I’ve gotten to the title tale in the collection of Anton Chekov stories I’m reading. It’s a depressing yarn about the filthy, decrepit lodge that houses mental patients next to a small-town Russian hospital. The patients are more like prisoners, and bars on the windows are not the only means of keeping them subdued. At least one seems to remember what human dignity was. At the heart of the matter are questions about reality and how much control over it we have. Once again, I’m turning to a multiple-exposure image, imposing my will on the reality of some of the glass in my house, which may well be a prison I’ve chosen to live inside.
