There are writers you admire, and then there are writers who quietly take residence inside you. For me, Anton Chekhov belongs to the second category.
Whenever I return to his collected works—whether the often-anthologized stories like The Lady with the Dog, or the leaner, sharper sketches from his early years—I feel as though I am stepping back into a world where the smallest gesture carries the weight of a lifetime. Reading Chekhov is less like reading fiction and more like overhearing life itself.
What strikes me every time is his uncanny emotional accuracy. Chekhov never scolds, never moralises; he merely observes, with a physician’s detachment and a poet’s intuition. He lays a hand on the human soul, feels its irregular pulse, and steps back, allowing us to decide what the diagnosis should be. This quietness is disarming.
In a world of narrative fireworks, Chekhov’s prose feels like that single matchstick in a dark room—small, but enough to illuminate everything.
One of the pleasures of reading his complete works is watching the evolution of his style. The early comic sketches—written under the pressure of supporting his family—are filled with irony, caricature, and buoyant wit.
They reminded me of how even a great tragedian like Shakespeare began with farce and experimentation before arriving at the distilled emotional power of Hamlet or King Lear. Chekhov’s humour is light-footed but also laced with melancholy. Even when he makes us laugh, there is always an undertow of solitude.
Then come the mature stories—works like Ward No. 6, The Duel, The Black Monk, Rothschild’s Fiddle, and The Man in a Case. Each feels like a window into the deeper recesses of human uncertainty. In Ward No. 6, Chekhov peers into the fragile boundary between reason and madness; in Rothschild’s Fiddle, he gives us a man who discovers compassion only at the threshold of his own mortality.
These stories linger the way memories do—not because they are dramatic, but because they are true.
Among all his works, The Lady with the Dog remains for me a quiet marvel. It is such a simple story—two married strangers fall into an unplanned love—but Chekhov turns it into a meditation on longing, loneliness, and the sudden revelations that can reshape a life. I have read it many times, and every time, a different part aches.
When Gurov realises that his affair has become “the most real thing in his entire life,” it feels like the softest possible tragedy: the tragedy of waking up too late to one’s own heart.
Reading Chekhov’s complete stories back-to-back also reveals something delicate about his worldview. He is neither hopeful nor despairing—he is balanced in that human middle-ground where suffering is inevitable, kindness accidental, beauty fleeting, and meaning elusive. And yet, he never abandons tenderness.
Even his flawed characters—provincial clerks, tired wives, fading aristocrats, self-important officials—are treated with an almost divine patience. It reminds me of Turgenev’s compassion, but with a sharper scalpel and a quieter voice.
There is also something deeply modern about Chekhov’s minimalism. Before Kafka, before Hemingway, before Carver, Chekhov stripped stories down to their essential breaths. Things happen quietly, almost imperceptibly, but the emotional transformation is seismic. He trusts silence more than speech. He trusts pauses more than plot. Few writers have understood, as Chekhov did, that life’s climaxes often happen internally.
Reading Chekhov now, in an age of noise, feels almost medicinal. His world is full of longing but never hopeless; full of sadness but never cruel. His characters do not change the world—they endure it. And in that endurance, in that fragile persistence, I find a strange comfort. Chekhov teaches us that the ordinary is never truly ordinary, that the human heart is always larger than its circumstances.
His works do not shout—they sigh. And sometimes, that sigh is enough to echo for a lifetime.