Chekhov's long short story, My Life:  It's one of those moments in art when human reality steps forth out of a traditional form, much like Giotto's transformation of the flat Byzantine iconic figure into the world of light, gravity and emotion.  The form was suddenly reduced in importance, and what came through was a liberation, a new freedom of expression no longer bound to the story.  Instead of 'this is holy, therefore it must be flat and distant from every day reality,' there is 'this is real, so let things be round and dimensional, as they really are.'

It is the inner self knowledge, the awareness of psychology, of one's own shortcomings to temptations and laziness, etc., that lets the Buddha face that which is in himself, to withstand, and to gain enlightenment.

An ad hoc quality...  The 'old man' (character's father) beating him with fists...  facing up to the life of disappointment after pissed away potential...  an acceptance of a life without a clear purpose or professional betterment...

It makes one think, or even realize, that Chekhov's life, even Chekhov, the great doctor, who had worked his way up from hard scrabble and mean old man, felt that 'lacking of direction.'  Even Chekhov.

And then you think about that for a moment, and the impetus, deeper level stuff, comes clearer...