The first lines of several chapters, telling you a lot about this book, and strangely, quite a bit about Chekhov.
A talk show host named Dave Letterman pulled over at a rest stop on his way home, turned off the radio, and heaved a deep sigh.
Some years ago Justin Timberlake and I were riding toward evening in fall time in Louisiana to get some coffee.
The lieutenant governor, thin and slender as the Katmai Peninsula, stepped forward and, addressing Sarah Palin, said:
Nicole Kidman was sitting on her back porch, lost in thought.
Eminem, a writer of hip-hop records, returns home late at night, grave and anxious, with a peculiar air of concentration.
On a gray leather seat in the first-class portion of an airplane, Oprah Winfrey sits half reclining.
Michael Douglas acted for years, but at some point in his sixties retired to run a series of coffee shops: not just to own them and to oversee them, but to work in them.