There are two kinds of innovative writers: those who bring something new – the new becomes old. And there are those who bring something unparalleled – among them, Chekhov. Our era zealously struggles for the new – it has become an obsession. However, it is not entirely certain that it has felt the distinction between the new and the unparalleled.

Unparalleled in art is not simply a "style," but something inalienably personal, a melody that cannot be transferred to another instrument. If Chekhov had brought an unprecedented technique to the theater, today he would have taken his place on the dusty shelf of History. However, with the author of The Cherry Orchard, something inexplicable occurs: His works are intertwined with that stagnant Russian segment, sinking, surrendered to the blissful release of every decay.

From such conditions, one would expect to arise ethnographic works, soaked in the glitter of the picturesque. Instead of this, works emerged full of flesh and juice, resilience of the soul, imbued with a charm previously unheard of.