Chekhov on Blogging

I read all of Chekhov's short stories in a single lonely weekend during my first term at university. That was almost twenty-five years ago and I have since remained an avid fan, although naturally I have forgotten every word. I do remember a Kiss.

I have been a fan of Christopher Hampton, mind, even longer: ever since I adored Mrs Botogol (as she wasn't then) bring the house down with a perfect performance as Araminta in the Philanthropist. That was very probably in 1981.

So all in all I was excited on Friday to go to The Seagull at the Royal Court [well, silly, because it's a play by Chekhov... in a new version by Hampton] But not excited enough to stay awake during all of the second half, mind, but in my defence I have to point out that the play was two hours and fifty minutes long. That's too long. But the first half was excellent and one bit really caught my attention; so much so, I sadly bought a script, so that I could copy it out in my blog.

Background: Trigorin is a famous blogger, who has recently got a book deal, and Nina accuses him of having a wonderful life. He replies

I don't see what's so special about it [...] All right then, let's talk, let's talk about my wonderful glittering life... (he thinks for a moment)

There's such a thing as obsession, when for example a man thinks all day and night about nothing but the moon, and I have my own moon. All day and all night I am haunted by a single obsessive thought: I have to blog, I have to blog, I have to blog.... No sooner have I finished one post when for some reason or another I have to write a second post, and then a third, and, after the third, a fourth.... I write non-stop at breakneck speed, and I can't seem to do it any other way. Now what's so wonderful and glittering about that, may I ask? Ach... it's a preposterous life! I'm here with you getting steamed up, but at the same time I can't forget for a moment that there's an post saved as draft waiting for me.

There's a cloud, see? which looks like a grand piano. I think to myself: must fit in to my blog somewhere that a cloud floated by. looking like a grand piano [...] I keep fixing on every phrase, on every word that you an I utter, and I can't wait to add all these phrases and words as soon as I can to my literary stockpile: never know when they might come in handy.

And I am sitting there, in Row K of the stalls, (just behind that scottish bloke from Sea of Souls, actually) in the heart of metropolitan London, watching Chekhov, in a version by Hampton, and I am thinking to myself:

• that's good, I could blog that
  
• it reminds me of a post by Wife in The North
• I haven't posted anything on my blog for three days. I'm not a real blogger

We bought the script in the interval, and when we had finished our obligatory glass of theatre-Pinot-Grigio we went back to our seats. While I waited for the play to resume I tried to look up the quote, but in the dim light I couldn't read it and I had forgotten my brand-new old-man glasses.