It's rare to find a book that can give either a lot of delight or none at all, depending on how carefully it is read. On the surface, these stories seem dreary, marked by unwarranted cruelty, untreated disease, and unrewarded hardship. But dig a little deeper, and it's as though Chekhov is inviting the reader to act as a detective, challenging them to pick up on the trails of clues that he's placed just out of sight. The ordering of sentences can allude to a character's affections before anything is expressed openly; a choice of beverage predicts an attitude revealed a page later; a sequence of shorter and shorter clauses parallels a person's life dwindling away and nearing the end. Little details like these became a source of scrutiny and excitement as I tried to anticipate where each story would go. In creation of characters, Chekhov is observant and empathetic, giving each of them gestures and mannerisms that mean something. For the most part, the characters seem to be ignorantly bumbling through life, but we glimpse their hearts and minds in ways that make them mirrors of ourselves - sometimes painfully so. Additionally, irony leaps out when we may least expect it. Following one character's passionate speech on the necessity of doing good no matter what our position in life, his host's sleepy thought process is described: He did not trouble to think whether what Ivan Ivanich had been saying was clever or right; his guests were talking of neither groats, nor hay, nor tar, but of something which had no bearing on his life, and he liked it, and wanted it to go on... Most of the stories end with the characters continuing to bumble along - and despite (or because of) all their shortcomings and oddities, I found myself hoping that they'd manage to keep going and find peace or happiness or knowledge somehow, after their pages had run out. It took me longer to read this book than its 94 pages would seem to warrant. But reading it slowly and carefully was worthwhile for how it's changed my way of looking at stories - and maybe, even at people.
I'm a fan of Chekhov's simple, uncluttered prose. His stories are not about dramatic, momentous life events, instead focusing on the little daily moments that cause us anxiety, joy, and reflection. I liked "The Lady with the Little Dog" for its recognition of sadness during what should otherwise be a happy time. It made me think that happiness is never the sole emotion - other commitments, the happenings of the past, and the uncertainty of the future always taint the purity of happiness. Also, in "Gooseberries," I liked Chekhov's commentary about our denial of sadness in others in order to selfishly enjoy our own well-being. I found the realistic portrayal of Russian rural life in "Peasants" welcoming - gone is Tolstoy's idealization of the Russian peasant as the ideal and pure-hearted citizen. Chekhov exposes country life to its sad reality - he writes of the ignorance, harshness, and poverty of the masses. In all, I admire Chekhov's style. His stories leave me feeling nostalgic for the lost moments, the things left unsaid, the misunderstandings between people that are often the cause of such pain and turmoil.
