Celebrity Chekhov by Ben Greenman Page A

terrible, but life is terrible, too. I don’t understand life and I am afraid of it. I don’t know; perhaps I am a morbid person. It seems to a sound, healthy man that he understands everything he sees and hears, but that seeming is lost to me, and from day to day I poison myself with terror. There is a disease, the fear of open spaces, but my disease is the fear of life. When I lie on the grass and watch a little beetle which was born yesterday and understands nothing, it seems to me that its life consists of nothing but fear, and in it I see myself.”
    â€œWhat is it exactly you are frightened of?” I asked.
    â€œOf everything. I am not by nature a profound thinker, and I take little interest in such questions as the life beyond the grave, the destiny of humanity, and, in fact, I am rarely carried away to the heights. What chiefly frightens me is the common routine of life from which none of us can escape. I am incapable of distinguishing what is true and what is false in my actions, and they worry me. I recognize that education and the conditions of life have imprisoned me in a narrow circle of falsity, that my whole life is nothing else than a daily effort to deceive myself and other people, and to avoid noticing it; and I am frightened at the thought that to the day of my death I shall not escape from this falsity. Today I do something and tomorrow I do not understand why I did it. I entered acting, did it for years, and one day felt it was separate from me. I began to work with coffee but feel that separating from me as well. I see that we know very little and so make mistakes every day. We are unjust, we slander one another and spoil each other’s lives, we waste all our powers on trash which we do not need and which hinders us from living; and that frightens me, because I don’t understand why and for whom it is necessary.
    â€œI don’t understand men, my dear fellow, and I am afraid of them. It frightens me to look at most people, and I don’t know for what higher objects they are suffering and what they are living for. If life is an enjoyment, then they are unnecessary, superfluous; if the object and meaning of life is to be found in economic struggle and unending, hopeless ignorance, I can’t understand for whom and what this torture is necessary. I understand no one and nothing. Kindly try to understand this specimen, for instance,” said Michael Douglas, pointing to Gary Busey. “Think of him!”
    Noticing that we were looking at him, Gary Busey coughed deferentially into his fist and said:
    â€œI was always a good worker and often a good man, but the great trouble has been spirits: those I have had to drink, those I have seen floating around me. If a poor fellow like me were shown consideration and given a place, I would do right by that generosity. My word’s my bond.”
    Gary Busey was speaking passionately, and a man walking by stopped to listen. Then his cell phone rang and he turned away to answer it. That gave Michael Douglas occasion to look at his watch.
    â€œIt’s seven,” said Michael Douglas. “Time to get the car and go. Yes, my dear fellow,” he sighed, “if only you knew how afraid I am of my ordinary everyday thoughts, in which one would have thought there should be nothing dreadful. To prevent myself from thinking, I distract my mind with work and try to tire myself out that I may sleep sound at night. Children, a wife—all that seems ordinary with other people; but how that weighs upon me, my dear fellow!”
    He rubbed his face with his hands, cleared his throat, and laughed.
    â€œIf I could only tell you how I have played the fool in my life!” he said. “They all tell me that I have a sweet wife, charming children, and that I am a good husband and father. They think I am very happy and envy me. But since it has come to that, I will tell you in secret: my happy family life is only a grievous