Conditions.

Anton Chekhov from a letter to his brother 1886 ...

You have been gifted from above with something most others lack : you have talent. That talent sets you above millions of people, for here on earth there is only one artist to every two million men.  That talent puts you on a plane apart, and even if you were a toad or a tarantula you would still be respected, for all is forgiven to talent. You have only one failing. But in it lies the source of your false position, your misery, and even of your intestinal catarrh. That failing is your utter lack of culture.  

Do excuse me, but veritas magis amicitiae, for life imposes certain conditions.  To feel at ease among intelligent folk, not to be out of place in such company, and not to feel this atmosphere to be a burden upon oneself, one must be cultured in a particular way.  Your talent has thrust you into this charmed circle, you belong to it, but you are impelled away from it and find yourself forced to waver between these cultured people and your neighbors. The vulgar flesh cries out in you, that flesh raised on the birch rod, in the beer cellar, on free meals.  To overcome this background is difficult - terribly difficult.

In my opinion people of culture must meet the following requisites ...