6 Articles
Tags :Historical Fiction
War and Peace is so vast that I have to jot down my thoughts one by one, afraid I’ll lose myself in the labyrinth otherwise. Even then, these notes are just fragments, barely touching the surface of what this book contains. The Russian Who Knows Nothing There’s a passage in the novel that made me laugh out loud in bed at midnight. Tolstoy describes Pfuel as one of those hopelessly self-confident men, unchanging and ready to die for his beliefs—a type that can only be German, because only Germans derive such certainty from abstract ideas like science, from the illusion of possessing perfect truth. The French are self-assured because they believe themselves irresistibly charming to everyone, in both mind and...
Early October 1815, in the southern French town of Digne. A stranger—bald, bearded, carrying a worn sack and rough stick—knocked on Bishop Myriel’s door. He had walked twelve leagues that day, enduring insults and threats along the way. The Alpine night wind cut through the holes in his clothes, attacking him from all sides. He carried a yellow passport (the identifying document given to convicts on parole), 109 francs in savings, and a soul writhing in pain and hatred. Bishop Myriel welcomed the stranger. “You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house; it is the house of Jesus Christ. This door does not ask those who enter whether they have a name, but whether they...
Anna’s psychological monologue before her death stands as one of the nineteenth century’s most extraordinary pieces of psychological writing. It’s difficult to imagine what state Tolstoy must have been in while composing these passages. The voice recording these sentences seems to belong to Anna herself—and if we consider Anna’s suicide as the novel’s climax, then the figure standing at this peak, surveying everything below, is not Tolstoy but Death itself. The Shadow of Death The shadow of death hovers over the entire novel from its opening pages. We first encounter it when Anna and Vronsky meet for the first time, at the scene of a railway suicide. This is followed by Anna’s brush with death during childbirth, then Vronsky’s failed...
In 1856, the old Tsar Nicholas I ended his life by poison, and Alexander II came to the throne. The reforms of the new reign stirred fresh public interest in the Decembrist Uprising—the failed revolt that had greeted Nicholas I’s accession. Tolstoy, always suspicious of authority and its symbols, disliked this renewed fascination with “digging up old relics.” Turgenev, ten years his senior, scolded him sharply in a letter. That exchange, ironically, awakened Tolstoy’s own curiosity about the period. He began to imagine a novel about the Decembrists returning from exile. Yet he soon discovered that to reveal what those men believed, he would have to return to 1825 and write the uprising itself. And to write 1825, he would...
The night lay heavy and thick, without a trace of starlight. An old man reclined in his armchair, his snow-white hair like a brilliant lamp burning against the darkness. He struggled for breath, his body suffused with an indescribable pain. Death was drawing near, yet he felt no fear, for he could sense something burning hot beside him—that something was love. This old man was Jean Valjean, a “villain” who did good, a convict whose body housed a soul overflowing with compassion. Kind and generous, willing to destroy himself rather than harm his enemy, he saved those who had struck him down. Kneeling at the lofty altar of virtue, he transcended the mundane world and drew close to the angels....
No matter how hard I try to stay balanced and self-aware, I still get anxious sometimes. When those moods hit, my go-to remedy is diving into the heavyweight stuff—Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, those massive books. I just finished rereading Anna Karenina. The masters always leave you with so much to feel, yet somehow words fail you. So here I am again, just rambling through whatever thoughts come to mind. There’s too much to say anyway. I read Anna Karenina once when I was little, skimmed it really. By the time Anna and Vronsky finally got together, I lost patience with the rest. I felt cheated—not even a kiss scene! But even then, I knew Tolstoy was something special, because that famous ball scene...
After Reading
North Ward
