Whilst I am not as familiar with his work as I would like to be, this book has kickstarted what I am sure will be a flourishing investigation into his writing. I find myself falling in love with the man. I have no doubt he had a twinkle in his eye. He is at once humble, witty, self-effacing, egotistical, pompous, passionate, and always yearning for little more than company and conversation. Oh, and money! For someone who dislikes money and wishes to be unconcerned with it, he certainly spent a lot of time writing about his lack of it. Such is the destiny of an artist, I suppose!
In an article in the Irish Times, Eileen Battersby writes:
'ANTON CHEKHOV once told a friend that he expected to be forgotten within seven years of his death.'
Yet somehow, in reading his letters penned to companions and comrades, I get the impression that he was utterly sure of the fact that he would be remembered in centuries to come. I feel as though his letters were written with a much greater audience than their sole inheritor in mind. There is something in the tempo and tone of his playful language that suggests a display to an arena, seating the backsides of 150 years worth of followers. That, or he had far too much time on his hands, which becomes impossible to imagine when one reads of how busy he was being a doctor, a writer, and an attentive friend and correspondent to many. This is merely the impression I got from his letters, but then again, I do secretly wish he had been writing only to me. I am even willing to let some of the sexist and shallow remarks slide in this instance ;-)
I highly recommend this as a read. There are numerous works of Chekhov's available to listen to on BBC iPlayer at the moment as it was his 150th birthday on the 29th January.
Those in a romantic mood may want to tune into this.
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