Chekov

Listening to the way the words on the page sound in my head as I read them to myself, I hear the cadences and dramatic pauses. I laugh out loud at a story set in Russia in the 1880s and then translated into American English and bought by me in a bookshop in a Public Library in Chicago and read on the District line in modern day East London and I think to myself – yes, here, there is genius. Here, we’re flying close to the essence of things.

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