Some great writing

So my family and I are headed to NYC to watch the modern rendition of Chekhov's Seagull on the day after Thanksgiving.

I have read some Chekhov in the past, largely due to the high praise he received from Cornel West, one of the best minds of our time (whom I saw speak a few years ago and was totally blown away), and who considers Chekhov as one of his prime inspirations (alongside Marx). This acclaim comes because of Chekhov's focus on the plight of the common man; his ability to reach deep inside the psyche of seemingly normal people to illicit great descriptions of emotion and empathy. When I read Chekhov I can't help but feel a deep and affected connection for all people around me, as his intricate descriptions of their thoughts and feelings illuminate our shared plight. The term 'common man' really becomes something of a misnomer with Chehkov because of his baroque characterizations of people. I like the idea of thinking of mankind in this way, as I too often catch myself in moments of cynicism.

He is known as one of the greatest short story writers to have ever lived, and in preparation for the trip to see his play I have been re-reading some of his stories published in English. One of which, The Lady with the Little Dog, is one of his best known, and contains a paragraph that is pretty magical. I read it yesterday and would like to share it with you:

"In Oreanda they sat on a bench not far from the church, looked down on the sea, and were silent. Yalta was barely visible through the morning mist, while clouds stood motionless on the mountaintops. The leaves of the trees did not stir, cicadas called, and the monotonous, dull noise of the sea, coming from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep that awaits us. So it had sounded below when neither Yalta nor Oreanda were there, so it sounded now and would go on sounding with the same dull indifference when we are no longer here. And in this constancy, in this utter indifference to the life and death of each of us, there perhaps lies hidden the pledge of our eternal salvation, the unceasing movement of life on earth, of unceasing perfection. Sitting beside the young woman, who looked so beautiful in the dawn, appeased and enchanted by the view of this magical decor-- sea, mountains, clouds, the open sky-- Gurov reflected that, essentially, if you thought of it, everything was beautiful in this world, everything except for what we ourselves think and do when we forget the higher goals of being and our human dignity."

Now read that again. Let it sink in.

It's not so much an exalted description of a peasant or laborer, but a narration of a scene by a man whose thoughts take him to beautiful heights. Chekhov's ability to weave in pictures of a landscape with impressive philosophy makes for a fantastic passage.

I hope that he is able to convey these literary skills in his play. God knows the setting won't be as nice, but the dialogue should leave room for his brilliance and connection to people and their thoughts to shine through.