I keep a photograph of Anton Chekhov on my mantelpiece. It's such an informal shot that it looks surprisingly modern. Chekhov appears to be sitting at a cluttered desk or a table, resting his head on his left hand. His thick hair is tousled and uncombed and his eyes look a little tired. You feel he might be about to say to the photographer, "Get a bloody move on, will you?" And indeed it's quite possible that he could have uttered such words, as we know that the photographer was his older brother, Alexander, a fact that probably explains the easy, unposed nature of the snapshot.
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