Last chance. Either I lose, or this piece of work brings me back to life

Last chance. Either I lose, or this piece of work brings me back to life.

When I was just starting to love reading, any book was interesting to me and gave me a special feeling. Over the years, however, the ideas in the books, the sequence of plots, began to look so similar that in many cases it became easy to find the plot algorithm in advance, without going even halfway through the work. Each time I finished reading a new book, I would ask myself, "Is there a book left that would amaze me?" . About two years ago, out of pity for a boy selling antiques near the station, I bought him a book without a cover. Being late for class, I headed straight to the library and began to glance at the first lines of the book I had received to pass the time. At first, the author's thoughts seemed incomprehensible, but my sixth sense convinced me that this work was my savior and encouraged me to continue reading. I finally said to myself, “Last chance. Either this book will return my love for literature, or today, many years of love between me and books will end here.” Few hours later, when the librarian told me the library would close, I took my eyes off the book. No one was around, and I had been reading the book for more than seven hours. For me, it was less than seven minutes. I lived in this piece of literature for seven hours, but sadly nowhere in the coverless book was its author mentioned. Who is he?

Disappointed with literature, there was only one writer in the world, so it was Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, the writer who brought back to life the book lover who thought all books were the same, who turned a small fire of love inside into a big flame. As a kid, I used to tease him by equating his last name with that of a famous goalkeeper in a Russian language classes, but did I ever think that this writer would convert my life from blurry frame to HD? When my teacher said he was a great playwright, an academic, and even a famous doctor, did I think that a single story he wrote could change the world around me? When I heard that he was raised by a strict father, did I realize that he had grown up in the same environment as me? When I heard that he wanted to be a writer as a child, but his father wanted him to study medicine, did I compare the similarities in our destinies? Am I ashamed to complain about the lack of money I have when I read that he earned money by tutoring and selling his own stories as a student? There is no definite answer to any question, but one thing is certain, the way of Anton Pavlovich Chekhov’s life and his work are a beacon that illuminates my life.

For the past two years, I haven't read a single Chekhov's work that I haven't read over and over again. There used to be a lot of things in life that I hated. Now I hate only one thing - death. If Anton Pavlovich Chekhov had died at the age of 70, not 44, I would have lived happily for at least another 4-5 years. If he hadn't died young, he would have written dozens of other stories, such as "Chamber 6" and "Darkness." When he died a little later, some valuable scripts would be ready for directors today. If it weren't for death, I wouldn't have had to read “Duel” again today. If it weren't for death, I wouldn't be looking for Chekhov in any work. I hate death, not because I’m afraid of it, but because it took my most precious writer from me, and I don’t want to hear that word.

Today I am sad again. I'm still reading nonsense like I did two years ago. Someday a new Chekhov will appear in my life, but “The Bet” near my pillow will always be my dearest friend.