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A Dreary Story
The narrator, Nikolai Stepanych, tells his own story. He begins by explaining that his own name is very popular and respected. He is a famous professor of medicine and a councillor He describes himself as very old and feeble. He is wrinkled and frail. Stepanych describes his failing memory and his growing propensity toward insomnia. He looks at his fat, ungainly wife and tries to find in her the slender beauty he married. She only worries about poverty and bargains. He is embarrassed that his daughter Liza is aware of her parents' money concerns, that they have trouble paying the servants. She volunteers to sell her personal items to raise money, which bothers her father even more.
81 pages, Kindle Edition
Published December 27, 2015
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About the author
Anton Chekhov
5,970 books9,785 followers
Antón Chéjov
(Spanish)
Dramas, such as The Seagull (1896, revised 1898), and including "A Dreary Story" (1889) of Russian writer Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, also Chekov, concern the inability of humans to communicate.
Born ( Антон Павлович Чехов ) in the small southern seaport of Taganrog, the son of a grocer. His grandfather, a serf, bought his own freedom and that of his three sons in 1841. He also taught to read. A cloth merchant fathered Yevgenia Morozova, his mother.
"When I think back on my childhood," Chekhov recalled, "it all seems quite gloomy to me." Tyranny of his father, religious fanaticism, and long nights in the store, open from five in the morning till midnight, shadowed his early years. He attended a school for Greek boys in Taganrog from 1867 to 1868 and then Taganrog grammar school. Bankruptcy of his father compelled the family to move to Moscow. At the age of 16 years in 1876, independent Chekhov for some time alone in his native town supported through private tutoring.
In 1879, Chekhov left grammar school and entered the university medical school at Moscow. In the school, he began to publish hundreds of short comics to support his mother, sisters and brothers. Nicholas Leikin published him at this period and owned Oskolki (splinters), the journal of Saint Petersburg. His subjected silly social situations, marital problems, and farcical encounters among husbands, wives, mistresses, and lust; even after his marriage, Chekhov, the shy author, knew not much of whims of young women.
Nenunzhaya pobeda , first novel of Chekhov, set in 1882 in Hungary, parodied the novels of the popular Mór Jókai. People also mocked ideological optimism of Jókai as a politician.
Chekhov graduated in 1884 and practiced medicine. He worked from 1885 in Peterburskaia gazeta.
In 1886, Chekhov met H.S. Suvorin, who invited him, a regular contributor, to work for Novoe vremya, the daily paper of Saint Petersburg. He gained a wide fame before 1886. He authored The Shooting Party , his second full-length novel, later translated into English. Agatha Christie used its characters and atmosphere in later her mystery novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd . First book of Chekhov in 1886 succeeded, and he gradually committed full time. The refusal of the author to join the ranks of social critics arose the wrath of liberal and radical intelligentsia, who criticized him for dealing with serious social and moral questions but avoiding giving answers. Such leaders as Leo Tolstoy and Nikolai Leskov, however, defended him. "I'm not a liberal, or a conservative, or a gradualist, or a monk, or an indifferentist. I should like to be a free artist and that's all..." Chekhov said in 1888.
The failure of The Wood Demon , play in 1889, and problems with novel made Chekhov to withdraw from literature for a period. In 1890, he traveled across Siberia to Sakhalin, remote prison island. He conducted a detailed census of ten thousand convicts and settlers, condemned to live on that harsh island. Chekhov expected to use the results of his research for his doctoral dissertation. Hard conditions on the island probably also weakened his own physical condition. From this journey came his famous travel book.
Chekhov practiced medicine until 1892. During these years, Chechov developed his concept of the dispassionate, non-judgmental author. He outlined his program in a letter to his brother Aleksandr: "1. Absence of lengthy verbiage of political-social-economic nature; 2. total objectivity; 3. truthful descriptions of persons and objects; 4. extreme brevity; 5. audacity and originality; flee the stereotype; 6. compassion." Because he objected that the paper conducted against [a:Alfred Dreyfu
Dramas, such as The Seagull (1896, revised 1898), and including "A Dreary Story" (1889) of Russian writer Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, also Chekov, concern the inability of humans to communicate.
Born ( Антон Павлович Чехов ) in the small southern seaport of Taganrog, the son of a grocer. His grandfather, a serf, bought his own freedom and that of his three sons in 1841. He also taught to read. A cloth merchant fathered Yevgenia Morozova, his mother.
"When I think back on my childhood," Chekhov recalled, "it all seems quite gloomy to me." Tyranny of his father, religious fanaticism, and long nights in the store, open from five in the morning till midnight, shadowed his early years. He attended a school for Greek boys in Taganrog from 1867 to 1868 and then Taganrog grammar school. Bankruptcy of his father compelled the family to move to Moscow. At the age of 16 years in 1876, independent Chekhov for some time alone in his native town supported through private tutoring.
In 1879, Chekhov left grammar school and entered the university medical school at Moscow. In the school, he began to publish hundreds of short comics to support his mother, sisters and brothers. Nicholas Leikin published him at this period and owned Oskolki (splinters), the journal of Saint Petersburg. His subjected silly social situations, marital problems, and farcical encounters among husbands, wives, mistresses, and lust; even after his marriage, Chekhov, the shy author, knew not much of whims of young women.
Nenunzhaya pobeda , first novel of Chekhov, set in 1882 in Hungary, parodied the novels of the popular Mór Jókai. People also mocked ideological optimism of Jókai as a politician.
Chekhov graduated in 1884 and practiced medicine. He worked from 1885 in Peterburskaia gazeta.
In 1886, Chekhov met H.S. Suvorin, who invited him, a regular contributor, to work for Novoe vremya, the daily paper of Saint Petersburg. He gained a wide fame before 1886. He authored The Shooting Party , his second full-length novel, later translated into English. Agatha Christie used its characters and atmosphere in later her mystery novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd . First book of Chekhov in 1886 succeeded, and he gradually committed full time. The refusal of the author to join the ranks of social critics arose the wrath of liberal and radical intelligentsia, who criticized him for dealing with serious social and moral questions but avoiding giving answers. Such leaders as Leo Tolstoy and Nikolai Leskov, however, defended him. "I'm not a liberal, or a conservative, or a gradualist, or a monk, or an indifferentist. I should like to be a free artist and that's all..." Chekhov said in 1888.
The failure of The Wood Demon , play in 1889, and problems with novel made Chekhov to withdraw from literature for a period. In 1890, he traveled across Siberia to Sakhalin, remote prison island. He conducted a detailed census of ten thousand convicts and settlers, condemned to live on that harsh island. Chekhov expected to use the results of his research for his doctoral dissertation. Hard conditions on the island probably also weakened his own physical condition. From this journey came his famous travel book.
Chekhov practiced medicine until 1892. During these years, Chechov developed his concept of the dispassionate, non-judgmental author. He outlined his program in a letter to his brother Aleksandr: "1. Absence of lengthy verbiage of political-social-economic nature; 2. total objectivity; 3. truthful descriptions of persons and objects; 4. extreme brevity; 5. audacity and originality; flee the stereotype; 6. compassion." Because he objected that the paper conducted against [a:Alfred Dreyfu
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March 21, 2016
This is my second Chekhov long story. It is around sixty pages long – the size of a short novella. The narrator of the story is Nikolay Stepanovitch. Nikolay is a professor of medicine at the university. He is over sixty years old. He has a health condition and he feels that he doesn’t have long to live. The story starts with Nikolay describing how his morning starts after a sleepless night (because he has insomnia), how his wife is the first person who meets his while he is still in bed and comes and have a short conversation with him, how his daughter comes next and it goes on to describe his day – his arrival at the university, his meeting with his two assistants, his lecture, his meetings with students, his work at his office, the constant interruptions by students and other doctors who need his favour, the visit by Katya who is like his daughter. While describing his day, Nikolay also describes in detail the various people he meets. They are wonderful character sketches. After describing a typical day, Nikolay goes on to describe his relationship with Katya in detail and how she came to be a kind of adopted daughter to him and the relationship that Katya has with the rest of his family. In this part of the story, one of my favourite passages is the one in which Nikolay describes his thoughts on the theatre (Katya is a former theatre actress). It makes me smile everytime I read it. It goes like this :
“I have never shared Katya’s inclinations for the theatre. To my mind, if a play is good there is no need to trouble the actors in order that it may make the right impression; it is enough to read it. If the play is poor, no acting will make it good.”
Events in the story move at a steady pace after that and I am not going to describe what happens – you should read the book.
I had a couple of problems with the story. The first one was the title. I don’t know whether Chekhov was trying to say something with that title – that there is more to the story than meets the eye. The story was anything but dreary. The character sketches were masterfully done, Nikolay is a wonderful narrator and the beautiful Chekovian passages keep flowing throughout the book. The second problem I had was with the ending. The ending had two parts. I loved the first part. The second part – I couldn’t understand it. I don’t know whether one needed to be Russian to understand it. If you read the story, do let me know what you think.
The story had many beautiful passages. Some of them come when the narrator shares his thoughts and others come in the middle of a conversation between some of the characters. I think the novella length suits Chekhov very well. It gives him room to tell a story and sneak in many beautiful passages and thoughts. One of my favourite passages was about teaching and lecturing. I think it is the finest passage on giving lectures that I have read. Here it is :
To lecture well – that is, with profit to the listeners and without boring them – one must have, besides talent, experience and a special knack; one must possess a clear conception of one’s own powers, of the audience to which one is lecturing, and of the subject of one’s lecture. Moreover, one must be a man who knows what he is doing; one must keep a sharp lookout, and not for one second lose sight of what lies before one.
A good conductor, interpreting the thought of the composer, does twenty things at once : reads the score, waves his baton, watches the singer, makes a motion sideways, first to the drum then to the wind instruments, and so on. I do just the same when I lecture. Before me a hundred and fifty faces, all unlike one another; three hundred eyes all looking straight into my face. My object is to dominate this many-headed monster. If every moment as I lecture I have a clear vision of the degree of its attention and its power of comprehension, it is in my power. The other foe I have to overcome is in myself. It is the infinite variety of forms, phenomena, laws, and the multitude of ideas of my own and other people’s conditioned by them. Every moment I must have the skill to snatch out of that vast mass of material what is most important and necessary, and, as rapidly as my words flow, clothe my thought in a form in which it can be grasped by the monster’s intelligence, and may arouse its attention, and at the same time one must keep a sharp lookout that one’s thoughts are conveyed, not just as they come, but in a certain order, essential for the correct composition of the picture I wish to sketch. Further, I endeavour to make my diction literary, my definitions brief and precise, my wording, as far as possible, simple and eloquent. Every minute I have to pull myself up and remember that I have only an hour and forty minutes at my disposal. In short, one has one’s work cut out. At one and the same minute one has to play the part of savant and teacher and orator, and it’s a bad thing if the orator gets the upper hand of the savant or of the teacher in one, or vice versa.
One of my other favourite passages came at the end of the story. It is beautiful, philosophical and very Russian. This is how it goes :
When I have wanted to understand somebody or myself I have considered, not the actions, in which everything is relative, but the desires.
“Tell me what you want, and I will tell you what manner of man you are.”
And now I examine myself : what do I want?
I want our wives, our children, our friends, our pupils, to love in us, not our fame, not the brand and not the label, but to love us as ordinary men. Anything else? I should like to have had helpers and successors. Anything else? I should like to wake up in a hundred years’ time and to have just a peep out of one eye at what is happening in science. I should have liked to have lived another ten years…What further? Why, nothing further. I think and think, and can think of nothing more. And however much I might think, and however far my thoughts might travel, it is clear to me that there is nothing vital, nothing of great importance in my desires. In my passion for science, in my desire to live, in this sitting on a strange bed, and in this striving to know myself – in all the thoughts, feelings, and ideas I form about everything, there is no common bond to connect it all into one whole. Every feeling and every thought exists apart in me, and in all my criticisms of science, the theatre, literature, my pupils, and in all the pictures my imagination draws, even the most skilful analyst could not find what is called a general idea, or the god of a living man.
And if there is not that, then there is nothing.
I loved ‘A Dreary Story’. I will be reading my favourite passages from the story again. This is the third Chekhov long story that I have read. There are still four more to go. I feel sad that there are only four more.
Have you read ‘A Dreary Story’? What do you think about it?
“I have never shared Katya’s inclinations for the theatre. To my mind, if a play is good there is no need to trouble the actors in order that it may make the right impression; it is enough to read it. If the play is poor, no acting will make it good.”
Events in the story move at a steady pace after that and I am not going to describe what happens – you should read the book.
I had a couple of problems with the story. The first one was the title. I don’t know whether Chekhov was trying to say something with that title – that there is more to the story than meets the eye. The story was anything but dreary. The character sketches were masterfully done, Nikolay is a wonderful narrator and the beautiful Chekovian passages keep flowing throughout the book. The second problem I had was with the ending. The ending had two parts. I loved the first part. The second part – I couldn’t understand it. I don’t know whether one needed to be Russian to understand it. If you read the story, do let me know what you think.
The story had many beautiful passages. Some of them come when the narrator shares his thoughts and others come in the middle of a conversation between some of the characters. I think the novella length suits Chekhov very well. It gives him room to tell a story and sneak in many beautiful passages and thoughts. One of my favourite passages was about teaching and lecturing. I think it is the finest passage on giving lectures that I have read. Here it is :
To lecture well – that is, with profit to the listeners and without boring them – one must have, besides talent, experience and a special knack; one must possess a clear conception of one’s own powers, of the audience to which one is lecturing, and of the subject of one’s lecture. Moreover, one must be a man who knows what he is doing; one must keep a sharp lookout, and not for one second lose sight of what lies before one.
A good conductor, interpreting the thought of the composer, does twenty things at once : reads the score, waves his baton, watches the singer, makes a motion sideways, first to the drum then to the wind instruments, and so on. I do just the same when I lecture. Before me a hundred and fifty faces, all unlike one another; three hundred eyes all looking straight into my face. My object is to dominate this many-headed monster. If every moment as I lecture I have a clear vision of the degree of its attention and its power of comprehension, it is in my power. The other foe I have to overcome is in myself. It is the infinite variety of forms, phenomena, laws, and the multitude of ideas of my own and other people’s conditioned by them. Every moment I must have the skill to snatch out of that vast mass of material what is most important and necessary, and, as rapidly as my words flow, clothe my thought in a form in which it can be grasped by the monster’s intelligence, and may arouse its attention, and at the same time one must keep a sharp lookout that one’s thoughts are conveyed, not just as they come, but in a certain order, essential for the correct composition of the picture I wish to sketch. Further, I endeavour to make my diction literary, my definitions brief and precise, my wording, as far as possible, simple and eloquent. Every minute I have to pull myself up and remember that I have only an hour and forty minutes at my disposal. In short, one has one’s work cut out. At one and the same minute one has to play the part of savant and teacher and orator, and it’s a bad thing if the orator gets the upper hand of the savant or of the teacher in one, or vice versa.
One of my other favourite passages came at the end of the story. It is beautiful, philosophical and very Russian. This is how it goes :
When I have wanted to understand somebody or myself I have considered, not the actions, in which everything is relative, but the desires.
“Tell me what you want, and I will tell you what manner of man you are.”
And now I examine myself : what do I want?
I want our wives, our children, our friends, our pupils, to love in us, not our fame, not the brand and not the label, but to love us as ordinary men. Anything else? I should like to have had helpers and successors. Anything else? I should like to wake up in a hundred years’ time and to have just a peep out of one eye at what is happening in science. I should have liked to have lived another ten years…What further? Why, nothing further. I think and think, and can think of nothing more. And however much I might think, and however far my thoughts might travel, it is clear to me that there is nothing vital, nothing of great importance in my desires. In my passion for science, in my desire to live, in this sitting on a strange bed, and in this striving to know myself – in all the thoughts, feelings, and ideas I form about everything, there is no common bond to connect it all into one whole. Every feeling and every thought exists apart in me, and in all my criticisms of science, the theatre, literature, my pupils, and in all the pictures my imagination draws, even the most skilful analyst could not find what is called a general idea, or the god of a living man.
And if there is not that, then there is nothing.
I loved ‘A Dreary Story’. I will be reading my favourite passages from the story again. This is the third Chekhov long story that I have read. There are still four more to go. I feel sad that there are only four more.
Have you read ‘A Dreary Story’? What do you think about it?
Read
May 24, 2020Far from a dreary story—this may be my favourite Chekhov story so far.
The main character, Nikolay S, is a very interesting creation:
I should like to wake up in a hundred years' time and to have just a peep out of one eye at what is happening in science.
I'm almost tempted to imagine Nikolay S, waking up in our times...
The main character, Nikolay S, is a very interesting creation:
I should like to wake up in a hundred years' time and to have just a peep out of one eye at what is happening in science.
I'm almost tempted to imagine Nikolay S, waking up in our times...
May 29, 2024
They say philosophers and the truly wise are indifferent. It is false: indifference is the paralysis of the soul; it is premature death.
December 28, 2016
"Indifference is a paralysis of the soul, a premature death."
April 3, 2022
war langweilig 👍
April 3, 2024
Beautifully written an actual review to come soon
May 11, 2025
Damn this was … pretty deep. Tragic and somewhat disturbing.
I guess a question I’ve asked myself quite often is why are disagreeable people the way they are - what does it take for someone to be that grouchy and unpleasant? But being placed into the first-person perspective of a curmudgeon himself really makes you see that all his grouchiness does have some form of rational basis. But it’s still on him for not having developed the wisdom over the course of a long life dedicated to science, to not see the positive side of things.
I’m curious at why Katya is Nikolay Stepanovich’s favourite person. On paper they are polar opposites - Nikolay is a respected academic while Katya is a failed actress. Nikolay also expresses contempt for dim-witted people so Katya, in theory, should be 1 of those people who he has little patience for. But they gel … and their dynamic and eventual falling out was a slow-moving tragedy to witness. I feel bad for the both of them.
But Katya is obviously suffering from many mental health problems herself. Ig that’s the bug of living in an anachronistic era, with little support or even tolerance for mentally unwell … but should we tolerate failed artists who refuse to take up a regular day job like any other well-functioning person and pursue their artistic pursuits at night tho? Why should we provide them with a welfare state with our tax money?
This novella could be shorter without any loss in character development, I think.
But it still carries a great amount of philosophical value. Namely, I was intrigued by Nikolay’s realisation of the absence of the self - what he also calls the absence of a ‘general idea’. I concur with Hume that when I introspect, especially deeply with full concentration, I struggle to find 1 constant, unified self … what I find instead is a fragmented, splintered mind with numerous intellectual interests and thoughts in various and unrelated areas. The nature of such a splintered mind is also that many of my thoughts are contradictory. How is cognitive dissonance even possible in the brain?
Does this absence of a general idea cause Nikolay the mental anguish that he’s in, especially as a man of great learning? This is quite possible.
But another point which I will put Nikolay at fault for, is how he handles his personal conduct in the face of death. Socrates for example, as a fellow philosopher, handled it with prodigious grace.
What I also find in Nikolay is also a family man at heart, who genuinely loves his family, his students and his friends. How he managed to ruin it for himself and his family is, at the end of the day, a cautionary tale. But also a tale that I should approach with a lot of empathy and self-awareness that I myself am only at the very beginning of this journey.
I guess a question I’ve asked myself quite often is why are disagreeable people the way they are - what does it take for someone to be that grouchy and unpleasant? But being placed into the first-person perspective of a curmudgeon himself really makes you see that all his grouchiness does have some form of rational basis. But it’s still on him for not having developed the wisdom over the course of a long life dedicated to science, to not see the positive side of things.
I’m curious at why Katya is Nikolay Stepanovich’s favourite person. On paper they are polar opposites - Nikolay is a respected academic while Katya is a failed actress. Nikolay also expresses contempt for dim-witted people so Katya, in theory, should be 1 of those people who he has little patience for. But they gel … and their dynamic and eventual falling out was a slow-moving tragedy to witness. I feel bad for the both of them.
But Katya is obviously suffering from many mental health problems herself. Ig that’s the bug of living in an anachronistic era, with little support or even tolerance for mentally unwell … but should we tolerate failed artists who refuse to take up a regular day job like any other well-functioning person and pursue their artistic pursuits at night tho? Why should we provide them with a welfare state with our tax money?
This novella could be shorter without any loss in character development, I think.
But it still carries a great amount of philosophical value. Namely, I was intrigued by Nikolay’s realisation of the absence of the self - what he also calls the absence of a ‘general idea’. I concur with Hume that when I introspect, especially deeply with full concentration, I struggle to find 1 constant, unified self … what I find instead is a fragmented, splintered mind with numerous intellectual interests and thoughts in various and unrelated areas. The nature of such a splintered mind is also that many of my thoughts are contradictory. How is cognitive dissonance even possible in the brain?
Does this absence of a general idea cause Nikolay the mental anguish that he’s in, especially as a man of great learning? This is quite possible.
But another point which I will put Nikolay at fault for, is how he handles his personal conduct in the face of death. Socrates for example, as a fellow philosopher, handled it with prodigious grace.
What I also find in Nikolay is also a family man at heart, who genuinely loves his family, his students and his friends. How he managed to ruin it for himself and his family is, at the end of the day, a cautionary tale. But also a tale that I should approach with a lot of empathy and self-awareness that I myself am only at the very beginning of this journey.
March 29, 2023
Nothing has evoked so much dread in me as this novella has... Chekhov's most remarkable piece, that I have read at least.
The fundamental theme of the book is the vanity of human titles. Humans identify as many things: members of family, classes, occupations. We interact with others based on this identity. To our family members, we act as parents or spouses. To our acquaintances, we are friends, or professors, men of great honour and worthy of respect. To the greater society, we are what our fame and wealth suggests we are.
As the title proposes, these titles are dreary. As we mature from youth to middle-age to dotage, these titles increasingly stagnate. We grow lethargic, and then die.
I can escort you to much in the novella that strengthen my theory, but that belongs to the domain of literary criticism and I don't have the strength nor interest to write a long literary criticism. I am here to talk about what I like about the book, and that is what I shall say.
Chekhov is admired because he perfected the short-story. How so?
I believe that the aims of a short story should not be lofty; it must not aim to prove a theory irrefutably, but it must paint a picture which illustrates its themes. Its job is to demonstrate the possibility of its theories, it should aim for nothing beyond.
Chekhov understood this, and therefore he painted the most harrowing of pictures in this novella. The most prominent feature of this novella, that which causes the dread is the condition of its characters. All of its characters are immured by their habit, the innate tendency in all humans to be infatuated with titles. An excerpt of Chekhov is often quoted, "Life is a vexatious trap", and in this novella, Chekhov paints that trap perfectly. Its almost flawless.
My qualms with the novella are very few. I am not exactly convinced by Chekhov; Nikolay Stepanovitch's drivels are too cynical. I am inclined to believe that he merely grew blind to the world's beauties, not that he finally opened his eyes. I hazard that this story was a response to Tolstoy, given Chekhov's hostility towards 'the general idea'. I can't help but feel that Nikolay Stepanovitch was meant to be a surrogate for Tolstoy; that Tolstoy grew quite morose in his dotage is not obscure knowledge.
Yet, in response to Tolstoy, he uses the medium of a novella. I don't believe that he succeeded to refute the arguments that Tolstoy proposed in War and Peace, and Anna Karenina. His failure is because of his choice of medium, the novella isn't suitable for arguments.
However, it's evident that Chekhov didn't intend for the novella to be a philosophical treatise. Katya remarked that those who philosophise in the novel misunderstand literature; I reckon that I and Chekhov differ on the philosophy of art. Perhaps Chekhov intended to use the dramatic, sensational short story to demonstrate the haughtiness of philosophy; it could be believed that he exposed the equality of the sensational (theatre, short fiction) to the ostensibly 'intellectual'. I don't believe that, but a person can't be admonished for that belief.
Chekhov proposes interesting theories in this novella, but most importantly he demonstrates his paramount excellence in the craft of writing short stories. Unfortunately, my favourite books are those with the best of philosophy, so I don't appreciate it as much as one possibly can. However, if you are frequently enchanted by an author's technical abilities, in his sublime craft, then this novella is perfect for you.
It's a great novella. I like it quite a bit. However, I suggest that you not read this if you are depressed. It is a very dejecting story.
A Dreary Story by Anton Chekhov: 6/10
The fundamental theme of the book is the vanity of human titles. Humans identify as many things: members of family, classes, occupations. We interact with others based on this identity. To our family members, we act as parents or spouses. To our acquaintances, we are friends, or professors, men of great honour and worthy of respect. To the greater society, we are what our fame and wealth suggests we are.
As the title proposes, these titles are dreary. As we mature from youth to middle-age to dotage, these titles increasingly stagnate. We grow lethargic, and then die.
I can escort you to much in the novella that strengthen my theory, but that belongs to the domain of literary criticism and I don't have the strength nor interest to write a long literary criticism. I am here to talk about what I like about the book, and that is what I shall say.
Chekhov is admired because he perfected the short-story. How so?
I believe that the aims of a short story should not be lofty; it must not aim to prove a theory irrefutably, but it must paint a picture which illustrates its themes. Its job is to demonstrate the possibility of its theories, it should aim for nothing beyond.
Chekhov understood this, and therefore he painted the most harrowing of pictures in this novella. The most prominent feature of this novella, that which causes the dread is the condition of its characters. All of its characters are immured by their habit, the innate tendency in all humans to be infatuated with titles. An excerpt of Chekhov is often quoted, "Life is a vexatious trap", and in this novella, Chekhov paints that trap perfectly. Its almost flawless.
My qualms with the novella are very few. I am not exactly convinced by Chekhov; Nikolay Stepanovitch's drivels are too cynical. I am inclined to believe that he merely grew blind to the world's beauties, not that he finally opened his eyes. I hazard that this story was a response to Tolstoy, given Chekhov's hostility towards 'the general idea'. I can't help but feel that Nikolay Stepanovitch was meant to be a surrogate for Tolstoy; that Tolstoy grew quite morose in his dotage is not obscure knowledge.
Yet, in response to Tolstoy, he uses the medium of a novella. I don't believe that he succeeded to refute the arguments that Tolstoy proposed in War and Peace, and Anna Karenina. His failure is because of his choice of medium, the novella isn't suitable for arguments.
However, it's evident that Chekhov didn't intend for the novella to be a philosophical treatise. Katya remarked that those who philosophise in the novel misunderstand literature; I reckon that I and Chekhov differ on the philosophy of art. Perhaps Chekhov intended to use the dramatic, sensational short story to demonstrate the haughtiness of philosophy; it could be believed that he exposed the equality of the sensational (theatre, short fiction) to the ostensibly 'intellectual'. I don't believe that, but a person can't be admonished for that belief.
Chekhov proposes interesting theories in this novella, but most importantly he demonstrates his paramount excellence in the craft of writing short stories. Unfortunately, my favourite books are those with the best of philosophy, so I don't appreciate it as much as one possibly can. However, if you are frequently enchanted by an author's technical abilities, in his sublime craft, then this novella is perfect for you.
It's a great novella. I like it quite a bit. However, I suggest that you not read this if you are depressed. It is a very dejecting story.
A Dreary Story by Anton Chekhov: 6/10
March 5, 2017
هل_حقيقي_ ماقرأته قد خطر على أحدٍ فكتبه بكل تلك المهارة؟
حسنًا ،إنها رواية قصيرة ولكن ستجعلك فاغر العقل لمزيد من الأسئلة .
ماهي الحياة ..ياعزيزي؟
وكيف نتعامل معها ؟
أيكفينا أننا نملك السلطة والمال والعائلة لنصبح سعداء؟
أم الأفضل أن نلهو بلا تعلق بأمور الحياة فيكون إنتظار الرحيل غير مُوجع؟
ولكن مانفع كل ذلك إن ضلّت أرواحنا في العمر ،ولم تستقر؟!
الحياة..لغز مؤلم ،أغبط هؤلاء من يتعايشون وهم قليلي التفكير في كل الصغائر، لايبنون فلسفتهم وإدراكهم للأمر لايتعدى لحظات ولا يتشبثون .
الكاتب تسائل عن كل ذلك وكان مرتعب من الموت ،الحقيقة التي نعلمها ونؤمن بقدومها .
تشاركت معه الخوف ولكن ليس من التلاشي لكن خُلِق في نفسي صراعات ، أرغب في أن أضع بصمتي وتُخلِّد ذكرى وجودي في قلوب أحببتها ولا تتوارى حياتي كما توارى جسدى تحت الثرى .
وصراع آخر بأن لا أريد لذكرايا أن تؤلم وتؤرق مضجع روح مقربة إلى قلبي فابتعد واقترب .
"نيقولاى ستيبانوفتش" أفكر الآن كيف سأكون عند الستين ؟ هل سأصبح مثلك لي عينان تبحثان عن الغموض ،أم سأصبح سيدة مسنة تنظر للفراغ في تبسم ومرحبة بالموت كصديق طال غيابه؟
الرواية جعلتني أفكر ..كنت أتوقف للحظات عن التنفس لأنه يزعجني عن التفكير ، الرواية مكثفة لها أسلوب بديع.
"أنطون تشيخوف" يبدو أنگ ستكون صديقي القادم في تلك الأيام المتشابهة لتحيد عني ذلك الركود :)
تمت .
حسنًا ،إنها رواية قصيرة ولكن ستجعلك فاغر العقل لمزيد من الأسئلة .
ماهي الحياة ..ياعزيزي؟
وكيف نتعامل معها ؟
أيكفينا أننا نملك السلطة والمال والعائلة لنصبح سعداء؟
أم الأفضل أن نلهو بلا تعلق بأمور الحياة فيكون إنتظار الرحيل غير مُوجع؟
ولكن مانفع كل ذلك إن ضلّت أرواحنا في العمر ،ولم تستقر؟!
الحياة..لغز مؤلم ،أغبط هؤلاء من يتعايشون وهم قليلي التفكير في كل الصغائر، لايبنون فلسفتهم وإدراكهم للأمر لايتعدى لحظات ولا يتشبثون .
الكاتب تسائل عن كل ذلك وكان مرتعب من الموت ،الحقيقة التي نعلمها ونؤمن بقدومها .
تشاركت معه الخوف ولكن ليس من التلاشي لكن خُلِق في نفسي صراعات ، أرغب في أن أضع بصمتي وتُخلِّد ذكرى وجودي في قلوب أحببتها ولا تتوارى حياتي كما توارى جسدى تحت الثرى .
وصراع آخر بأن لا أريد لذكرايا أن تؤلم وتؤرق مضجع روح مقربة إلى قلبي فابتعد واقترب .
"نيقولاى ستيبانوفتش" أفكر الآن كيف سأكون عند الستين ؟ هل سأصبح مثلك لي عينان تبحثان عن الغموض ،أم سأصبح سيدة مسنة تنظر للفراغ في تبسم ومرحبة بالموت كصديق طال غيابه؟
الرواية جعلتني أفكر ..كنت أتوقف للحظات عن التنفس لأنه يزعجني عن التفكير ، الرواية مكثفة لها أسلوب بديع.
"أنطون تشيخوف" يبدو أنگ ستكون صديقي القادم في تلك الأيام المتشابهة لتحيد عني ذلك الركود :)
تمت .
March 10, 2023
It’s quite impressive how a 29-year old writer can express the inner turmoil of an old man at the end of his career and life. One of Chekhov’s finest stories. It accurately depicts how fragile and false professional relationships can be but also how the frustrations of family life can overwhelm and cause sleepless nights. All of this leads to doubts that are even more profound.
It is left to the reader to answer the elemental questions that are raised, but then also the ending is (deliberately?) ambiguous, leaving plenty of room for discussion.
It is left to the reader to answer the elemental questions that are raised, but then also the ending is (deliberately?) ambiguous, leaving plenty of room for discussion.
February 10, 2023
With an entertaining narration, mixed with humor and also sadness, this book explores the last days of a man who was exceptional in what he did but who, in the end, is just a man. The desire of him for having done more, his depression to see that, with each passing day, he becomes a more bitter person is a reflection on how it is not only the body that ages but also the soul .
"They say philosophers and wise men are indifferent. Wrong. Indifference is a paralysis of the soul, a premature death."
February 14, 2023
Contrary to the title, I'd say not boring at all. A momentary glimpse into the life of a man who would make a fun dinner party guest. A short read and time well spent.
February 10, 2017
As a book recommendation for the book club “Virtual Book Lair,” I chose Chekov’s “A Boring Story” to start with simply because the title of the story aroused in me the curiosity to explore the term “Boring” which should, in ordinary circumstances, thwart a reader yet fascinated and impelled me to discover the very reason I was intrigued by it.
Part autobiographical, Chekov masterfully creates a narrator too isolated and self-absorbed yet remarkable enough to wind up the reader in his unnecessary meticulous details of less than ordinary characters around him, his bouts of insomnia and rants on science versus arts where sometimes the conversations might run deep but on the narrator’s part, lack the required conviction and interest to fully make the reader believe in his stance.
Our narrator, Nikolay Stepanovitch, is an aging professor, “a chevalier and privy councilor” who has “many Russian and foreign decorations”. He might seem insular at first glance, indeed he is remote or rather has induced seclusion upon himself from his family and friends. His egotistic praises of himself are almost always followed by a declaration of self-loathing which might indicate an identity crisis...
You can read the rest of the review here:
https://afuzzyrants.wordpress.com/201...
Part autobiographical, Chekov masterfully creates a narrator too isolated and self-absorbed yet remarkable enough to wind up the reader in his unnecessary meticulous details of less than ordinary characters around him, his bouts of insomnia and rants on science versus arts where sometimes the conversations might run deep but on the narrator’s part, lack the required conviction and interest to fully make the reader believe in his stance.
Our narrator, Nikolay Stepanovitch, is an aging professor, “a chevalier and privy councilor” who has “many Russian and foreign decorations”. He might seem insular at first glance, indeed he is remote or rather has induced seclusion upon himself from his family and friends. His egotistic praises of himself are almost always followed by a declaration of self-loathing which might indicate an identity crisis...
You can read the rest of the review here:
https://afuzzyrants.wordpress.com/201...
May 2, 2022
استشعار دنو الاجل و نظره على الحياه بالم!
يقول *لقد هزمت...سابقى جالسا انتظر في صمت ما سيحدث*
ما معنى ان تكون شخص مشهور ! عندما تحس بالموت على فراش غريب في وحشه ووحده مطلقه!! عندما تحس احساس مطلق بالنهايه....
ما اروع الوصف و اصدقه ...هكذا يكون الادب من عظيم مثل تشيخوف بسيط و صادقا تماما...
هي ليست حكايه ممله ابدا....على الرغم من رتابه الحياه في نهايات الطريق بلا امل يثري وجودك...اهو الكبر ،التعب ،المرض،غياب الروح النابضه ....
هل ستجد شخص صادق و حقيقي معك عند نهايه الطريق!
عندما تعيش الحياه بلامبالاه تامه بلا شغف حقيقي...
ماذا تنتظر!هل تخاف الزائر الاخير...هل يتبق داع للخوف!
تشيخوف!
هل كان يتحدث عن نفسه !
يقول *لقد هزمت...سابقى جالسا انتظر في صمت ما سيحدث*
ما معنى ان تكون شخص مشهور ! عندما تحس بالموت على فراش غريب في وحشه ووحده مطلقه!! عندما تحس احساس مطلق بالنهايه....
ما اروع الوصف و اصدقه ...هكذا يكون الادب من عظيم مثل تشيخوف بسيط و صادقا تماما...
هي ليست حكايه ممله ابدا....على الرغم من رتابه الحياه في نهايات الطريق بلا امل يثري وجودك...اهو الكبر ،التعب ،المرض،غياب الروح النابضه ....
هل ستجد شخص صادق و حقيقي معك عند نهايه الطريق!
عندما تعيش الحياه بلامبالاه تامه بلا شغف حقيقي...
ماذا تنتظر!هل تخاف الزائر الاخير...هل يتبق داع للخوف!
تشيخوف!
هل كان يتحدث عن نفسه !
November 20, 2022
باران نوشت:
قطعا از سر گذروندن همچین لحظههایی ساده نیست. همهی ما تو مقطعهای مختلفی از زندگی دچار تنهایی عمیق و غریبگی با اجتماع و خانواده شدیم، اما شاید نه به اندازهی نیکلای استپانویچ!
نیکلای استپانویچ به نظرم بیشتر به مرض “انتظار فرا رسیدن مرگ” دچار بود تا هر مرض دیگهای.
و این سایهی مرگ روی کل زندگیش سنگینی میکرد و حتی سادهترین روزمرگیهاشو هم مختل کردهبود بهطوری که حتی دیگه از تدریس هم لذت نمیبرد…
فضای این کتاب تا حدودی منو به فضای کتاب مرگ ایوان ایلیچ میبرد.
قطعا از سر گذروندن همچین لحظههایی ساده نیست. همهی ما تو مقطعهای مختلفی از زندگی دچار تنهایی عمیق و غریبگی با اجتماع و خانواده شدیم، اما شاید نه به اندازهی نیکلای استپانویچ!
نیکلای استپانویچ به نظرم بیشتر به مرض “انتظار فرا رسیدن مرگ” دچار بود تا هر مرض دیگهای.
و این سایهی مرگ روی کل زندگیش سنگینی میکرد و حتی سادهترین روزمرگیهاشو هم مختل کردهبود بهطوری که حتی دیگه از تدریس هم لذت نمیبرد…
فضای این کتاب تا حدودی منو به فضای کتاب مرگ ایوان ایلیچ میبرد.
March 17, 2013
this is the best thing i read in my life , could not sleep after i done with it, love you Checkov
January 16, 2015
Satisfied by boredom. The best you can ever find. Makes you love Chekhov and never forget.
December 28, 2017
A rare account of an illness ridden man. what goes on in his mind, his detachedness from his family is brilliantly portrayed. Not short of a masterpiece.
July 28, 2020
+ novellen "Flakken". Begge smukke.
July 4, 2021
A Boring Story is not so boring after all.
January 3, 2025
"The thing about my hero is that he does not care for those around him. People close to him shed tears, make mistakes, tell lies, but all he can do is dispassionately lecture them on theatre or literature."
Chekhov is an artist. His critics, contemporary and modern-day, deride the purposelessness of his stories. But no other author can so thoroughly affect one's emotional state with such purposeless art. It's brutal, seeing Nikolai Stepanovich drift from day to day, neglecting his sorry domestic life and impotent academic engagements. And the ending... the ending tears at the heart.
And of course, I'm sure Chekhov's choice of making Nikolai Stepanovich a professor of medicine was fully intentional. Perhaps Chekhov, a doctor himself, meant, "The study of bone marrow and blood circulation mean nothing, if you don't care for those around you."
Chekhov is an artist. His critics, contemporary and modern-day, deride the purposelessness of his stories. But no other author can so thoroughly affect one's emotional state with such purposeless art. It's brutal, seeing Nikolai Stepanovich drift from day to day, neglecting his sorry domestic life and impotent academic engagements. And the ending... the ending tears at the heart.
And of course, I'm sure Chekhov's choice of making Nikolai Stepanovich a professor of medicine was fully intentional. Perhaps Chekhov, a doctor himself, meant, "The study of bone marrow and blood circulation mean nothing, if you don't care for those around you."
November 11, 2025
The version I read was called A Boring Story (Notes from an Old Man’s Notebook), but I couldn’t find that edition on Goodreads, so I’m leaving my review here instead.
Thanks to English classes, I was pretty sure I’d had my fill of stories by dead old white men—and this one, about an aging professor reflecting on life and death, written by (of course) a now-dead white man, seemed like more of the same.
So I’m not sure why I started it, or why I even kept reading, but I’m convinced it’s one of the most beautiful stories I’ve ever read. It might have started out a little boring, but I was captivated the entire way through.
I thought it was going to be self-indulgent and awful; instead, it was effortlessly tender and vulnerable—and I think I just need to sit with that for a while.
Thanks to English classes, I was pretty sure I’d had my fill of stories by dead old white men—and this one, about an aging professor reflecting on life and death, written by (of course) a now-dead white man, seemed like more of the same.
So I’m not sure why I started it, or why I even kept reading, but I’m convinced it’s one of the most beautiful stories I’ve ever read. It might have started out a little boring, but I was captivated the entire way through.
I thought it was going to be self-indulgent and awful; instead, it was effortlessly tender and vulnerable—and I think I just need to sit with that for a while.
June 1, 2025
Tenho uma aversão a escritores russos que tento há muito contornar. Acho o imaginário feio, as histórias de serviço ao partido aborrecidas e maçadoras… Tentei o Tchekhov na esperança de encontrar algo mais. Para além de uma ou outra passagem bonita não mais encontrei do que aquilo que o título prometia: uma história enfadonha.
Não consegui gostar da personagem principal, nem sequer ter pena com sentir compaixão. Vê se alguma evolução, o que me agradou, mas nada por aí além.
Ficam os pontos pelo tom semi divertido, com um humor especial que (isso sim!!) gosto nos russos. E por, de facto, ser tudo o que o título promete.
Não consegui gostar da personagem principal, nem sequer ter pena com sentir compaixão. Vê se alguma evolução, o que me agradou, mas nada por aí além.
Ficam os pontos pelo tom semi divertido, com um humor especial que (isso sim!!) gosto nos russos. E por, de facto, ser tudo o que o título promete.
October 12, 2025
"When a man has not in him what is loftier and mightier than all external impressions a bad cold is really enough to upset his equilibrium and make him begin to see an owl in every bird, to hear a dog howling in every sound. And all his pessimism or optimism with his thoughts great and small have at such times significance as symptoms and nothing more."
December 6, 2024
While I am currently reading a collection of Chekhov’s short stories, A Boring Story is worthy of its own review. A gripping existentialist journey of an ego-maniac close to death, confined to thirty odd pages, carries an impact much greater than its length
May 28, 2024
Pathetic Russian man running his mouth again except this time he doesn’t believe in philosophy so he’s lowkey sociopathic, his crime is not being boring it’s being nothing
February 18, 2025
I mean he didn't lie, still less boring than In Cold Blood tho :)
December 24, 2025
This made me understand myself better.
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