These plays move me in a way which I can't describe. Or, rather, I probably could but it would be endless and personal and boring.

I think this is modern suburbia in embryo; it is also, of course, seeped in "The Russian Character."

I love Dostoevsky and Tolstoy with a deep passion but there's really no one quite like Chekhov. For that thin tissue of humanity billowing in the wind over the void "thing" he's the one you want.

How much life do we lose, in living? How much have we lost already?

ps
Louie Malle's (final) film "Vanya on 42nd St" is an autumnal masterpiece. The actors are all veterans of stage and screen who meet every so often in a crumbling theater to put on the eponymous play for friends and relatives and they literally just walk in off the street and get into the stir of the play.