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“I understand that in our work - doesn't matter whether it's acting or writing - what's important isn't fame or glamour, none of the things I used to dream about, it's the ability to endure.”
― Anton Chekhov, The Seagull

“In fact, there are two sorts of gaming--namely, the game of the
gentleman and the game of the plebs--the game for gain, and the game of the
herd. Herein, as said, I draw sharp distinctions. Yet how essentially base are
the distinctions! For instance, a gentleman may stake, say, five or ten louis
d’or--seldom more, unless he is a very rich man, when he may stake, say, a
thousand francs; but, he must do this simply for the love of the game
itself--simply for sport, simply in order to observe the process of winning or of
losing, and, above all things, as a man who remains quite uninterested in the
possibility of his issuing a winner. If he wins, he will be at liberty, perhaps, to
give vent to a laugh, or to pass a remark on the circumstance to a bystander,
or to stake again, or to double his stake; but, even this he must do solely out
of curiosity, and for the pleasure of watching the play of chances and of
calculations, and not because of any vulgar desire to win. In a word, he must
look upon the gaming-table, upon roulette, and upon trente et quarante, as
mere relaxations which have been arranged solely for his amusement. Of the
existence of the lures and gains upon which the bank is founded and
maintained he must profess to have not an inkling. Best of all, he ought to
imagine his fellow-gamblers and the rest of the mob which stands trembling
over a coin to be equally rich and gentlemanly with himself, and playing solely
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for recreation and pleasure. This complete ignorance of the realities, this
innocent view of mankind, is what, in my opinion, constitutes the truly
aristocratic.”
― Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Gambler

“NINA
Your life is beautiful.

TRIGORIN
I see nothing especially lovely about it. [He looks at his watch] Excuse me, I must go at once, and begin writing again. I am in a hurry. [He laughs] You have stepped on my pet corn, as they say, and I am getting excited, and a little cross. Let us discuss this bright and beautiful life of mine, though. [After a few moments' thought] Violent obsessions sometimes lay hold of a man: he may, for instance, think day and night of nothing but the moon. I have such a moon. Day and night I am held in the grip of one besetting thought, to write, write, write! Hardly have I finished one book than something urges me to write another, and then a third, and then a fourth--I write ceaselessly. I am, as it were, on a treadmill. I hurry for ever from one story to another, and can't help myself. Do you see anything bright and beautiful in that? Oh, it is a wild life! Even now, thrilled as I am by talking to you, I do not forget for an instant that an unfinished story is awaiting me. My eye falls on that cloud there, which has the shape of a grand piano; I instantly make a mental note that I must remember to mention in my story a cloud floating by that looked like a grand piano. I smell heliotrope; I mutter to myself: a sickly smell, the colour worn by widows; I must remember that in writing my next description of a summer evening. I catch an idea in every sentence of yours or of my own, and hasten to lock all these treasures in my literary store-room, thinking that some day they may be useful to me. As soon as I stop working I rush off to the theatre or go fishing, in the hope that I may find oblivion there, but no! Some new subject for a story is sure to come rolling through my brain like an iron cannonball. I hear my desk calling, and have to go back to it and begin to write, write, write, once more. And so it goes for everlasting. I cannot escape myself, though I feel that I am consuming my life. To prepare the honey I feed to unknown crowds, I am doomed to brush the bloom from my dearest flowers, to tear them from their stems, and trample the roots that bore them under foot. Am I not a madman? Should I not be treated by those who know me as one mentally diseased? Yet it is always the same, same old story, till I begin to think that all this praise and admiration must be a deception, that I am being hoodwinked because they know I am crazy, and I sometimes tremble lest I should be grabbed from behind and whisked off to a lunatic asylum. The best years of my youth were made one continual agony for me by my writing. A young author, especially if at first he does not make a success, feels clumsy, ill-at-ease, and superfluous in the world. His nerves are all on edge and stretched to the point of breaking; he is irresistibly attracted to literary and artistic people, and hovers about them unknown and unnoticed, fearing to look them bravely in the eye, like a man with a passion for gambling, whose money is all gone. I did not know my readers, but for some reason I imagined they were distrustful and unfriendly; I was mortally afraid of the public, and when my first play appeared, it seemed to me as if all the dark eyes in the audience were looking at it with enmity, and all the blue ones with cold indifference. Oh, how terrible it was! What agony!”
― Anton Chekhov, The Seagull

“Man suffers only because he takes seriously what the gods made for fun.”
― Alan Wilson Watts