Cheer Up Chekhov

Chekhov is a jerk… in a good way. Whenever I think of him the image I get is that of a bitter old man, very smart, but an outcast. He seems to me like one of those who at family gatherings sit silently in the corner and watch as they mentally reduce everyone around them to drooling, synchronized mice. An arrogant a**hole who you don’t really want anything to do with in fear of falling captive of his excruciating judging, but then again there’s no use in complaining about his personality when every time you try to take a stab there’s a hard concrete wall that in big white letters remind you Chekhov is infinitely smarter than you… and to him you are nothing.
But that’s just me.
By reading his work you can see he doesn’t think highly of society and what stings the most is that those shallow, dull, dumb characters he lays in front of you actually remind of this or that person. What truly had me devouring the pages was the semi-psychotic search for which of the characters I fit into. Was I the uppity maid? The self-victimizing peasant? The shapeless child?
Chekhov interests us because it bring a certain discomfort we can’t our finger on, I started off thinking it was a boring old-people play but then I saw the twisted eye behind it and I liked it.