"Sure. What have you been reading?"
"Tolstoy. The Russians. Dostoyevsky, Chekhov."
"That'll get you through a long night."
"There's no one like Tolstoy," Margery said. "So serene. Cosmic and down to earth at the same time."
"I wrote a novel once," Charlie said.
"What happened?"
"It wasn't very good." Charlie stopped by the library book drop.
"At least you finished."
He watched her slide three souls and twenty years work through the brass slot. "There's a story I love about Chekhov," she said, getting back into the car. "He paid a visit to Tolstoy. Late in the evening, on his way home after a certain amount of wine, he cried out to his horse and to the heavens: 'He says I'm worse than Shakespeare. Worse than Shakespeare!'"
"Wonderful," Charlie said. "Chekhov—didn't he die after a last swallow of champagne?"