It’s not a matter of old or new forms; a person writes without thinking about any forms, he writes because it flows freely from his soul. - Anton Chekhov

TRIGORIN
Why do I hear a note of sadness that wrings my heart in this cry of a pure soul? If at any time you should have need of my life, come and take it.

Soon afterwards the door opened and I saw a tall, thin girl of nineteen, in a long muslin dress with a gilt belt from which, I remember, hung a mother-of-pearl fan. She came in, dropped a curtsy, and flushed crimson. Her long nose, which was slightly pitted with smallpox, turned red first, and then the flush passed up to her eyes and her forehead.

Translation: How easy it is, Doctor, to be a philosopher on paper, and how hard it is in life!