Brevity
Letter to Alexander Chekhov, Moscow, January 4,1886 Do not give anyone permission to shorten or revise your stories.. It is hard to withhold permission; it is a lot easier to resort to the handy expedient of cutting and trimming as ne plus ultra as possible and making your own revisions. The more you cut, the more your stories will be published.. But the most important thing of all is to stay sharp, alert, and hot on your task, rewriting five times if need be, cutting, etc., and keeping in mind that all Petersburg is watching the work of the brothers Chekhov.
Witness, Don't Judge
Letter to Alexei Suvorin, Sumy, May 30, 1888 In my opinion, it is not the writer's job to solve such problems as the existence of God, pessimism, etc. The job of the artist is only to record who under which circumstances said or thought what about God or pessimism. The artist must not judge his characters or their words; he must only be an impartial witness. I overhear two Russians carry on a muddled, inconclusive discussion on pessimism; I am duty bound to transmit this conversation exactly as I heard it. Evaluating it is a job for the jury, that is, for the reader. My job demands only one thing of me: to be talented, that is, to distinguish between relevant and irrelevant evidence; to illuminate characters, and to speak in their language. Shcheglov-Leontyev criticizes me for ending one of my stories with the sentence, "You can't really explain why things happen in this world." In his opinion, the writer who is a psychologist must explain, otherwise he has no right to call himself a psychologist. I disagree. It is high time for writers—and especially for true artists—to admit that it is impossible to explain anything. Socrates acknowledged this long ago, as did Voltaire. Only the crowd thinks it knows and understands everything there is to know and understand. And the more stupid it is, the more open- minded it thinks itself to be. But if an artist whom the crowd trusts admits that he understands nothing of what he sees, this fact alone will make a great contribution to the realm of thought and will mark a great step forward.
From Dream to Story
Letter to AleXei Suvorin, Melikhovo, January 25, 1894 I wrote "The Black Monk" not under the sway of melancholy, but in a state of perfectly sober reflection.16 I just felt like giving a picture of megalomania. The image of the monk floating across the field came to me in a dream, and when I woke up in the morning, I told Misha17 about it. So please tell Anna Ivanovna18 that poor Anton Pavlovich has, thank God, not yet lost his mind, and that he eats too much at dinner and consequently sees monks in his dreams.
Art Should Not Solve Problems
Letter to Alexei Suvorin, Moscow, October 27, 1888
I do sometimes preach heresies, but I have never, not once, gone so far as to deny that hard questions have no place in art. In conversations with my fellow writers, I always insist that it is not the job of the artist to solve narrowly specialized questions. It is bad for the artist to tackle what he does not understand. We have specialists for dealing with specialized questions; it is their job to make decisions about the peasant commune, the fate of capitalism, the evils of alcoholism,
about boots, and female complaints The artist must pass
judgment only on what he understands; his sphere of expertise is as limited as that of any other specialist—that's what I keep repeating and advocating. Anyone who says that the artist's sphere leaves no room for questions, but deals exclusively with answers, has never done any writing or done anything with imagery. The artist observes, selects, guesses, and arranges; every one of these operations presupposes a question at its outset. If he has not asked himself a question at the start, he has nothing to guess and nothing to select
You are right to demand that an author be conscious of what he is doing, but you are confusing two concepts: solving the problem and correctly formulating the problem. Only the latter is required of the artist. Not a single problem is resolved in Anna Karenina or Eugene Onegin, and yet the novels satisfy you completely because all the problems they raise are formulated correctly.19 It is the duty of the law courts to correctly formulate problems, but it is up to the members of the jury to solve them, each to his own taste.
Drawing Life Truthfully
Letter to Alexei Pleshcheyev, Moscow, April 9, 1889 My novel made a significant leap forward then ran aground while waiting for the tide to turn.20 I am dedicating it to you—but I have already written you about this. As the basis of my novel I am taking the lives of some good people: their personalities, their actions, words, thoughts, and hopes; my goal is to kill two birds with one stone: to draw life truthfully and at the same time to show the extent to which this life deviates from the norm. The norm is inaccessible to me, as it is to every one of us. We know what a dishonorable act is, but we have no idea what honor itself might be. I intend to keep to a framework that is close to my heart and tested by people who are stronger and cleverer than I am.
Socrates and the Cook
Letter to Alexei Suvorin, Melikhovo, January 2, 1894 It is easier to write about Socrates than about a young lady or a cook.
when and how much to write Wait a Year
Letter to Elena Shavrova,21 Melikhovo, February 28, 1895
You are right: it is a risky topic.22 I cannot tell you anything definite, but I can only advise you to lock up the story in a trunk and keep it there for a year: only then should you read it over.
The Author's Warehouse
Letter to Alexei Suvorin, Moscow, October 27, 1888 My conscience tells me that, even though I did receive the prize,23 my literary career has not even begun yet. The plots for five novellas and two novels are languishing in my head. One of the novels was conceived so long ago that several of the characters have already grown old and out of date even before they had a chance to take form on paper. There is an entire army of people in my head begging to get out and just waiting for my command. Everything I have written to this point is rubbish in comparison with what I would want to have written and what I would be thrilled to be writing. . I do not like the fact that I am successful; the plots that are still in my head are fretting with jealous irritation over the ones I have already put down in writing. It annoys me to think that all the stuff that is nonsense is already written up while the good material is still sitting around in the warehouse like unsold inventory. Of course, there is a lot of exaggeration in my whining, and there is also a lot that is nothing more than my impression, but there is also a dole—a sizable dole—of truth. What do I mean by a sizeable dole? The images that I feel are among the best, that I love and jealously hoard rather than waste or butcher in a rush job on some "Name Day Party" or other."24. If my love is a mistake, then I am wrong, but it is also entirely possible that it is not a mistake! Either I am an idiot and a conceited fool, or I am an organism capable of becoming a good writer. Everything I am writing at present bores me and leaves me indifferent, but everything that is still only in my head interests me, moves me, and excites me. From all of this I have concluded that everyone else is on the wrong track and I am the only one who knows the secret of what needs to be done. This is probably what most writers think. Anyhow, these are the kinds of issues that would drive the devil himself crazy.