...
Show More
Chekhov adopts the Flaubertian objectivity and reluctance towards commenting on his characters. But where Flaubert’s withdrawal from revealing his approval/disapproval and the sheer coldness of his prose itself become a kind of condescending commentary that gives away his opinions, Chekhov steers clear of it by not only becoming his characters but also being a mere passerby. A passerby who can not only witness and empathize with his often lonely characters but can also detach himself abruptly and walk away without an iota of moralizing—this abruptness, and this desire to be two things at once are what make his stories seem as if they don’t really end at all.
This wanting to be two things at once is clearly seen in the story-within-a-story frame that Chekhov sometimes sets up, where two or more characters engage in a conversation and one of them, all passionate, narrates a story. The tale, which usually seems like the failure of the teller’s privacy, may be about a peasant narrating how painful his life has been, or a passionate case on happiness, or a man’s secret about his adulterous love affair, etc. This story is often passionately concluded with the teller’s own moral opinion, so passionate that even the reader is convinced by his notion. But all this teller’s passion and secret is greeted with, is the listeners’ boredom and indifference. What’s in the speaker’s head is interesting and urgent only to him; it sounds great only in his head, and not when blurted out. But again the teller is often not privy to the listener’s boredom—a typically Chekhovian trick. Their lives go on. It’s not just his abrupt endings that make them ambiguous: it’s also the absence of Chekhov, coupled with his free characters.
One of the other things that sets him apart is his concise, unlyrical, and (sometimes almost) flat prose that doesn’t linger much on static detail: though when it does, detail seems almost arbitrarily sprinkled. This and the lack of authorial commentary, allow his characters a kind of freedom where they not only seem to live but almost float.
Chekhov is free of any ideological consistency, but the one thing he’s unfailingly consistent is the capital-R Realism, though his version differs a little from the other 19th-century heavyweights. He doesn’t seem to be arguing for his own ideologies, nor is he interested in neatly wrapping things up by shoving moral epiphanies down the throats of his characters. He just shows you both the sides and shrugs, says “I don’t know,” and walks away.
I'm refraining from rating it because I don't really like the much acclaimed Pevear and Volokhonsky's translation, plus this selection also leaves out a lot of his important short pieces. Comparing it with other translations, I find their version to chase concision at the expense of clarity. I'll probably check out Constance Garnett's translation, which, though sometimes too literal, looks rather lucid.
This wanting to be two things at once is clearly seen in the story-within-a-story frame that Chekhov sometimes sets up, where two or more characters engage in a conversation and one of them, all passionate, narrates a story. The tale, which usually seems like the failure of the teller’s privacy, may be about a peasant narrating how painful his life has been, or a passionate case on happiness, or a man’s secret about his adulterous love affair, etc. This story is often passionately concluded with the teller’s own moral opinion, so passionate that even the reader is convinced by his notion. But all this teller’s passion and secret is greeted with, is the listeners’ boredom and indifference. What’s in the speaker’s head is interesting and urgent only to him; it sounds great only in his head, and not when blurted out. But again the teller is often not privy to the listener’s boredom—a typically Chekhovian trick. Their lives go on. It’s not just his abrupt endings that make them ambiguous: it’s also the absence of Chekhov, coupled with his free characters.
One of the other things that sets him apart is his concise, unlyrical, and (sometimes almost) flat prose that doesn’t linger much on static detail: though when it does, detail seems almost arbitrarily sprinkled. This and the lack of authorial commentary, allow his characters a kind of freedom where they not only seem to live but almost float.
Chekhov is free of any ideological consistency, but the one thing he’s unfailingly consistent is the capital-R Realism, though his version differs a little from the other 19th-century heavyweights. He doesn’t seem to be arguing for his own ideologies, nor is he interested in neatly wrapping things up by shoving moral epiphanies down the throats of his characters. He just shows you both the sides and shrugs, says “I don’t know,” and walks away.
I'm refraining from rating it because I don't really like the much acclaimed Pevear and Volokhonsky's translation, plus this selection also leaves out a lot of his important short pieces. Comparing it with other translations, I find their version to chase concision at the expense of clarity. I'll probably check out Constance Garnett's translation, which, though sometimes too literal, looks rather lucid.
