If writing could ever be construed as a 'holy' business, a dissertation on the nature of day to day reality, a study of "That Which Is," Chekhov, surely, would be up there, as a kind of Noah in earthy human form. His study of Sakhalin Island, along with accompanying letters to friends and family, has been brought together in form of travelog, a complete picture of going somewhere far away and alien, even bizarre, and coming back. The piece stands as a picture of a writer's reality. (Can't put my hands on it at the moment.)

It was a rugged journey for a man not well, a harsh land and sea voyage that he found strangely invigorating to the remote penal colony to document. It seems he interviewed, or at least counted, the entire population. A candor rings through the letters, perhaps heightened by confidentially and of being personal in nature, that is distinctly his in tone. Great stories like "The Steppe," and "Ward No. 6" reverberate in its open spaces and the small details of dealings with local officials.

The piece seems to suggest a kind of form, a template that fits over the life of one is a writer. Personally it reminds me of my life as a writer, which I must admit is spent largely as a barman, a life of odd hours and odd people coming and going, while offering expanses of the necessary time alone to come to terms with things. The whole of Chekhov's way of handling life makes me suspicious that a writer is a particular sort, a reincarnation of a previous life spent in similar fashion, simply all the details changed. I am reminded of the same helpless way we travel, caught in between this and that, as in, indeed on a rugged steamer somewhere far away from home. All one can do is keep a sense of humor about himself, a tolerance for the oddities and individual personalities, eccentric neighbors, strange conditions that befall all of us and to those maintaining the illusions of the writer.

Being a writer is a matter of finding the proper attitude to face life, and then to be open and honest and clear enough about getting things said. Chekhov observes without whining. He must have had a lot of energy and endurance, and for an American in the 21st Century, he is a very interesting read.

Reading the story, "The Steppe," one is struck by the autobiographical, the personal element, the direct experience, of a man becoming a writer, brought to fruition in so many places, including, Sakhalin Island.