About Scientific Truth

Is cow’s milk healthy for people, or unhealthy?

Is dry cat food bad for cats, or good?

Why do scientists give  us contradictory information?

“I feel resentful and I can’t be silent when scientists think wrong in their mind (…).”
Letter to the Scholarly Neighbour by Anton Chekhov

What is my inference?
“Mother Nature is a book that needs to be read and seen.”
Letter to the Scholarly Neighbour by Anton Chekhov


About Love

“How love is born,” said Alehin, “why Pelagea does not love somebody more like herself in her spiritual and external qualities, and why she fell in love with Nikanor, that ugly snout — we all call him ‘The Snout’ — how far questions of personal happiness are of consequence in love — all that is known; one can take what view one likes of it. So far only one incontestable truth has been uttered about love: ‘This is a great mystery.’ Everything else that has been written or said about love is not a conclusion, but only a statement of questions which have remained unanswered. The explanation which would seem to fit one case does not apply in a dozen others, and the very best thing, to my mind, would be to explain every case individually without attempting to generalize. We ought, as the doctors say, to individualize each case.”
About Love by Anton Chekhov

Pictures of Cherries

The beautiful literary image of the cherries:

“The boy gazed at the familiar places, while the hateful chaise flew by and left them all behind. After the prison he caught glimpses of black grimy foundries, followed by the snug green cemetery surrounded by a wall of cobblestones; white crosses and tombstones, nestling among green cherry-trees and looking in the distance like patches of white, peeped out gaily from behind the wall. Yegorushka remembered that when the cherries were in blossom those white patches melted with the flowers into a sea of white; and that when the cherries were ripe the white tombstones and crosses were dotted with splashes of red like bloodstains.”

The Steppe by Anton Chekhov

The cherries in my garden:


About Happiness or Sadness

MEDVIEDENKO. Why do you always wear mourning?

MASHA. I dress in black to match my life. I am unhappy.

MEDVIEDENKO. Why should you be unhappy? [Thinking it over] I don’t understand it. You are healthy, and though your father is not rich, he has a good competency. My life is far harder than yours. I only have twenty-three roubles a month to live on, but I don’t wear mourning. [They sit down].

MASHA. Happiness does not depend on riches; poor men are often happy.”

The Sea-Gull by Anton Chekhov

“A sorry spectacle! I will confess to you, Marya Alexandrovna, I am very
sorry for myself. My God! my God! Can it be that I have myself so
utterly ruined my life, so mercilessly embroiled and tortured
myself!… Now I have come to my senses, but it’s too late. Has it ever
happened to you to save a fly from a spider? Has it? You remember, you
put it in the sun; its wings and legs were stuck together, glued….
How awkwardly it moved, how clumsily it attempted to get clear!…
After prolonged efforts, it somehow gets better, crawls, tries to open
its wings … but there is no more frolicking for it, no more
light-hearted buzzing in the sunshine, as before, when it was flying
through the open window into the cool room and out again, freely
winging its way into the hot air…. The fly, at least, fell through
none of its own doing into the dreadful web … but I!

I have been my own spider!”

A Correspondence by Ivan S. Turgenev

“(…) we are as silly as children, but we are not sincere
as they are; we are cold as old people, but we have none of the good
sense of old age…. To make up, we are psychologists. Oh yes, we are
great psychologists! But our psychology is akin to pathology; our
psychology is that subtle study of the laws of morbid condition and
morbid development, with which healthy people have nothing to do….
And, what is the chief point, we are not young, even in our youth we
are not young!”

A Correspondence by Ivan S. Turgenev

“(…) and I have begun (do you know how?) to notice that I’m getting old. I’ll tell you how. I try in these days to make as much as I can of my happy sensations, and to make little of my sad ones, and in the days of my youth I did just the opposite. At times, one used to carry about one’s melancholy as if it were a treasure, and be ashamed of a cheerful mood . . . “

Faust by Ivan S. Turgenev
(translated by Constance Black Garnett)