itself chiefly by his strong propensity for such subjects as those
treated in "To the Stars," "The Life of Man," and "Anathema." In these
plays Andreyev plunges into the deepest problems of existence, and
seeks to posit once more and, if possible, to solve in accordance with
the modern spirit and modern knowledge those questions over which the
mightiest brains of man have labored for centuries: Whence? Whither?
What is the significance of man's life? Why is death?

If Spinoza's dictum be true, that "a wise man's meditation is not
of death but of life," then Andreyev is surely not a wise man. Some
philosophers might have written their works even without a guarantee
against immortality, though Schopenhauer, who exercised a influence on
the young Andreyev, was of the opinion that "without death there would
hardly be any philosophy"; but of Andreyev it is certain that the bulk
of his works would not have been written, and could not be what they
are, were it not for the fact of death. If there is one idea that can
be said to dominate the author of "The Life of Man," it is the idea of
death. Constantly he keeps asking: Why all this struggling, all this
pain, all this misery in the world, if it must end in nothing? The
suffering of the great mass of mankind makes life meaningless while
it lasts, and death puts an end even to this life. Again and again
Andreyev harks back to the one thought from which all his other
thoughts seem to flow as from their fountain-head. Lazarus, in the
story by that name, is but the embodiment of death. All who behold
him, who look into his eyes, are never again the same as they were;
indeed, most of them are utterly ruined. "The Seven Who Were Hanged"
tells how differently different persons take death. Grim death lurks
in the background of almost every work, casting a fearful gloom,
mocking the life of man, laughing to scorn his joys and his sorrows,
propounding, sphinx-like, the big riddle that no Oedipus will ever be