago, nor Waterton to the Amazon, nor Trollope to the West Indies, nor Edward Lear to Corsica, nor Stevenson to the Cévennes, nor Chekhov to Sakhalin, nor Gide to the Congo, nor Canetti to Marrakesh, nor Jack London to the Solomon Islands, nor Mark Twain to Hawaii. So much
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had been rewarded. He was a murderer, but unlike Joseph Goebbels, when he heard the word ‘culture’ he did not reach for his gun. He had Bashi’s obsession with the glorious past, and he too had lots of oil revenue. Most of the city in drizzly March seemed woebegone, but the
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and his men. The army occupied Amritsar in large numbers, and black-suited commandos stormed the temple complex. They were cut down by machine-gun fire from Bhindranwale’s men. Some soldiers fired from a distance, but succeeded only in killing civilians and wrecking parts of the temple. Indian army officers begged
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going, except against the grain. His father was a professor of Japanese literature. Haruki did not read Japanese literature. Instead, he read Truman Capote and Chekhov and Dostoyevsky, while listening to Thelonious Monk. Seven years went by. One day, he was visited by an epiphany. It was springtime, the start of
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when I mentioned the jibe. ‘This city is full of history. Dostoyevsky stopped here on his way to Omsk. The Diaghilev family is from here. Chekhov of course – this is the setting for Three Sisters. And Pasternak’s book. The city is full of history!’ Dostoyevsky was on his way to
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prison and had spent only one night here. Sergei Diaghilev fled the city and spent his life in Paris as a balletomane. For Chekhov it was the epitome of stifling provincial cities (‘When can we go to Moscow?’ the three sisters keep moaning), and Pasternak had been regarded as
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a literary pariah until fifteen years ago. I mentioned that Three Sisters depicted Perm unfavourably, the stifled sisters longing to leave for Moscow. ‘Because Chekhov had a problem,’ Sergei said. Sergei’s English was not bad, but he preferred to speak Russian. Yelena sat behind me, translating. ‘He was turned
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away from a building because he was wearing the wrong clothes. He never forgave them for this.’ This episode is not mentioned by any of Chekhov’s biographers, only the fact that in 1890 he arrived by river in Perm at two o’clock one April morning and left the same
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days from Moscow to Vladivostok, on his way to the penal settlement at Sakhalin. Still, sixteen hours in Perm was enough for a genius like Chekhov to sum up the city as stifling. ‘It’s like this,’ Sergei said. ‘What if you went to a city and found a cockroach in
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my having seen the slave labour camp hidden in the hills. For all the upbeat talk of Perm as the setting of Doctor Zhivago and Chekhov’s Three Sisters, I still could not ease my mind after I’d seen the gulag. Many places in Perm, some of them innocent-looking
Dark Mirror: Edward Snowden and the Surveillance State
by Barton Gellman · 20 May 2020 · 562pp · 153,825 words
friend.”) Readers who try the thought experiment should presume an adversary who has seen the same movies they have. Behind a toilet, like Michael Corleone’s gun? The other fellow remembers that. Hollow book, frozen ice pop, loose floorboard? Been there, found those. Ordinary backup copies might not do the job. I
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. “The public and the press don’t understand that’s how we do it,” he said. “What’s staggering to me here is there’s no smoking gun that would indicate that this power is being abused. It’s all this, ‘Oh, potential.’” The zealot’s whine returned. “‘Oh, gosh, this is
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. An unfired gun is no less lethal before it is drawn. And, in fact, in history, capabilities do not go unused in the long term. Chekhov’s famous admonition to playwrights is apt not only in drama but in the lived experience of humankind. The gun on display in the first
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have probed more deeply. Language is the symptom, not the problem. NSA geeks are not like other geeks whose folkways they share. The NSA’s Top Guns build and operate the machinery of a global surveillance hegemon, licensed to do things that would land them in prison if they tried them anywhere
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Ohm, “Don’t Build a Database of Ruin,” Harvard Business Review, August 23, 2012, https://hbr.org/2012/08/dont-build-a-database-of-ruin. Chekhov’s famous admonition: The best-known version is: “If in Act I you have a pistol hanging on the wall, then it must fire in
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the last act.” Donald Rayfield, Anton Chekhov: A Life (New York: Henry Holt, 1997). Chekhov meant that a playwright should not break an implicit promise to the audience, but the expectations behind that promise have their roots
Nobody's Perfect: Writings From the New Yorker
by Anthony Lane · 26 Aug 2002 · 879pp · 309,222 words
’s version of Uncle Vanya was fresher than most stage productions, blowing away that dusty, fallen-leaf feeling that has settled onto the playing of Chekhov. Now we have Nicholas Hytner’s The Madness of King George, adapted from Alan Bennett’s The Madness of George III, which was a big
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wanders elsewhere, as if he were following up a rumor or tracing a whisper in the next room. You could accuse him of simply rehashing Chekhov, who specialized in offstage drama, in stories that unfolded at arm’s length, but Mikhalkov has done something new: he has taken that technique and
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lot of ground. As the long, lovely day descends into talk of treachery, and from there into boozing and bloody faces, we seem to leave Chekhov a thousand miles behind. “It’s the aroma, the taste of life that has vanished,” Vsevolod says. What touches you most is not the individual
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on the muzzle of your weapon with chewing gum, so that you can poke it out at an angle and spot the machine gun around the corner. There’s a lovely moment when Tom Hanks rubs his mirror before holding it out again; you wonder how he could bother with such nicety
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will transform Mystic Pizza into Three Sisters, although the plots are not that different, and none of us can say what would have happened if Chekhov had recovered from tuberculosis and gone into the pepperoni business. Yet the film works on its own terms, and, considering that it cost only six
All Day Long: A Portrait of Britain at Work
by Joanna Biggs · 8 Apr 2015 · 255pp · 92,719 words
who may need me. Now it’s autumn; soon winter will come and cover us with snow, and I will work, I will work. Anton Chekhov, Three Sisters CONTENTS IN DOVER MAKING: potter, shoemaker, robot SELLING: fishmonger, creative director, councillor, homesteader, legal aid lawyer SERVING: sex worker, baristas, call centre adviser
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to be made by hand.’ Perhaps the allure of work is its promise of perfectibility. It’s what Irina, the aristocratic and idealistic youngest of Chekhov’s Three Sisters, hopes for when she takes a job at the Post Office. The crowns, anchors and butterflies on the soles of the shoes
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lives, and they have a trust in you that you develop with them because they know that you’ve got their back.’ There’s a boom of a gun discharging in the background and Major D looks over to the photo collage of his tour of Iraq. Downtown Basra. A covert operation
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– sometimes called the spirit of ’45 – when it was thought that failures in the system ought to be compensated for with welfare. Like Irina in Chekhov’s Three Sisters, our culture is simultaneously fascinated by, disgusted with, worn down by and desiring of work. Yet it proposes that the answer to
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