Chekhov's people are unhappy. Their unhappiness never rises to the level of tragedy, but it isn't pathos, either. These characters are vague and muddled. They can't think clearly about their own grief; they blame this and then that, latching onto explanatory catchphrases and repeating them. They complain, bicker and snap at each other. They fail at whatever they take up, and they look to philosophy or the future for redemption. They fall in love -- not as a result of mutual revelation, shared activities or even, apparently, strong sexual passion. Love simply happens to them, inexplicable and unexpected as a springtime snow, but far more enduring. And it is always --... More >>>