Ikke nødvendigvis dårlig, men fenget meg ikke denne gangen

Personal Memo: Starting in 2019, I'd become increasingly interested in short stories—how deft, twisting, and exact narrative can be when constrained by form. I started listening to "The New Yorkers: Fiction" podcast and reading the queens of short story like Alice Munro, Lorrie Moore, and others. I got turned on to Chekhov after reading a book review by William2, a Goodreads god I follow faithfully. When I learned Chekhov is considered king of the short novel, I was keen to read him and study what he would do with the slightly extended form. I started The Complete Short Novels on the plane ride home from Ireland in October 2021 and finished it a few weeks later in my girlhood bedroom in Indiana.

I loved Anton Chekhov: The Complete Short Novels, translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky (a married couple known for their collaborative English translations of classic Russian literature). I loved each of the five works featured—The Steppe, The Duel, The Story of an Unknown Man, Three Years, and My Life—and I even loved the translator's introduction.

Before reading the short novels, Pevear's introduction offered a constructive sense of how to read Chekhov and appreciate his art and sensibility. While Chekhov was "an agnostic and a man of science" (xii) whose dialogue pokes fun at society and modern philosophy, he also writes like a lyric poet—the inner monologues and descriptions of landscape shimmer. And Pevear, necessarily, calls attention to form: "[...] it seems justifiable to call the five works collected here short novels, and to distinguish them from Chekhov's other works, which are at most half their length. The question is metrical, not mechanical. A hundred-page narrative, whatever generic name we give it, moves to a different measure than a narrative of five, or fifteen, or even fifty pages. It includes the effective time and space of a full-bodied novel, but treats them with the short story's economy of means. The interest in bringing Chekhov's five short novels together in one volume is precisely to focus on that distinction of form" (x).

These short novels show off a delicate and honestly delicious economy of means. They prove the principal of "Chekhov's gun"—that every element introduced into a story must be necessary to the narrative—even when the narrative itself ends in irresolution. But they also reveal that a tight and twisting narrative can be as thick and as soft as honey, can teem with a tenderheartedness, for all that is magical and tragic in a life.

The Steppe (1888) — The most lyrical of the five—is an account of a nine-year-old boy who is sent to live away from home and his journey by wagon train across the steppe of southern Russia. LOVE the use of ellipses to propel feeling and meaning. LOVE the steppe and the natural world personified and imposing, especially that sky, wondrous and terrible, and ominous like the seam of linen, wet and heavy and about to break...

"As soon as the sun sets and the earth is enveloped in dusk, the day's anguish is forgotten, all is forgiven, and the steppe breaths easily with is broad chest" (41).

"And once you gaze at the pale green sky spangled with stars, with not a cloud, not a spot on it, you understand why the warm air is motionless, why nature is on the alert and afraid to stir: she feels eerie and sorry to lose even one moment of life. The boundless depth and infinity of the sky can be judged only on the sea or on the steppe at night, when the moon is shining. It is frightening, beautiful, and caressing, it looks at you languorously and beckons, and its caress makes your head spin" (42). - Is this second person?!

"The stars that have gazed down from the sky for thousands of years, the incomprehensible sky itself and the dusk, indifferent to the short life of man, once you remain face-to-face with them and try to perceive their meaning, oppress your soul with their silence; you start thinking about the loneliness that awaits each of us in the grave, and the essence of life seems desperate, terrible..." (66).

"There is something sad, dreamy, and in the highest degree poetic in a lonely grave... You can hear its silence, and in this silence you sense the presence of the soul of the unknown person who lies under the cross. Is it good for this soul in the steppe? Does it languish on a moonlit night? And the steppe near the grave seems sad, dismal, and pensive, the grass is sorrowful, and the grasshoppers seem to call with more restraint... And there is no passerby who would not give thought to the lonely soul and turn to look back at the grave until it was left far behind and covered in dusk..." (68-9).

"The moon rose intensely crimson and morose, as if it was sick; the stars were also morose, the murk was thicker, the distance dimmer. It was as if nature anticipated something and languished" (86).

The Duel (1891) — A series of ethical-philosophical conversations, and conversions, that escalate into a literal duel. Laevsky, a lazy government worker wishes to leave his married mistress. Von Koren, a zoologist, believes Laevsky "a rather uncomplicated organism" (137). In conversation with others about the new idea of evolution and natural selection, Von Koren uses Laevsky as an example of a man unfit to survive and criticizes Laevsky's his whims—his selfishness and passions, especially in relation to women. This dialogue-driven story is a funny, muddled look at what's "right " or "wrong" and how a person can change—or not.

"He [Laevsky] accused himself of having no ideals or guiding idea in his life, though now he vaguely understood what that meant. Two years ago, when he had fallen in love with Nadezhda Fyodorovna, it had seemed to him that he had only to take up with Nadezhda Fyodorovna and leave with her for the Caucasus to be saved from the banality and emptiness of life; so now, too, he was certain that he had only to abandon Nadezhda Fyodorovna and leave for Petersburg to have everything he wanted. 'To escape!' he murmured, sitting up and biting his nails. 'To escape!'" (127).

"'Laevsky is a rather uncomplicated organism[...] Whether he walks, sits, gets angry, writes, rejoices—everything comes down to drink, cards, slippers, and women. Women play a fatal, overwhelming role in his life[...] On finishing his studies, he fell passionately in love with his present... what's her name?... the married one, and had to run away with her here to the Caucasus, supposedly in pursuit of ideals... Any day now he'll fall out of love with her and flee back to Petersburg, also in pursuit of ideals'" (137-8).

"'For each of us, woman is a mother, a sister, a wife, a friend, but for Laevsky, she is all that—and at the same time only a mistress. She—that is, cohabitating with her—is the happiness and goal of his life; he is merry, sad, dull, disappointed—on account of a woman; he's sick of his life—it's the woman's fault; the dawn of a new life breaks, ideals are found—look for a woman here as well'" (138).

"'I'm an empty, worthless, fallen man! The air I breathe, this wine, love, in short, life—I've been buying it all up to now at the price of lies, idleness, and pusillanimity[...] I'm glad I see my shortcomings clearly and am aware of them. That will help me to resurrect and become a different man. My dear heart, if only you knew how passionately, with what anguish, I thirst for my renewal. And I swear to you, I will be a man'" (170).

"He dislodged his own dim star from the sky, it fell, and its traces mingled with the night's darkness; it would never return to the sky, because life is given only once and is not repeated. If it had been possible to bring back the past days and years, he would have replaced the lies in them by truth, the idleness by work, the boredom by joy; he would have given back the purity to those from whom he had taken it, he would have found God and justice, but this was as impossible as putting a fallen star back into the sky. And the fact that it was impossible drove him to despair" (216).

"'So it is in life... In search of the truth, people make two steps forward and one step back. Sufferings, mistakes, and the tedium of life throw them back, but the thirst for truth and a stubborn will drive them on and on. And who knows? Maybe they'll row their way to the real truth...'" (237).

The Story of an Unknown Man (1892, translated also as The Story of a Nobody and An Anonymous Story) — An attentive and urgent first-person narrative from the perspective Stepan—our unknown, nobody, and anonymous man. He is a political activist posing as the servant to a government official, Georgiy Ivanych Orlov, in hopes of learning state secrets against Orlov’s high-profile father. While working undercover in Orlov's home, he witnesses Orlov seduce a beautiful, young married woman, Zinaida Fyodorovna Krasnovsky, who subsequently leaves her husband and shows up on Orlov's doorstep. Stepan is ill with consumption and dreams of an "ordinary, humdrum life" (242), a life that he watches Orlov throw away and attempts to hold himself. This short story is a lament, an emotionally complex elegy for the dreams one has that will never be realized.

I would bet money that passages from The Story of an Unknown Man inspired Elio's father's monologue following heartbreak in Call Me By Your Name: "We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster that we go bankrupt by the age of 30 and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to make yourself feel nothing so as not to feel anything—what a waste![...] Just remember, our hearts and our bodies are given to us only once, and before you know it, your heart’s worn out. And as for your body, there comes a point when no one looks at it, much less wants to come near it. Right now, there’s sorrow, pain; don’t kill it, and with it, the joy you’ve felt.” And here is Chekhov: "Why do we, who start out so passionate, brave, noble, believing, become totally bankrupt by the age or thirty or thirty-five?" (300)... "Life is given only once, and one would like to live it cheerfully, meaningfully, beautifully" (326).

"At that time, I had the beginnings of consumption, and along with it something else perhaps more important than consumption. I don't know whether it was under the influence of illness or of a beginning change in worldview, which I hadn't noticed then, but day after day I was overcome by a passionate, nagging thirst for ordinary, humdrum life. I craved inner peace, health, good air, satiety. I was becoming a dreamer and, like a dreamer, did not know what in fact I wanted" (242).

"I would have liked to fall in love, to have my own family, would have liked my future wife to have exactly such a face, such a voice. I dreamed over dinner, and when I was sent out on some errand, and at night when I didn't sleep, Orlov squeamishly thrust aside female rags, children, cooking, copper pans, and I picked it all up and carefully cherished it in my reveries, loved it, asked fate for it, and dreamed of a wife, a nursery, a garden path, a little house... I knew that, if I fell in love with her, I would not dare to count on such a miracle as requital, but this consideration did not trouble me. In my modest, quiet feeling, which resembled ordinary attachment, there was neither jealousy of Orlov nor even envy, since I realized that, for a crippled man like me, personal happiness was possible only in dreams" (275).

"I prodded myself and clenched by teeth, trying to squeeze from my soul at least a drop of my former hatred; I remembered what a passionate, stubborn, and indefatigable enemy I had been still recently... But it's hard to strike a match on a crumbling wall. The sad old face and the cold gleam of the stars called up only petty, cheap, and useless thoughts about the frailty of all earthly things, about the proximity of death..." (291).

"'To freely follow the yearnings of one's heart does not always bring good people happiness. To feel yourself free and at the same time happy, it seems to me, you mustn't conceal from yourself the fact that life is cruel, crude, and merciless in its conservatism, and you must respond to it according to its worth; that is, be just as crude and merciless in your yearnings for freedom. That's what I think'" (294-5, Gruzin).

"What if, by a miracle, the present should turn out to be a dream, a terrible nightmare, and we should wake up renewed, pure, strong, proud of our truth?... Sweet dreams burn me, and I can hardly breathe from excitement. I want terribly to live, I want our life to be holy, high, and solemn, like the heavenly vault. Let us live! The sun does not rise twice a day, and life is not give us twice—hold fast to the remains of your life and save them" (300-1, Stepan writing).

Three Years (1895) — This story spotlights an unhappy couple over the course of three years of marriage. This spotlight pierces, again and again, the heart of regret, misfortune, commitment, maturity, and the nature of happiness itself. The emotional complexity of these characters is so vivid and absolutely captivating.

"'Yes, everything in this world has an end,' he said quietly, narrowing his dark eyes. 'You'll fall in love, and you'll suffer, fall out of love, be betrayed, because there's no woman who doesn't betray; you'll suffer, become desperate, betray her yourself. But the time will come when it will all turn into a memory, and you'll reason coldly and regard it as completely trifling...'" (340-1, Panaurov).

"'I'm rich, but what has money given me so far, what has this power given me? How am I happier than you? My childhood was like hard labor, and money didn't save me from birching. When Nina was sick and dying, my money didn't help her. If someone doesn't love me, I can't force him to love me, though I spend a hundred million'" (391).

"Yulia imagined herself walking across the little bridge, then down the path further and further, and it is quiet all around, drowsy corncrakes cry, the fire flickers far ahead. And for some reason, it suddenly seemed to her that she had seen those same clouds that stretched across the red part of the sky, and the forest, and the field long ago and many times; she felt lonely, and she wanted to walk, walk, walk down the path; and where the sunset's glow was, there rested the reflection of something unearthly, eternal" (401).

"'Yes, my friend, I'm three years older than you, and it's late for me to think about true love, and essentially a woman like Polina Nikolaevna is a find for me, and I could certainly live my life very well with her into old age, but, devil take it, I keep regretting something, keep wanting something, and imagining that I'm lying in the Vale of Dagestan and dreaming of a ball. In short, a man is never content with what he's got'" (414-3, Yartsev).

"But he went on standing there and asking himself: 'What holds me here?' And he was vexed both with himself and with this black dog, which lay on the stones instead of going off to the field, to the forest, where it would be independent, joyful. Obviously the same thing prevented both him and this dog from leaving the yard: the habit of captivity, of the slavish condition..." (430).

My Life: A Provincial's Story (1896) — Misail renounces his wealth and social position for a life of manual labor. While this story is a heavy political commentary on social class, idealism, and power, it also a story about belonging. And even though Misail is the heart of the story, the women around him are the blood running through it. The women also struggle with balancing their dreams with what's expected of them and their sense of belonging.

"And, as usual, he began his talk about young men nowadays being lost, lost through unbelief, materialism, and superfluous self-confidence, and about how amateur performances out to be forbidden because they distract young people from religion and their duties" (436).

"I loved my native town. It seemed to me so beautiful and warm! I loved this greenery, the quiet, sunny mornings, the ringing of our bells; but the people I lived with in this town bored me, were alien and sometimes even repulsive to me. I didn't love them and didn't understand them" (448).

"By now, when she was not around, Dubechnya, with its decay, unkemptness, banging shutters, thieves by night and by day, seemed to me a chaos in which any work would be useless[...] Oh, what anguish it was at night, in the hours of solitude, when I listened every moment with anxiety, as if waiting for someone to cry out to me that it was time to go. I wasn't sorry for Dubechnya, I was sorry for my love, whose autumn had obviously also come. What enormous happiness it is to love and be loved, and how terrible to feel that you're beginning to fall from that high tower!" (514-5).

"If i had the desire to order myself a ring, I would choose this inscription: 'Nothing passes.' I believe that nothing passes without a trace and that each of our smallest steps has significance for the present and the future" (536).

Bloody awesome book. Gives you a good perspective how life was back then in the late nineteen century Russia. I've throughly a enjoyed each and every short novels more or less.

Anton Chekhov is one of the best short novels/novellas/tales authors of his own time (and beyond). A physician by profession and writer as hobby, he understands Humanity in such enlightened manner few people were ever able to.

Travel is good for the mind and soul, but Zarathustra always grows weary of the world in time, and returns to his mountain home. This volume has been lurking a good while on my rainy day shelf. Every Russian author I've read thus far has had the same synesthetic overlay to their voice, like uncut rock in ice and ocean blue, sometimes rough or abrupt, but rock is never in a hurry. This is my first time reading Chekhov, but the pattern holds true. As these are distinct stories, I shall treat them as such, beginning, naturally, with the first.


The Steppe.

Hauntingly beautiful, this one, and delightfully mystical in its imagery, flowing with silky ease from one event to the next... But the characters! Not since 100 Years of Solitude have I seen such a colorful cast. My pet favorite is obviously the priest, but pronounced as they were, even the (to me) unfamiliarity of the names didn't slow the story.

Riding so far at four stars. He has my full attention, but this short novel read more like a descriptive narrative than a story, and I always walk away feeling empty when no clear resolution follows the journey. A matter of personal taste, and as memorable as the ride was, I almost feel bad, but my opinion stands.


The Duel

Wow. As much as I would like to have loved this, it comes in at two stars, mostly for moral reasons. Holding off, let's start with the logical flaws.
The main lead role was at best confusing. Was Laevsky a personable sort, a man people liked? (Then how does he downplay every word when he plays his part? Nobody likes negativity.) Was he tolerant of flaws? Well that takes kindness of spirit, real Christianity. (Yet it says he's open to gossip. At best, he should have tolerated it, as any other serious flaw. I'm confused. Unless he meant to say indulgent? Patient tolerance of some flaws in people can be very wearing indeed, but the best way to lead is by example, and one can't cure a disease without being near the subject. Though there are limits; having tried for a time to tolerate rabid atheism, and having every nudge in a better direction ignored was too much for my constitution.) Encouraging flaws is another story entirely. It did say he rescued a prostitute, though he failed to marry her, so his motives may have been mixed. And intellect and schooling leading the mess. Yet the character never seems to use them, nor could if his reading has been entirely neglected for long, so how is he allegedly holding conversations on things which he himself says he can't remember? (See also Faust vs Dostoyevsky- education is evil vs stepping away from taught faith is the last rung on the ladder to enlightenment and honest faith. Last, but still a rung, and his disillusioned priest reminds me of our Popes, who come out of that room crying every time.) Henry James also makes a strong point in Turn of the Screw, where the deliberate ignorance of the caretaker was a strong contributor to the damage of the children. A silent (perhaps we should say dumb, sense of lacking a tongue, and no pun intended?) witness is as good as abetting the criminal. Unless ignorance is an excuse, and when the ignorance is by choice- "There are none so blind as those who will not see."

Next. This unfortunate woman (I've only ever spoken to one such, but in light of recently accumulated information, her mental state suddenly makes more sense. I've seen many fiction writers romanticise prostitution as a natural product of war or turmoil, and I've seen historians treat it as a normal part of some cultures. Then we watch Tolstoy or Dickens or Sinclair take a stab, and their depictions are horrifing, poignant, and bear the ring of truth, so far as I understand victim mentality. I've never once seen the subject treated with such obscene levity, however. A commentary on the author.) then ran back to the brothel. (Why? He wasn't abusive. That's made clear. Such a choice has no logical backing, as written.) He was so devastated as to be incapacitated for a time. Very well, sensitive people often have high spirits, and they tend to worship their muses. Except I get the sense this author doesn't understand how to love, except for landscapes and thunderstorms. (Beautiful descriptions, by the way. I couldn't get enough. It was Nabakov writing Lo level energy.) Our author showed no signs of ever having given thought to a woman, except to seem slightly puzzled over why anyone would want one, and his character reflects that mentality by his actions, though not by initial introduction.

Curiouser and curiouser. But let's move on, nonetheless. Is there any way so many blatent contradictions could coexist? I find one. Only half the story can be true. But how to sort the truth from the fiction, in such a portrait? (Fancy, trying to divide fiction into fact and lie! Or plausible and not, that has a milder ring, and thus closer to the shades of grey to which life is often prone.) I'm aided by a number of sources: Tolstoy, an unfortunate young woman with blogging tendencies, a tv series titled 13 Reasons Why (brilliantly or horribly accurate in its psychological depiction of victims), data on witch hunts- know what, let's stop there. Because a witch hunt is precisely the description for what seems to be going on. Repressed and oft hysterical people, damaged but socialized people, set on an innocent (whatever roots of truth may or not be, there are, of course, no such mythological creatures as witches) and attempt to pin or spin any deed, word, or action into a flaw. It's identical to what happened in the Nazi movement. 13 had the same start, with a single target. Tolstoy's Anna met the same end, as 13, I mean. Socrates and Jesus both fell to the same phenomenon. (I've had the opportunity but not the stomach to examine mass genocide in more detail, but I suspect the same principles apply.) You'd think someday someone would get the hint. Picking a target and inventing flaws that actually stick with the sorts of people who think that The Onion is a real newsfeed will eventually kill the target, or else create a madman; when pushed to insanity, people can go one of two ways, try to kill everyone who harmed them, or else carry the cross to the hill quietly. Take the hemlock. What would any reasonable crazy person do? There's an oxymoron, if I ever saw one. But the ones who snap lend fuel to the fire, proving that some devil is causing things to happen behind the scenes, and the actors who created the broken animal were right all along... if you beat a dog and it bites, isn't it a bad dog? Certainly, after it's suffered enough. It's not relevant to the story, but Nietzsche did say the strength of a thing lay in how much damage it could endure, and still be itself.

Well, moving on again.

Tolstoy is possibly the warmest hearted author I've ever read, and accurate, sometimes painfully so, in his observations. At one point, Chekov calls Laevsky "another Tolstoy." Hearing the name of the warmest hearted author I've ever read treated as an epithet was difficult at best. He told a hard story with honesty and insight, and he should be honored for it. Wisdom involves both knowledge and compassion; one without the other is often disastrous. Knowledge alone destroys, score one point to Faust. Compassion alone does the same, promoting simple-mindedly only that which it knows and inadvertently damaging what it encounters along the way. Ignorance is not the path, but as Freud understood, understanding has the potential to actually cure things.

Plainly put, this falls under negative literature, as it promotes a damaging outlook on life.

I should conclude by saying I was startled and confused by the explanation for the ending. Oh, pride? No... the hysterics, the paranoia, that sounds more like what the after film of 13 Reasons called "almost like ptsd." The shattered spirit, timid air? Sounds exactly like. Such a person is unlikely to be industrious: those sorts have populated asylums time untold. Some beaten dogs don't have to be put down for agression, but rather shiver and cower in fear on seeing a human, and take a great deal of patience to coax back to human attention. Such humans are rarely functional after the fact, and often violent and/or suicidal before. Call a spade a spade. Social bullying, promoting lies and hypocrisy, this is one of the lowest forms of immorality, as it undermines civilization in the same manner as wanting to kill the crippled or mentally disabled did. Make up your mind. Either one is for Christianity, or - not entirely against, but many seem to have one foot in the water, so to speak, and half truths are often more damaging than outright lies.

I liked the writing. But he's no psychologist, and should steer clear of things he knows nothing about, precisely because he is so good. Golden age Athens had many good talkers, and see how that imploded?

Such subjects drain me; I'll be over reading about digital dragons for a bit, until I recover.


The Story of an Unknown Man

The dragons were a bit bland, but the palate cleanser was welcome. Um. This one was rather hypnotic, curiously well-written. I left the book as leaving a trance, still half asleep and unsure of the world about me. I suppose that's art. If it makes an impression...

The author has grown, since the last I read of him, which feels an odd statement when it's all counting as one book. I still had confusion over the directions of the characters, but there was less of the polar duality between perception and reality. I must say I admired his depiction of Polya, as a duplicitious thief whose one glory is making others afraid of her, yet pretends to have any sort of morals at all... no, not any sort, the highest, because she's reasoned herself superiour to someone she scarely knows! I'm not sure such a one would be prone to perfume and such, but it's a step down from the witch hunt mentality.

To quote Nietzsche (translated, clearly): "One must learn to Love, - This is our experience in music; we must first learn in general to hear, to hear fully, and to distinguish a theme or a melody, we have to isolate and limit it as a life by itself; then we need to exercise effort and good-will in order to endure it in spite of its strangeness. We need patience towards its aspect and expression and indulgence towards what is odd in it:- in the end there comes a moment when we are accustomed to it, when we expect it, when it dawns upon us that we should miss it if it were lacking; and then it goes on to exercise its spell and charm more and more, and does not cease until we have become its humble and enraptured lovers, who want it, and want it again, and ask for nothing better in this world. -it is thus, however, not only in music: it is precisely thus that we have learned to love everything that we love. We are always finally recompensed for our good-will, our patient reasonableness and gentleness towards beauty:- that is its thanks to us for our hospitality. He who loves himself must also have learned it in this way: There is no other way. Love also has to be learned."

The author seems more objective here, more clear of sight, less inclined to judge, not yet with the open eyes of a good psychologist, but with good inclinations and clear progress.

Can Polya be a pseudo-religious (pretend believer and proud in her "faith") thief and a bully and a seductress at the same time? Probably not, as the last implies a liberty of behaviour that would contradict the former aspect of her character. Yet it seems to me I've encountered exactly this sort in life. This sort of thing is what makes the author so unpredictable... It's impossible to get a solid lock on any of the characters, when logistical flaws linger so. What scares me most is that he might have drawn her perfectly, and if such monsters are free in society- !

To Fyodorova (Tribute to Fedka? He must be older here.) still lies a confusing character. No mind. One can only write well that which one understands. It was a nice try, if implausable. What woman has been born who could see her new child and say straight off, "Vile!" So as to say, "Take it away from me!," just after the birth... Seems inconcievable, yet since we have imagined such a creature, she at least had the integrity to off herself quietly rather than take her venom out on an innocent girl of her own blood. Certainly not the attitude of one who has "read too much." True wisdom requires information as well as compassion, thus does the fallacy of Faust make ignoramuses of us all.

No, some people are hypocrites, and if his characters reflect that, he might not be in the wrong for it. He's gained some respect, with this mess of a story. (Should I call it a mess because it doesn't follow standard format?)

That said, and I know it was a mouth-full: window fiction isn't really my thing. I'm also not a fan of open ended questions at the end of a story. (What sort of man was Krasnovsky? Honorable, or coward? Decent or base? How- (Spoiler) would he treat his daughter?)

Well. A weighty book, but his development is encouraging, and I shall soon see what the next chapter holds.

How many stars? Dunno. Four for style. One for logic. Three for general interest. Two for plausibility There are too many factors in this to make a clear call.


Three Years

I took a step back to read a bit of Zarathustra before reviewing this. It calmed my temper, though now I wonder if the stormy review might not have been more fun. It comes to this. Checkhov is a hypocrite and a bully, and has not yet had an original thought I can find, preferring instead to attempt to tear down what his betters have created. He is Faust; having been taught by pharisees, he imagines himself wise and sets to spoiling all that is good around him.

Regarding Dostoyevsky: The gentleman possesed the highest traits mankind can; his mind was clear and his humor was good. This priest I've unwittingly entered an argument about did not fit the description, "It was written dully, in the colorless style usually employed by untalented, secretly vain people, and its main thought was this: an intelligent man has the right to not believe in the supernatural, but it is his duty to conceal this disbelief, so as not to cause temptation and shake the people's faith; without faith, there is no idealism, and idealism is predestined to save Europe and show mankind to the true path." What utter nonsense! The easiest thing to love, the most colorful thing in man, is his ability to laugh, and I've heard audio-book readers who couldn't read Fedka and keep the laughter entirely out of their voices. Chekhov is one of these "bad readers," reflecting himself into everything. The priest he speaks of was acting out of sorrow, not hypocracy. He saw the path laid out, how many people would take the education offered by the church and become as Faust, stolid, toxic, eternally wrong, but that because of what was right in it, because the few that would grow to the wisdom of questioning might have a chance of leading mankind to a better way, his duty was to continue pedaling a broken machine and hope for the best. In his humility, he knew he could not create something new, and did the best he could with what was already at hand.

And yes, our Fedka married a much younger woman. They sounded well matched. When he died, she never remarried, and when questioned her reported response ran along the lines of "Whom would I marry after him? Tolstoy?" Intigration of minds is truly love, not physical affinity, which brings us to...

Love. I confess I find this author difficult to understand; our vocabularies are far too different. When he said "wife," I immediately considered all possible definitions. Friend, intellectual companion, subject of adoration and trust, official partner in life, second half of the self, reason to think of tomorrow. I sorted it out eventually. What he meant was "concubine," bought and paid for, with the option to steal by premature consumation. Had Laptev really loved his Yulia, he wouldn't have dared touch her without first gaining her love. She was no wife to him, as the author's vanity kept his own parody of a wife from even living in the same house as himself.

I felt for Laptev, despite the myraid incongruities. To live under a fictional union with someone you love whom does not love you in return must be a special kind of hell. Our author had a start, with the parasol. Obsession is indeed a factor of being in love; the smallest trinket easily becomes a treasure. But with love... he would have had or desired some idea of her interests and inclinations, would likely have attended the church to which she went not only so as to meet her, but as to know her better. Romeo didn't show much forsight either, I suppose.

Love is the condition in which the other person's happiness means more to you than your own.

Having recently read "The Steppe" and very much enjoying it, I decided to plunge int his four other short novels. I've already reviewed The Steppe, and I won't go into detail describing the others. Suffice to see, to my mind each takes me a step closer to the Chekhov I know much better - his plays. In fact the last short novel "My Life" was written in 1896, the same year that The Seagull received its first, apparently terrible production. (Two years later it was performed by the recently founded Moscow Arts Theatre, was a tremendous success and made that theatre's reputation.) In "My Life," whose main character is a man who finds himself lost between classes, refuting his own and diving into that of a common worker, one can see several similarities to the play. Amateur theatricals are regularly given in the house of a well-off family, one young woman longs to be an actress but cannot act, another has been a singer and actor in St Petersburg and returns home. Both are out of sorts, confused as to their identity, reminding one of Nina in "The Seagull," and the first scene of the play, in which a play by the young male protagonist is being performed in his mother's back yard - starring Nina.

So that ending (of the novels) and beginning (of the plays) may offer some insight into my sense that as they progress the novels become more "Chekhovian." The second is called "The Duel" and includes one, owing much to Lermontov and Pushkin. The third, "An Anonymous Story" is quite mysterious, its title character a revolutionary who disguises himself as a servant and lives in the home of the son of an aristocrat that he wants to get information on - how's that for a long meandering sentence? And that is only the beginning of the complications of its intricate plot. The Third is "Three Years" begins to become Chekhovian in its theme of (as I used to simplify it to my theatre history students) "looking for love in all the wrong places." It is a wrenching tale of a mismatch between a man of lowly status and a woman of wealth and class. I think I may like it almost as much as I LOVED "The Steppe."

I read a Kindle version, by the pioneering tranlator of Chekhov and other Russians into English, Constance Garnett. I chose her, and looking back I might have been smarter to try a more recent translation, as hers often becomes stiff, and seems to work to hard to deal with Chekhov's words. I hope some of you will look into these novels, which stand somewhat in the shadow of the short stories, for no good reason that I can tell. As well as being one of the greatest playwrights in history, Chekhov's prose is well worth the reading.

I picked this up from my local library to challenge my impressions of classic literature.

I'm happy to say -at least when it comes to Chekhov- that many of my impressions were incorrect. While some plots seemed to meander a bit compared to modern literature, the themes were still relevant, and the characters were still (mostly) relatable.

If you avoid classic literature because of the stream of consciousness style of writing, have no fear, this isn't that. If you avoid classic literature because the characters are upper-class families that have never worked a day in their lives (unrelatable), have no fear, this is most definitely not that. If you avoid classic literature because of marathon sentences, crafted so just to prove it can be done, have no fear, this isn't that. There are some longer sentences, but none struck me as long for the sake of being long.

If you're likely to DNF a book, start with either The Duel or My Life rather than reading from the beginning. The first story (The Steppe) was the hardest for me to get through.

I borrowed the book, "The Complete Short Novels" by Anton Chekhov by pure mistake which turned out very fortunate. From time to time, I reflect on the prose, 'Was Traurig Mact' by Anton Schnack which was introduced in my high school national language text book. When I came across with the name, Anton, I thought I borrowed Schnack's book without knowing he was a German. Anton Chekhov's name is familiar with me too, but I wonder if I have ever read any of his books.

The novella is composed with five stories; The Steppe, The Duel, The Story of an Unknown Man, Three Years and My Story. Each story happened to be composed of almost same length, a little more than 100 pages. As soon as I started the first one "The Steppe", I loved the story. The story is very poetic and simple. The author describes the landscape and people's thought and culture through nine years old boys' eyes. The dialogue between Fr. Kristofor and the boy is beautiful. It is said Chekhov who suffered from over work and ill health took a trip to Ukraine, and
was reawakened to the beauty and vastness of the steppe and he wrote about the experience. I keep hearing the same thing that when we are accessing to death, we really begin to appreciate the beauty of your surroundings a lot more deeply than ever.

I don't want to discuss all the stories here, but I want to choose my favorite three stories. They are The Steppe, The Duel, and the last one, My Story. The Duel made me laugh. At certain scenes were so hilarious such as when the duel took place, nobody who came over to witness it never saw a duel before and nobody was able to explain its rules. The story did not end as I predicted, which I like. It has a surprising and beautiful ending which reminds me of O' Henri and the movie, Casa Blanca.

'My story' is about Misail Poloznev, a youth of noble class who renounces the privilege of capital and education to choose to belong to the working class. He goes through a lot of turmoils but seemingly keeps peace inside throughout the story. Misail thinks he is weak, but he is the one who is strong who can overcome a lot of difficulties as Chekhov himself.

Every story is so unique, and moving. I have known only Tolstoy and Dostoevsky and Pushkin and I love them so much and I am adding Chekhov as my favorite Russian writer. The more I read Russian literature, the more I am attracted to it. What a depth it has.

After a long stretch of reading recent published books and contemporary authors, delving into the late 19th century short novels of Anton Chekhov was a nice change. His imagery of Russia during its transitions in the 19th century- its cultural and political movements, the contrast between urban and rural life– provides an engaging backdrop for the human trials of his characters. Tales that include everything from coming of age to family relationships to pursuing love to seeking meaning and purpose in life stir empathy and curiosity, and can sometimes make one forget that they're unfolding in a context before rapid communication, widespread automobile use, and swift travel. The general sense of tension between human and societal ambition on the one hand, and the limitations imposed by both nature and human frailty on the other hand, relates well to the present moment, giving aspects of these stories an intriguingly enduring quality.

I’ve heard many references of Anton Chekhov over the years, from a discussion in a podcast, references in other books, korean tv-show and from people and places seemingly all over. So when you hear from such a diverse group whom all seem to classify him as the master of short stories.. Well I’ve had a mental note for a few years now to read some of his work and I finally got to it.

So this book contains five short novels. The Steppe. The Duel. The Story of an Unknown man, Three Years and finally My Life.

I was pleasantly surprised. Anton wrote over a hundred years ago and obviously about life in Russia during that period. That may be why I find some of the way characters express themselves a bit extreme for today or maybe it is per design to quickly build up engaging characters. The novels are only about a hundred pages after all.

The stories themselves were much more relatable than I expected, more down to earth and can easily fit any time-period. They are centered around a few characters, a group of friends and family. There is one story of a boy who leaves his home to travel to a school to start a new life. Another story is of a man who has fallen out of love and feels trapped and starts self-destructing among his friends.

Anton appears to have a running theme of bleakness and melancholy where characters feel trapped in their lives with the expectations put upon them by family, society or even their lovers. But even through all the struggles and despair Chekhov does seem to like to leave an open ending where one can imagine a better more hopeful future for the characters.

All in all it was a good read and I will return to Chekhov to read some more of his work in the future. Especially his short stories since I now understand there is a distinction made between his short stories and his short novellas.

Chekhov is better known for his plays. Little did I know about his short stories (not that short, between 90-120 pages each...). Reading his novellas was a very pleasant surprise! The best stories for me were 'The duel' and 'My life'. The author, a man of science himself, agnostic, a free mind who did not belong to any of the ideological 'camps' of his era, humane and compassionate dedicated his life to the ultimate quest: 'what is the real truth?'. In these stories he examines the main ideas of his time (and probably of all times...). What is best:manual or intellectual work? What is the value of Darwinism in the social circumstances, if any? Is morality true or invented? Is morality necessary to humans and society? Can religious beliefs transform human beings? Is man 'designed' to be good or evil? Is there any value in faith? Chekhov inquires and lets his readers decide about the answers. The question arising in my mind though is why it was the great authors of the 19th century in Russia who examined all these fundamental questions with such a depth and acuity and not elsewhere? (if we only think of Turgeniev, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Chekhov...) Was it pure luck for all these great minds to coexist or it had something to do with the society of the time? A better understanding of the Russian society and psyche might give us an answer...

i can see why mansfield adored him! master of the form! incisive but kind, subtle psychological realism, huge breadth, deceptively simple, full of humanity