I love collections of authors’ letters. I’m not interested in their affairs, their illnesses, their gossipy reflections of the literary world of their time. What I look for as I race through the pages is advice on writing.
Often these tips turn up in letters written by a literary giant to a younger writer. The advice is the kind of gift that I think anyone of us would treasure.
So it was with Anton Chekhov, the Russian doctor and master of the short story (“The Lady with the Pet Dog”) and playwright (“Uncle Vanya,” “The Seagull”).
I spent part of last weekend looking through “The Selected Letters of Anton Chekhov,” edited by the American playwright, Lillian Hellman, translated by Sidonie Lederer, first published in 1955. I found the hardcover in the discount aisles of a local B&N bookstore. Wait long enough and this type of book can be found at a decent price; in this case, just $6.98.
What I found in the book’s pages supported Hellman’s introductory description of the Chekhov: “Chekhov was a pleasant man, witty and wise and tolerant and kind with nothing wishwashy in his kindness, nor self-righteous in his tolerance, and his wit was not ill-humored. He would see right through you, of course, as he did through everybody, but being seen through doesn’t hurt too much if it’s done with affection.”
I also perceived the attitude of a good teacher or writing coach, who begins by focusing on the positive because he understands how desperate writers are for just a crumb of approval, even when they know that the work is flawed.
Here is that good-cop/bad-cop approach on display in a December 3, 1898 letter to Maxim Gorki, who was just three years younger than Chekhov and a literary star, but still wanted to know what the older man thought.
“You ask for my opinion. My opinion? You have undoubted talent, truly a genuine, immense talent. In your story, “On the Steppe,” for example, your talent is shown as extraordinarily powerful, and I even experienced a moment of envy that it was not I who had written it.”
(If I’m Gorki, I’m floating on air right now.)
Chekhov continues: “Now shall I speak of your defects. This is not so easy, though. Referring to shortcomings in the way of talent is like talking of the defects of a fine tree in an orchard; in the main it is certainly not a question of the tree itself but of the tastes of those who look at it.”
(Notice how Chekhov sets up his criticism — it’s just a matter of taste.)
And he goes on: “I will begin by pointing out that in my opinion you have no restraint. … This lack of restraint is especially evident in your descriptions of nature, which break up the continuity of your dialogues; one would like these descriptions to be more compact and concise, just two or three lines or so.”
(Here you can see Chekhov’s influence on James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Katherine Mansfield and Raymond Carver.)
Notice how kind, encouraging and incisive a reader Chekhov is in another letter to Gorki written in January 1899.
“Your best works are “On the Steppe” and “On the Raft.” … These are superb pieces, models of their kind.”
After focusing on what works, Chekhov turns to elements of Gorki’s work that the master believes need work. It’s never a question of what doesn’t work. The difference between what needs work and what doesn’t work is the difference between hope and despair.
“The descriptions of nature are artistic; you are a genuine landscapist. Except that the use of the device of personification (anthromorphism) when you have the sea breathe, the heavens gaze down, the steppe caress, nature whisper, speak or mourn — such descriptions render your descriptions somewhat monotonous, occasionally oversweet and sometimes indistinct; picturesque and expressive descriptions of nature are attained only through simplicity, by the use of such plain phrases and ‘the sun came out,’ ‘it rained,’ etc.”
On Sept. 3, 1899, Chekhov gave his most prescriptive advice to Gorki, a tip that influenced many 20th century writers like George Orwell and teachers of the craft such as Strunk and White.
“Here is more advice; when you read proof, [galley proofs publishers provide authors for corrections, deletions and other changes] take out adjectives and adverbs whenever you can. You use so many of them that the reader finds it hard to concentrate and he gets tired. You understand what I mean when I say, ‘The man sat on the grass.’ You understand because the sentence is clear and there is nothing to distract your attention. Conversely, the brain has trouble understanding me if I say, ‘A tall, narrow-chested man of medium height with a red beard sat on green grass trampled by passers-by, sat mutely, looking about timidly and fearfully.’ This doesn’t get its meaning through to the brain immediately, which is what good writing must do, and fast.”
Many of us have already heard the kind of advice Chekhov doles out with generosity and honesty, but it is especially powerful when you consider the source.
Among my epistolary collections are “The Correspondence of Walker Percy and Shelby Foote,” “The Happiness of Getting it Down Right: The Letters of Frank O’Connor and William Maxwell, 1945-1966” and “The Letters of Gustave Flaubert, 1830-1857.” Each contains gems about the writing craft bestowed by masters of the craft who remain constant students as well.
Is there a collection of letters we should add to our bookshelves?
