Some days I think boring things.
Boring to most humans, that is.
First, you need to know that I love my Russian Culture and Civilization class. Novikov is one of the sweetest people on the planet, and her accent is absolutely beautiful. All of that, however, is just a plus. I have a massive interest in Russia thanks to my Chekhov obsession (although, oddly enough, I haven't had an opportunity to read as much of his work as I would like; school has a way of killing any will to read outside of homework). To be more specific, I adore his play, "The Seagull." I've read it more times than I can count. As a matter of fact, my smallest edition of the play travels along with me in my backpack.
Chekhov. Oh, Chekhov--he says so many things in so few words. His short stories have the depth and breadth of one of Dostoevsky's massive novels, but the sheer economy of words... it's artful. I don't think you can read anything by Chekhov once. His writings need to analyzed, and every sentence needs to be considered--it's that dense.
New layers appear each time I reread "The Seagull." I'm hoping I'll gain more insight because of my Russian class; at the moment, I don't know all that much about Russian culture or the events that shaped the people and their literature.
We're delving into medieval vitae in class, and I kept trying to tie the plot characteristic of this genre to "The Seagull." Vitae, or stories about the lives of saints, were borrowed from the Byzantines (who also brought Orthodox Catholicism to Russia). The medieval Russian writers (mostly monks and other learned holy men, as it was in most of the rest of the world) used the Byzantine form to record the lives of local saints. These records made up the bulk of Russian literature; religion was central to Russian society, and these vitae not only chronicled the lives of saints, but also provided something of a "how to" guide for Christians. The saints were the Orthodox ideals that every God-fearing church member could strive to attain.
Although details vary from the story of one saint to the next, they all have a basic plot. The saint's birth and childhood are briefly related. Often, the birth has something unusual about it, and the child is quiet, scholarly, and obedient to his parents throughout childhood. As young adults, the saints typically refuse to marry, give up worldly goods, and live the life of a hermit in the harsh conditions of northern Russia. They are elevated in status by virtue of their goodness, and, through God's will, survive in hostile climates. Eventually, the saint must give up hermitage to take up with a monastery, where he does good deeds and performs miracles (usually prophecy or healing).
The saints are always humble and hard-working, never shirking the hardest and dullest duties. They have a great sense of humility, and don't seek advancement or praise. They lack vanity, going about in shabby clothes and never advertising their status.
The vitae were crucial to Russian schooling up through the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when secular literature really began to take off. Most, if not all, of the great Russian poets and authors were influenced by the accounts of saints, and consciously or subconsciously drew upon them in their writings. Chekhov came near the end of this crucial literary period, but he undoubtedly read the vitae as a schoolboy, and he couldn't have avoided the influence of Orthodox Catholicism.
At first glance, "The Seagull" seems about as far from the stories of saints as possible, with no Orthodox themes or influence. None of the characters speak extensively on religion. Konstantin's life is revealed throughout the play, but he appears to lack the qualities of the saints. His suicide at the end isn't a noble gesture; suicide goes against the church.
Still, I'm going to propose that Konstantin Treplev is a saint.
He isn't, of course, an Orthodox saint. Chekhov leads me to think that the Catholic God is, in "The Seagull," replaced by the theater. Whether the theater is a metaphor for Christianity or a sort of pagan god unto itself (possibly referring back to the time before Russia's conversion to Christianity in 988) doesn't really matter. The theater itself is representative of something broader--all of human creativity.
Consider the story with the view that artistic creation is akin to worship of this god, Creativity. Konstantin, then, is born to deeply religious parents, as are most of the traditional saints. His father is a writer, and his mother is an actress. They are both well-known for their art, and praise Creativity through their work.
While we miss out on Konstantin's childhood, he is introduced as a young adult whose pursuit of creativity is hampered by his mother. This neatly parallels the vitae of Saint Sergius, who wanted to become a monk; Sergius' parents begged him to stay at home to care for them in their old age, and his loyalty to his parents outweighed his own ambitions, however noble they were. Konstantin's talents as a playwright are limited by his mother, whose zealous (and selfish) devotion to her craft outweigh her son's desires and keep him trapped.
Konstantin himself could very well embody all of the ideals of a saint in the religion of Creativity. He is introspective and scholarly (although he admits that he dropped out of college). He is obedient to his mother, and devoted to artistic creation. Although he may seem to lack humility, Konstantin needs others to praise his plays; he says nothing of their worth, but he wants them to succeed by their virtue. Unfortunately for him, his worship of Creativity differs from the norm. In pursuing a form of theater that he feels is true, he becomes isolated from other artists and, in effect, loses his chance at marriage. His Nina is charmed by a man who is successful--who has reaped the material gains of art by producing work that lacks truth. Konstantin, in his pursuit of truth, gives up materialistic goals (wealth, esteem) and lives the life of a minimalist (Chekhov makes several references to his tattered clothes).
Unlike the great saints, though, Konstantin gives in to temptation. He turns to writing what will sell, but doesn't reap any spiritual reward for it. It isn't satisfying, even though it has brought him fame and merit. The final pages of the play could be seen as a return to pure, spiritual Creativity--a final release from temptations of the world. Konstantin's suicide opposes Orthodox beliefs, but not Russian sympathies; suffering is glorified and esteemed in Russian culture. The more one suffers, the closer one comes to God. What is willful isolation from popular opinion and an early death if not suffering?
Konstantin's suicide is a statement of truth and of his artistic values, and, in its way, an ultimate appeal to pure Creativity, untainted by the materialism that has taken over the previous generation of artists. He is martyred for Creativity.
Chekhov has given us the vitae of a saint of Art--an instruction manual that shows us how to pursue creativity in its purest form. Take it as a metaphor for an Orthodox God if you will, but I think that Chekhov is concerned with art and not religion.
I went on way too long about that, and I'm not entirely sure I made any sense at all. Erm. Go read "The Seagull" if you haven't, and I'll stay here and do my homework.
First, you need to know that I love my Russian Culture and Civilization class. Novikov is one of the sweetest people on the planet, and her accent is absolutely beautiful. All of that, however, is just a plus. I have a massive interest in Russia thanks to my Chekhov obsession (although, oddly enough, I haven't had an opportunity to read as much of his work as I would like; school has a way of killing any will to read outside of homework). To be more specific, I adore his play, "The Seagull." I've read it more times than I can count. As a matter of fact, my smallest edition of the play travels along with me in my backpack.
Chekhov. Oh, Chekhov--he says so many things in so few words. His short stories have the depth and breadth of one of Dostoevsky's massive novels, but the sheer economy of words... it's artful. I don't think you can read anything by Chekhov once. His writings need to analyzed, and every sentence needs to be considered--it's that dense.
New layers appear each time I reread "The Seagull." I'm hoping I'll gain more insight because of my Russian class; at the moment, I don't know all that much about Russian culture or the events that shaped the people and their literature.
We're delving into medieval vitae in class, and I kept trying to tie the plot characteristic of this genre to "The Seagull." Vitae, or stories about the lives of saints, were borrowed from the Byzantines (who also brought Orthodox Catholicism to Russia). The medieval Russian writers (mostly monks and other learned holy men, as it was in most of the rest of the world) used the Byzantine form to record the lives of local saints. These records made up the bulk of Russian literature; religion was central to Russian society, and these vitae not only chronicled the lives of saints, but also provided something of a "how to" guide for Christians. The saints were the Orthodox ideals that every God-fearing church member could strive to attain.
Although details vary from the story of one saint to the next, they all have a basic plot. The saint's birth and childhood are briefly related. Often, the birth has something unusual about it, and the child is quiet, scholarly, and obedient to his parents throughout childhood. As young adults, the saints typically refuse to marry, give up worldly goods, and live the life of a hermit in the harsh conditions of northern Russia. They are elevated in status by virtue of their goodness, and, through God's will, survive in hostile climates. Eventually, the saint must give up hermitage to take up with a monastery, where he does good deeds and performs miracles (usually prophecy or healing).
The saints are always humble and hard-working, never shirking the hardest and dullest duties. They have a great sense of humility, and don't seek advancement or praise. They lack vanity, going about in shabby clothes and never advertising their status.
The vitae were crucial to Russian schooling up through the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when secular literature really began to take off. Most, if not all, of the great Russian poets and authors were influenced by the accounts of saints, and consciously or subconsciously drew upon them in their writings. Chekhov came near the end of this crucial literary period, but he undoubtedly read the vitae as a schoolboy, and he couldn't have avoided the influence of Orthodox Catholicism.
At first glance, "The Seagull" seems about as far from the stories of saints as possible, with no Orthodox themes or influence. None of the characters speak extensively on religion. Konstantin's life is revealed throughout the play, but he appears to lack the qualities of the saints. His suicide at the end isn't a noble gesture; suicide goes against the church.
Still, I'm going to propose that Konstantin Treplev is a saint.
He isn't, of course, an Orthodox saint. Chekhov leads me to think that the Catholic God is, in "The Seagull," replaced by the theater. Whether the theater is a metaphor for Christianity or a sort of pagan god unto itself (possibly referring back to the time before Russia's conversion to Christianity in 988) doesn't really matter. The theater itself is representative of something broader--all of human creativity.
Consider the story with the view that artistic creation is akin to worship of this god, Creativity. Konstantin, then, is born to deeply religious parents, as are most of the traditional saints. His father is a writer, and his mother is an actress. They are both well-known for their art, and praise Creativity through their work.
While we miss out on Konstantin's childhood, he is introduced as a young adult whose pursuit of creativity is hampered by his mother. This neatly parallels the vitae of Saint Sergius, who wanted to become a monk; Sergius' parents begged him to stay at home to care for them in their old age, and his loyalty to his parents outweighed his own ambitions, however noble they were. Konstantin's talents as a playwright are limited by his mother, whose zealous (and selfish) devotion to her craft outweigh her son's desires and keep him trapped.
Konstantin himself could very well embody all of the ideals of a saint in the religion of Creativity. He is introspective and scholarly (although he admits that he dropped out of college). He is obedient to his mother, and devoted to artistic creation. Although he may seem to lack humility, Konstantin needs others to praise his plays; he says nothing of their worth, but he wants them to succeed by their virtue. Unfortunately for him, his worship of Creativity differs from the norm. In pursuing a form of theater that he feels is true, he becomes isolated from other artists and, in effect, loses his chance at marriage. His Nina is charmed by a man who is successful--who has reaped the material gains of art by producing work that lacks truth. Konstantin, in his pursuit of truth, gives up materialistic goals (wealth, esteem) and lives the life of a minimalist (Chekhov makes several references to his tattered clothes).
Unlike the great saints, though, Konstantin gives in to temptation. He turns to writing what will sell, but doesn't reap any spiritual reward for it. It isn't satisfying, even though it has brought him fame and merit. The final pages of the play could be seen as a return to pure, spiritual Creativity--a final release from temptations of the world. Konstantin's suicide opposes Orthodox beliefs, but not Russian sympathies; suffering is glorified and esteemed in Russian culture. The more one suffers, the closer one comes to God. What is willful isolation from popular opinion and an early death if not suffering?
Konstantin's suicide is a statement of truth and of his artistic values, and, in its way, an ultimate appeal to pure Creativity, untainted by the materialism that has taken over the previous generation of artists. He is martyred for Creativity.
Chekhov has given us the vitae of a saint of Art--an instruction manual that shows us how to pursue creativity in its purest form. Take it as a metaphor for an Orthodox God if you will, but I think that Chekhov is concerned with art and not religion.
I went on way too long about that, and I'm not entirely sure I made any sense at all. Erm. Go read "The Seagull" if you haven't, and I'll stay here and do my homework.