You know when you're just ready for something? I was ready for Chekhov this year. Now, I can list him among my favorites.

"At the door of every contented, happy man somebody should stand with a little hammer, constantly tapping, to remind him that unhappy people exist, that however happy he may be, sooner or later life will show him its claws, some calamity will befall him - illness, poverty, loss - and nobody will hear or see, just as he doesn't hear or see others now. But there is nobody with a little hammer, the happy man lives on, and the petty cares of life stir him only slightly, as wind stirs an aspen - and everything is fine."

Unele dintre temele principale care se regăsesc în povestirile lui Cehov sunt moartea şi boala. În " Călugărul negru", ( povestea care m-a impresionat cel mai mult), Cehov amestecă subtil problemele psihice ale lui Kovrin cu tuberculoza . În "Logodnica", Saşa moare din cauza stării sănătăţii precare, la fel se întâmplă şi cu" Omul din carapace", şi cu Preasfinţitul Piotr din " Arhiereul".
Autorul folosește moartea protagoniştilor săi ca simbolistică pentru a sublinia trecerea vieții şi pentru a indica fragilitatea individuală; poate chiar ca o indicaţie a faptului că omul se supune capriciilor destinului. Nu este de mirare utilizarea maladiilor în majoritatea poveştilor, deoarece Cehov a fost afectat de tuberculoză în cea mai mare parte a vieții sale adulte și a murit de boală la vârsta de patruzeci și patru de ani. 
Deziluzia vieţii este fin ilustrată în povestiri, personajele sunt dezamăgite de evenimentele din care fac parte şi asta le face să-şi reevalueze filozofiile personale. De obicei, concluziile la care ajung sunt mediocritatea şi inutilitatea mediului în care trăiesc.
Profesorul de literatură, Nikitin, devine extenuat de viaţă şi speră la o schimbare, după ce el însuşi şi-a construit astfel viaţa. " Unde mă aflu , Doamne ?! Mă împresoară si mă cotropeşte banalitatea . Oameni plicticoşi, meschini, strachini cu smântană, urcioare cu lapte , gândaci , femei proaste... nu exista nimic pe lume mai înspăimântător, mai înjositor şi mai plictisitor decât banalitatea ! Trebuie să fug de aici!"
Unul dintre cele mai impozante personaje din volumul de faţă este Kovrin din " Călugărul negru" . Interesant la acesta este că de fapt, atunci când el înnebuneşte își îmbrățișează propria nebunie fiindcă este însoțită de o stare de bucurie absolută : "eram pe cale să înnebunesc şi ajunsesem megaloman; dar eram vesel, puternic și chiar fericit; ". Kovrin se consideră binecuvântat de nebunie, deoarece reprezintă eliberarea de constrângerea emoțională și intelectuală. El nu este mulțumit de mediocritatea mediului academic sau de activitățile horticole ale lui Yegor; el dorește idei „gigantice, de neînțeles, uimitoare” care să-i ridice propriul geniu. De aceea, el devine rece şi ursuz atunci când este tratat, în lumea reală nu trăieşte extazul şi fericirea : " acum sunt serios şi rezonabil , dar la fel ca toţi oamenii. O mediocritate [...] aveam halucinaţii, dar pe cine stingheream? Făceam rău cuiva ?" În acest fel, povestea lui Cehov este o dovadă a puterii minții nonconformiste.
Un alt personaj impresionant este Nadia Ivanonvna, " Logodnica", o femeie care pare independentă, dar de fapt dependentă - de un barbat . Până la urma tânăra scapă de un logodnic pe care nu-l iubeşte și-şi urmează universitatea şi astfel işi afirmă independența. Ea nu este ca alte eroine, în timp ce altele tânjesc după iubire, ea caută sensul vieţii, vrea să evadeze din cotidian. Însă societatea din acea vreme nu acceptă un astfel de comportament care iese din norme (mai ales ca femeie), şi ajunge să-şi piardă statutul social.



Cehov surprinde crâmpeie semnificative din existenţa umană şi este lăudabil cum a reuşit să redea atât de multe trăiri în astfel de poveşti scurte . Scrise într-un stil realist , prin tehnici de scriere inventive cu finaluri şocante, acestea răman marcante pentru literatura secolului XIX.

This volume of Chekhov stories was unexpectedly a bit of a slog.

The chronological selection may be of interest to Chekhov scholars. We can see his development as a short story writer, but the problem, for me, was wading through the swamp of his earlier work before arriving at his more accomplished pieces — and of course having finally arrived, you will discover that you've already read much of his finer work which has been widely anthologized.

My four star rating is for the entire selection of stories in this volume. The last half of the book is easily five stars.

Chekhov was not always Chekhov, this volume illustrates to the patient reader. But he put in the work, and Chekhov became the writer we think of when we hear the name or the admiring adjective— Chekhovian.

... reason is an irreplaceable pleasure. *

* extract from Ward No. 6

Calling Chekhov the greatest short story writer of the modern era suddenly seems like a reasonable proposition, after finally setting down to read this excellent translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. As far as I’m concerned, there’s definitely a before and after Chekhov moment in what I want from the genre. Intellectual stimulation, definitely, but also something more, something that speaks about human nature across times and cultural borders, something that the author mentions last in his letter from May 10, 1886:

... set forth six principles that make for a good story: “1. Absence of lengthy verbiage of a political-social-economic nature; 2. total objectivity; 3. truthful descriptions of persons and objects; 4. extreme brevity; 5. audacity and originality: flee the stereotype; 6. compassion.”

Compassion is the key ingredient that makes style or vocabulary or even themes of secondary interest when deciding these are some of the best stories I ever read. There’s a quote from Nabokov related to this feeling on wikipedia that beautifully captures my emotion on turning the last page:

"I do love Chekhov dearly. I fail, however, to rationalize my feeling for him: I can easily do so in regard to the greater artist, Tolstoy, with the flash of this or that unforgettable passage […], but when I imagine Chekhov with the same detachment all I can make out is a medley of dreadful prosaisms, ready-made epithets, repetitions, doctors, unconvincing vamps, and so forth; yet it is his works which I would take on a trip to another planet.”

This is the kind of book a reader needs to own, not something to borrow from a library or a friend. It’s not just the quality of the selection: there’s not a single dud among the 30 stories included here. It’s the need to re-read, revisit, re-assess a particular scene or passage as your own experiences and emotions change in time, or the need to see how another writer might have ‘borrowed’ something or other from these model tales.
Because there is such diversity in tone, in character, in structure and in message from one story to the next, I feel I couldn’t do justice now to the talent of Chekhov to both pull at the heartstrings and to tickle the neurons. I hope at some point in the future, as I re-read them, to do some individual observations for some of my favorites.
Until then, here’s another passage from a letter written by Chekhov on October 4, 1888 that is more succinct and more clear than anything I have to say:

I looked upon tags and labels as prejudices. My holy of holies is the human body, health, intelligence, talent, inspiration, love and the most absolute freedom imaginable, freedom from violence and lies, no matter what form the latter two take. Such is the program I would adhere to if I were a major artist.

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I’m listening to Louis Armstrong as I’m writing this review. Nothing to do with Chekhov, you might think ... ‘Let’s do it’, anyway:

Sneezing is not prohibited to anyone anywhere. Peasants sneeze, police chiefs sneeze, sometimes even privy councillors sneeze. Everybody sneezes.

One of the first thing I remember hearing about Chekhov, before I read him, is that he is pessimistic, obsessed with death. Nothing could be farther from the truth. So we start the argument with two short comedic sketches, both set against a dark background: The Death of a Clerk and Small Fry . The satire, the ridicule will never be far from the surface in the rest of the collection, but there is something both hilarious and tragic in a boring functionary who dies of shame after sneezing on his superior, or in the testimony of an ignorant peasant who is brought before a judge for sabotaging the national railroad lines:

“Could we do without a sinker, Your Honor? If you put a live worm or a minnow on a hook, how’ll it ever go down without a sinker? Lying ...” Denis smirks. “Who the devil needs live bait if it floats up top! Your perch, your pike, your burbot always bite on the bottom, and if the bait floats up top, it’s only good for catching gobies, and even that’s rare ... Gobies don’t live in our river ... It’s a fish that likes space.”

The ubiquitous presence of death in Chekhov’s tales is for me a powerful reminder that we are wasting our times, that life is fleeting and that we must grab what we can while we may.

“Is joy a supernatural feeling? Should it not be the normal state of man? The higher man is in his mental and moral development, the freer he is, the greater the pleasure that life affords him. Socrates, Diogenes, and Marcus Aurelius experienced joy, not sorrow. And the Apostle says: ‘Rejoice evermore.’ Rejoice, then, and be happy.” [from The Black Monk ]

It’s a man’s life that counts, not plans! Life can’t be repeated, it must be cherished.”

The author wants to steer clear of politics and social issues, but sometime they are unavoidable and if he also wants to be true to his goal of perfect honesty, some things must be shouted out from the rooftops. He shows us women being abused by their husbands, Jews beaten on the street, old people abandoned by their children, lazy landlords wasting their lives in trivial pursuits, sick people ignored in hospitals, and so much more pain and suffering that must somehow be understood , be given a voice, even if it’s often only inside the head of his characters.

“They should take the reins and give it to you the same way ...” Varvara grumbled, walking off. “You prey on women, curse you all ...”
“Shut up!” Dyudya shouted at her. “You mare!” [from Peasant Women ]

“It’s a sin!” Sofya whispered.
“Who cares ... What’s there to be sorry about? If it’s a sin, it’s a sin, but I’d rather be struck by lightning than live such a life. I’m young, healthy, and my husband’s hunchbacked, hateful, harsh, worse than that cursed Dyudya.” [also from Peasant Women ]

Why had Yakov spent his whole life abusing people, growling at them, threatening them with his fists, and offending his wife, and, you might ask, what need had there been to frighten and insult the Jew earlier that day? Generally, why did people interfere with each other’s lives? It made for such losses! Such terrible losses! If there were no hatred and malice, people would be of enormous benefit to each other. [from Rotschild’s Fiddle ]

He recalled again that in his whole life he had never once pitied Marfa or been gentle with her. The fifty-two years that they had lived in the same cottage had dragged on and on, yet it turned out somehow that in all that time he had never thought of her, never paid attention to her, as if she were a cat or a dog. And yet every day she had stoked the stove, cooked and baked, fetched water, chopped wood, slept in the same bed with him, and when he came home drunk from weddings, she reverently hung his fiddle on the wall each time and put him to bed, and all that in silence, with a timid, solicitous look. [also from Rotschild’s Fiddle ]

Since her daughter had left with her husband much water had flowed under the bridge, the old people had lived like orphans and sighed deeply at night, as if they had buried their daughter. And so many things had happened in the village during that time, so many weddings, so many deaths. Such long winters! Such long nights! [from At Christmastime ]

Lyzhin listened and thought that while he, Lyzhin, would sooner or later go back to Moscow, this old man would stay here forever and keep on walking and walking; and how many of these old men he would meet in his life, tattered, disheveled, “worthless,” in whose hearts a fifteen-kopeck piece, a glass of vodka, and the profound belief that you cannot live by injustice in this world were somehow welded fat together. [from On Official Business ]

“We walk, walk, walk ... You live in warmth, in brightness, in softness, and we walk through the freezing cold, through the blizzard, over the deep snow ... We know no rest, we know no joy ... We bear the whole burden on this life, both ours and yours, on ourselves ... Hoo-o-o! We walk, walk, walk ...” [also from On Official Business ]

“You must understand, for instance, that if you, and your mother, and your dear granny do nothing, it means that someone else is working for you, that you are feeding on someone else’s life, and is that pure, is it not dirty?” [ from The Fiancee ]

The Fiancee is the closing story in this collection. It is about the liberation of the mind of a young woman, under the influence of a student visitor dying from tuberculosis, the same terrible fate that took both Chekhov and his brother before their times.

“An island”, she read, “is a piece of dry land surrounded on all sides by water”
“An island is a piece of dry land ...” she repeated, and this was the first opinion she uttered with conviction after so many years of silence and emptiness in her thoughts. [from The Darling ]

We are islands, surrounded on all sides by the wonders of life. We have no call to ever be bored, or even suicidal: there’s a passage about this also in On Official Business . Something particular to Chekhov, something that critics have sometimes called cheap sentimentality but resonates strongly with me, is his awareness of nature, of our vital connection with the earth, the sky, the trees and the passing of the seasons. Easter in particular, as expected from an Orthodox tradition, is the most important rite of passage in these stories, but spring is often in counterpoint with winter vistas, with the desolation, the loneliness it brings.

The weather seemed magnificent to me. It was dark, but I could still see trees, water, people ... The world was lit by the stars, which were strewn massively across the sky. I do not recall ever having seen so many stars. You literally could not put a finger between them. There were some as big as goose eggs, some as tiny as hempseed ... For the sake of the festive parade, all of them, from small to large, had come out in the sky, washed, renewed, joyful, and all of them to the last one quietly moved their rays. [from Easter Night ]

April was just beginning, and after the warm spring day it turned cooler, slightly frosty, and a breath of spring could be felt in the soft, cold air. The road from the convent to town was sandy, they had to go at a walking pace; and on both sides of the carriage, in the bright, still moonlight, pilgrims trudged over the sand. And everyone was silent, deep in thought, everything around was welcoming, young, so near – the trees, the sky, even the moon – and one wanted to think it would always be so. [from The Bishop ]

May, sweet May, was in the air! She breathed deeply and wanted to think that, not here, but somewhere under the sky, above the trees, far outside town, in the fields and woods, spring’s own life was now unfolding, mysterious, beautiful, rich, and holy, inaccessible to the understanding of weak, sinful human beings. And for some reason she wanted to cry. [from The Fiancee ]

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I wonder if Chekhov was referencing Shakespeare plays when thinking about the meaning of life. Maybe in A Boring Story or in Ward No.6 , the long novellas that present doctors struggling with existential angst in the darkest hours before morning, some echo of the bard’s verses was heard: We are such stuff as dreams are made on, And our little life is rounded with a sleep . It might be significant that some of these pages are written in first person, suggesting autobiographical roots:

They say philosophers and wise men are indifferent. Wrong, indifference is a paralysis of the soul, a premature death.
I lie down in bed again and begin inventing thoughts to occupy myself with. What to think about? It seems everything has already been through, and there’s nothing new that is capable of stirring my mind.
When dawn comes I’m sitting in bed with my arms around my knees and, since I have nothing to do, am trying to know myself. “Know yourself” – what splendid and useful advice; too bad the ancients never thought of showing how to use this advice.

also,
Formerly, when I would feel a desire to understand someone, or myself, I would take into consideration not actions, in which everything is relative, but wishes. Tell me what you want and I’ll tell you who you are.

Ward No. 6 is probably one of the most terrible examples of a wasted life, of an intelligent man who drifts away because he is unable to grasp time in his hands:

Life is a vexing trap. When a thinking man reaches maturity and attains adult consciousness, he involuntarily feels as if he is in a trap from which there is no escape. Indeed, against his will, he is called by certain accidents from non-being into life ... Why? He wants to learn the meaning and aim of his existence, and he is not told or else is told absurdities; he knocks – it is not opened; death comes to him – also against his will. And so, as people in prison, bound by a common misfortune, feel better when they come together, so also in life the trap can be disregarded when people inclined to analysis and generalization come together and spend time exchanging proud, free ideas. In this sense reason is an irreplaceable pleasure.”

He is answered by a madman from his hospital, the proverbial fool on the hill who is not afraid to speak truthfully about existence to such posers:

By nature you’re a lazy man, a soft man, and therefore you tried to shape your life so that nothing would trouble you or make you stir from your place.

“Tick-tock ...” the watchman rapped. “Tick-tock, tick-tock ...” is probably the best epitaph for my rambling review. I must close now and go outside where the life is... and by the way, do you think Harlan Ellison was remembering Chekhov’s story when he wrote Repent Harlequin, said the Ticktockman ?

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I came back, because there are two stories I must single out by name for those readers who, like me, waited a very long time, not sure if it is worth checking out some old stuff written more than 120 years ago. They are a good introduction to what he is trying to achieve.
The Huntsman is probably the first story Chekhov published, and one of the shortest, but it is also has one of the heaviest punches, about love and about the lack of compassion.
The Lady with the Little Dog is one of the last written by him, and it marks the triumph of compassion, his whole journey and the wisdom to be gained form it:

Formerly, in sad moments, he had calmed himself with all sorts of arguments, whatever had come into his head, but now he did not care about any arguments, he felt deep compassion, he wanted to be sincere, tender ...
“Stop, my good one,” he said, “you’ve had your cry – and enough ... Let’s talk now, we’ll think up something.”

In fall of 2016 I reread about 65 of Chekhov's short stories as well as short novels in chronologic order over 2 weeks. It was an immersive experience; the stories really sank in this time. The reviews, including this one, may be accessed as follows: Ward Number 6 and Other Stories, The Steppe and Other Stories, The Princess and Other Stories, The Russian Master and Other Stories, A Woman's Kingdom and Other Stories.

As others have pointed out, this collection nicely includes Chekhov's earlier, more comedic pieces along with his mature masterpieces. Chekhov is no Proust, whose baroque prose keeps one enthralled and returning over and over again. Chekhov's writing is humble, simple, fragmented, sparse, and--oddly enough--live up to re-reading just as well as Proust: if this isn't a telltale sign of towering genius I don't know what is.

Fans of Russian literature will be very at home in Chekhov's universe. "A Boring Story" is Chekhov's "Death of Ivan Ilyich"--only better, richer, less dogmatic, more evocative; "The Lady with the Little Dog" his n  Anna Kareninan--softer, gentler, subtler, and ultimately more hopeful; "Ward No 6" his I-don't-know-what-yet-but-I'm-sure-it's-been-dealt-with-ad-nauseum-by-other-19th-century-Russian-writers. Yet Chekhov's treatment of these familiar subjects is utterly unique and resists any simplification or reduction.

The one story I do want to highlight, which I have not had the opportunity to review elsewhere, is "Easter Eve", a plotless, imagist, askance glimpse of a platonic, covertly homosexual relationship between two monks. On the Eve of Christ’s resurrection, the spot of Earth that is Chekhov’s is an amalgamation of the pagan Styx, the Flood, and Hell (“pitch barrels” “red faces” “red copper”). The novice monk, the central figure of the story, is perhaps Charon in disguise. This is a prose poem, as slow-moving and moving as the river on which Charon’s ferry glides, of the highest order.

The only complaint against the editor I have is the choice to leave out "Concerning Love". "The Man in a Case", "Gooseberries" and "Concerning Love" form a little trilogy that share the common theme of shackles. In the first story these shackles appear to be societal expectations, although very soon you realize that most of what’s holding us back is not the world, but rather parts of ourselves. In the third part of the trilogy, this revelation reaches its tragic height in a story of doomed love. I cannot understand why the editor chose to include the first two but leave out the last.

my favourites:

1. champagne
2. the beggar
3. without a title
4. on the way
5. in the ravine

really good short stories for someone who is especially interested in the russian literature!

Let me try and list those whom Chekhov directly influenced - Joyce Faulkner Nabokov Cheever Carver Munroe Flannery O’Connor Shirley Jackson ok I give up already.

أنهيت الأعمال القصصية للطبيب الإنسان
للفيلسوف العبقري رائد القصة القصيرة :))
كانت رحلة ممتعة حقا مع مجموعة القصص هذه
غالبا متين الحبكة وبعضها أحسست أنه منقوص لكن الحالة العامة للمجموعة تستدعي أن أغض الطرف عن البسيط منها
أنطون تشيخوف جراح نفس ماهر وأديب حاذق
شجعتني هذه المجموعة على قراءة باقي الأعمال التى كتبها هذا الأديب
..............
تمت

3.5⭐️

Some very interesting stories, and some very uninteresting stories. Ironically, my favourite story from this collection is called ‘A Boring Story’. I could read Chekhov’s descriptions of nature all day though, genuinely some of the best I’ve read in that regard

Before this, my experience with Chekhov was fleeting. I think I read him in the wrong way. With certain short story writers (Carver comes to mind), one wants to read a whole volume of their work at once, swimming in their writing. But with Chekhov, I found that I couldn't read more than a few of his stories over the course of a day... they function, primarily, as moods, punctuated with silence and romantic imagery. Even when the events are epic in scope, they have a sort of grim Russian fatalism to them. Keep a copy by your bedside, and read it in when you feel like you can drift into something.

Chekhov is a master of a form of "objectivity" that is so imbued with both compassion and fury -- compassion for the underdog, the humble or inarticulate sufferer, and fury at general humanity, so nearsighted, self-centered, and brutal. I've just finished "Ward Six," a brilliant description of one person's descent into the "magic circle" of a mental ward, and all for nothing. Once his behavior has landed him into this circle, there is nothing he can do. An indictment of social structures, filled with empathy and humor, as well as sorrow.