I have met people, mercifully few in number, who just don’t respond to Chekhov. For me, his four main plays (Uncle Vanya, The Cherry Orchard, The Seagull and Three Sisters) are stone-cold masterpieces, timeless examinations of the human condition. But some people, slap them in the best seat in the stalls and they’ll ask what all the fuss is about: a whole lot of rich people complaining about nothing and achieving even less?
And perhaps now, with Gary Shteyngart’s latest book, I’m beginning to understand their bewilderment. Our Country Friends, a Chekhov-inspired Covid novel, comes lauded with every form of praise from serious Americans, up to and including the word “masterpiece”. And yet here I am in the Crush Bar, staring into my G&T and wondering what I’m missing.
