To some extent, the act of writing a biography is inherently celebratory. But Callow's worshipful attitude towards his subject creates a bland, two-dimensional representation of the man. It reads less like scholarship than hero-worship (...).Callow's appreciation of Chekov's genius and his praise for the artist are not unseemly, but the too-facile manner in which he deflects the many criticisms leveled against Chekov make us lose sight of the "other Chekov," the inglorious one, who is equally as important, if often less attractive, than the idealized man Callow presents.In addition--and almost an afterthought in light of the failings described above--Callow's analyses of Chekov's work are often obtuse and, almost without exception, unoriginal.