Re-reading Chekhov is a treat. Over the last few months, I have been going through some type of internal revision and reevaluation. Chekhov turned up again at this junction in the form of a New York Public Library book about his star-crossed relationship with his muse Lika Mizinova, whom he loved for ten years, but then married Olga Knipper, a talented actress of his time. What came alive in this book was Anton Chekhov himself, immensely prescient, brilliant, humane, subtle, and ironic. So, I reread all his plays, yes, I am aware he is Russian, but he never was an imperialist. He used comedic set-up to explore sometimes tragic, sometimes melancholic storylines, but what always shines through his words are his love of life, love and longing for meaning and sunshine, his acuity in detecting the most subtle undertones of human nature. I love mysterious Chekhovian women - gentle, cultivated, serene, volcanic passions exploding inside them with only bubbles visible on the surface. His matrix of the world deserves a more detailed essay, this is just a reflective outline.