Anton Chekhov, The Seagull - Act IV:


PAULINA
My heart aches for you. I see how things are, and understand.

MASHA
You see what doesn't exist. Hopeless love is only found in novels. It is a trifle; all one has to do is to keep a tight rein on oneself, and keep one's head clear. Love must be plucked out the moment it springs up in the heart. My husband has been promised a school in another district, and when we have once left this place I shall forget it all. I shall tear my passion out by the roots. [The notes of a melancholy waltz are heard in the distance.]


SORIN
I am going to give Constantine an idea for a story. It shall be called "The Man Who Wished--L'Homme qui a voulu." When I was young, I wished to become an author; I failed. I wished to be an orator; I speak abominably, [Exciting himself] with my eternal "and all, and all," dragging each sentence on and on until I sometimes break out into a sweat all over. I wished to marry, and I didn't; I wished to live in the city, and here I am ending my days in the country, and all.

DORN
You wished to become State Councillor, and--you are one!

SORIN
[Laughing] I didn't try for that, it came of its own accord.

DORN
Come, you must admit that it is petty to cavil at life at sixty-two years of age.

SORIN
You are pig-headed! Can't you see I want to live?

DORN
That is futile. Nature has commanded that every life shall come to an end.

SORIN
You speak like a man who is satiated with life. Your thirst for it is quenched, and so you are calm and indifferent, but even you dread death.

DORN
The fear of death is an animal passion which must be overcome. Only those who believe in a future life and tremble for sins committed, can logically fear death; but you, for one thing, don't believe in a future life, and for another, you haven't committed any sins. You have served as a Councillor for twenty-five years, that is all.

SORIN
[Laughing] Twenty-eight years!


TREPLIEFF
She always attempted great and difficult parts, but her delivery was harsh and monotonous, and her gestures heavy and crude. She shrieked and died well at times, but those were but moments.

...

How easy it is, Doctor, to be a philosopher on paper, and how difficult in real life!

...

I have talked a great deal about new forms of art, but I feel myself gradually slipping into the beaten track... The conviction is gradually forcing itself upon me that good literature is not a question of forms new or old, but of ideas that must pour freely from the author's heart, without his bothering his head about any forms whatsoever.