Forty StoriesIf any writer can be said to have invented the modern short story, it is Anton Chekhov. It is not just that Chekhov democratized this art form; more than that, he changed the thrust of short fiction from relating to revealing. And what marvelous and unbearable things are revealed in these Forty Stories. The abashed happiness of a woman in the presence of the husband who abandoned her years before. The obsequious terror of the official who accidentally sneezes on a general. The poignant astonishment of an aging Don Juan overtaken by love. Spanning the entirety of Chekhov's career and including such masterpieces as "Surgery," "The Huntsman," "Anyuta," "Sleepyhead," "The Lady With the Pet Dog," and "The Bishop," this collection manages to be amusing, dazzling, and supremely moving—often within a single page. |
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... can't stand shooting!... I don't know why you take me with you. The hell with it! Let him take my place! I'll stay behind. Here's a place for you, Mikhey!” “Did you hear that? Why should we take him along?” The doctor rose with the ...
... can't stand shooting!... I don't know why you take me with you. The hell with it! Let him take my place! I'll stay behind. Here's a place for you, Mikhey!” “Did you hear that? Why should we take him along?” The doctor rose with the ...
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... can't unnerve a real huntsman! You might as well admit you don't know how to fire a gun!” “Enough, sir! One word from me, and there's a dozen thrown back in my face!” the general said, and then he turned to Vanya. “Vanya, dear boy, give ...
... can't unnerve a real huntsman! You might as well admit you don't know how to fire a gun!” “Enough, sir! One word from me, and there's a dozen thrown back in my face!” the general said, and then he turned to Vanya. “Vanya, dear boy, give ...
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... can't find anything in this marmot,” Nekrichikhvostov complained when the marmot had been cut to ribbons. “It doesn't have a heart. It has entrails, though. Know what, gentlemen? Let us go on to the marshes. What can we shoot here ...
... can't find anything in this marmot,” Nekrichikhvostov complained when the marmot had been cut to ribbons. “It doesn't have a heart. It has entrails, though. Know what, gentlemen? Let us go on to the marshes. What can we shoot here ...
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... can't ...” “Don't be frightened. Yegorov, you're not dead yet, are you?” I shouted in the direction of the summer house. “Not yet?... Why?” At the gate of the summer house the lieutenant appeared, brilliant in the moonlight. He was pale ...
... can't ...” “Don't be frightened. Yegorov, you're not dead yet, are you?” I shouted in the direction of the summer house. “Not yet?... Why?” At the gate of the summer house the lieutenant appeared, brilliant in the moonlight. He was pale ...
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