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A review by _marco_
The Kiss and Other Stories by Ronald Wilks, Anton Chekhov
challenging
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
medium-paced
5.0
Given that I am writing this review long after having finished the collection of stories, much of my initial thoughts on them are lost. Despite this temporal divide between then and now, I still find myself thinking of the rich genre scenes Chekhov paints with his subtle language, moments described in words that are so well contrived that they seem to be visual memories of my own.
What drew me into these stories initially was the richness and minute detail of the natural landscapes that Chekhov places in the background of each these stories (something I’ve grown to love in literature). The trees, the wind, the sun and the clouds stand as their own characters that either empathize with or remain completely indifferent to the protagonists. In the Kiss, for example, the same countryside villa is described at one moment as colourful and full of life, only to be inundated with streaks of grey at the next, not just reflecting but actively tainting the mood of the insignificant Ryabovich. Another example is in the Bishop, where the acute psychological torment of the dying vicar is juxtaposed with the calm indifference of a sunny spring day. The use of nature to evoke scenes such as these to me is reminiscent of Maupassant, except the impressionistic scenes of the Norman landscape are replaced with the thick, saturated oils of of something much more visceral; more present.
What drew me into these stories initially was the richness and minute detail of the natural landscapes that Chekhov places in the background of each these stories (something I’ve grown to love in literature). The trees, the wind, the sun and the clouds stand as their own characters that either empathize with or remain completely indifferent to the protagonists. In the Kiss, for example, the same countryside villa is described at one moment as colourful and full of life, only to be inundated with streaks of grey at the next, not just reflecting but actively tainting the mood of the insignificant Ryabovich. Another example is in the Bishop, where the acute psychological torment of the dying vicar is juxtaposed with the calm indifference of a sunny spring day. The use of nature to evoke scenes such as these to me is reminiscent of Maupassant, except the impressionistic scenes of the Norman landscape are replaced with the thick, saturated oils of of something much more visceral; more present.
The red moon was reflected in the water near the left bank; tiny waves rippled through the reflection, pulling it apart and breaking it up into little patches, as if trying to bear it away… The water raced past and he did not know where or why; it had flowed just as swiftly in May, when it grew from a little stream into a large river, flowed into the sea, evaporated and turned into rain. Perhaps this was the same water flowing past. To what purpose?
Chekhov is also brilliant at capturing the elusiveness of happiness. Darkness gives way to moments of light, and just as quickly, that light will revert back into the oppressive shadow. Fleeting moments, ephemeral moods are rendered permanent in the same hues as the bloodshot eyes and tear stained cheeks of the paintings of Ilya Repin (yes, I’m comparing everything to art).
Again, I can’t comment on any further detail because I simply don’t remember how I felt after putting the book down.
Favourite stories in the collection were the Kiss, Peasants, the Bishop, a Case History, and in the Gully.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Grief, Murder, Child death, and Death
Moderate: Alcoholism
Minor: Child abuse, Fire/Fire injury, and Terminal illness
I did take a bit reading break halfway through the book, so I may have forgotten some explicit content in the warnings. It is Russian literature, so generally speaking one can expect the worst.