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Read War And Peace (1998)

War and Peace (1998)

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4.09 of 5 Votes: 5
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ISBN
0192833987 (ISBN13: 9780192833983)
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English
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oxford university press

War And Peace (1998) - Plot & Excerpts

I tried for five months to write something more polished, less rambling. This is all I've got:"While he is alive, the morning is still fresh and dewy, the vampires sleep. But if the sun sets, if father Tolstoy dies and the last genius leaves - what then?"-Alexander Blok, as Tolstoy lay dying at Astapovo***"[War and Peace] is positively what might be called a Russian Illiad. Embracing the whole epoch, it is the grandiose literary event, showcasing the gallery of great men painted by a lively brush of the great master... This is one of the most, if not the most profound literary work ever.-Ivan Goncharov“Anna Karenina is sheer perfection as a work of art. No European work of fiction of our present day comes anywhere near it. Furthermore, the idea underlying it shows that it is ours, ours, something that belongs to us alone and that is our own property, our own national 'new word' or, at any rate, the beginning of it.”- Dostoyevsky"[War and Peace] is the greatest ever war novel in the history of literature."-Thomas MannAnd of course: "If the world could write by itself, it would write like Tolstoy."-Isaac BabelDamn, right? Intense. These are just some of the glowing, adoring quotes that I have drawn from the absolutely glittering gallery of homages that have been written to Tolstoy. On the one hand, it’s hard not to get caught up in the high, especially if you’ve experienced any of it first-hand yourself. But on the other hand… it kind of makes you want to kick back at it, doesn’t it? It makes me understand muckraking tabloid journalism. This is definitely the sort of moment where we could all use a cooling off article about the tax fraud he committed for years or some pictures from a bar fight he started. Here’s the thing, the wonderful thing about Tolstoy: I think that he feels the same way.One of the many reasons I love the movie version of The Last Station (which covers the last year of Tolstoy’s life) is the way that it frames Tolstoy’s struggle to control his own identity. The movie brilliantly explored the grand old man standing at the same crossroads over and over again as people tried to force him to take one path or another: either to buy into his own mythical propaganda, or at least to use it to some good purpose and become the sort of icon that Russia needed to begin to undertake serious reforms, that is, to act the part of the pure saint that he often wished that he was and live the way that others felt he owed it to them to live or whether he could simply be and live as the complicated, imperfect, sometimes silly, sometimes angry, loving man that he actually was. At that point, was his life really his own any longer to decide what to do with? What did he owe to the millions who knew his name and thought they knew what he stood for? Did he have the right to be less than what he was constantly told people needed him to be?I think that Tolstoy struggled with the issue of Great Man syndrome long before he became the purported saint/icon that he was made into at the end of his life. War and Peace is, as so many have noted, about a lot of Serious Ideas and Movements. And here’s the thing, he’s really, really good at writing about them. Although some of his ideas can seem silly from the vantage point of the 21st century, the process that is put into them does not seem so. And at the time, there seemed to be no one who could come up with the words to refute him in any satisfying way. I’m sure that his reputation had a lot to do with it, his place in the social-political fabric as much as his literary talents, his extraordinary position that seemingly allowed him to speak out under an autocratic government. But nonetheless, whatever you might say about the legitimacy of how he got there, it doesn’t change what ultimately happened, which is that both Tolstoy and his ideas ended up elevated into a rarefied sphere where criticisms were fairly ineffectual or easily dismissed.Under all the rage about Napoleons and Alexanders, it seemed to me that perhaps the major underlying theme of War and Peace was just this: The search for that Great Man (or equivalent idea) that could make Tolstoy stop seeking and asking and live content. It seemed to me that Tolstoy would give anything if he felt he could give up seeking and rest in full trust. This whole book has his thinly veiled author proxies searching for something to give themselves over to, wholeheartedly and without regrets. The read I got was that Tolstoy wanted to find this Great Man, be his servant, follow his dictates and trust that when the day comes that he questions them, the Great Man will be able to justify what he tells him in a way that admits of no argument. He wants to be able to go home satisfied and feel that when he comes back the next day the Great Man’s next set of instructions will always be just as wise, just as inarguable, and just as moral in statement as well as action as they were the day before. More than this, he wants this Great Man to be able to change him and purify him of what he sees as his petty enjoyments, loves, hatreds and cynicisms, and make him into a perfect vessel of love and generosity to those around him, who is only inspired by the greatest of good-doings and rejects worldly pleasures.So, you can see where this is going, right? Tolstoy isn’t looking for a Great Man, or perfect human or amazing idea at all: he’s looking for God, incarnate. This was the heartbreaking thing about this book for me, watching him try to find this impossible ideal, because it seems like he really thought that this was possible, in his heart of hearts. He never could get rid of the thought that The Ideal, the Utopia, the Perfect Heaven, existed somewhere and he was just missing out on it.Tolstoy’s two most direct author proxies, Pierre and Prince Andrei, spend this whole novel seeking what I can only call with a capital H, their Happiness, some platonic ideal of Heavenly Bliss in which their souls will no longer question or feel discontent or dissatisfaction. Between them, these two men place their hopes in, respectively: Napoleon, carousing and living for the moment, money and societal success, the quasi-Christian cult/society club that was the Russian Freemasons, and finally Love With That Girl Who Was Too Good For You (Pierre) and the army/war, the Emperor(s), familial obligations, meritocratic success and professional heroes, The Love of A Fresh, Pretty Young Girl, the Army Part II, and, finally, the forgiveness and redemption of Jesus (Andrei). Other members of the vast cast show up to take over the baton for a few moments and chime in about the glories of the Emperor(s), God, the brotherhood that can be found in the army or idea of The Fatherland, and, on the part of the women, religious obsessions, the love of children, and the perfections of a man who deigns to marry them.It’s rough to watch these people’s hopes get shot down that many times. This book is a thousand pages long. It happens a lot of times, and to almost all the characters that we have any sympathy for. It’s hard to watch these characters put their 110% into something or someone because we know that there’s just nothing in this world that can withstand that sort of pressure. It’s tragic, to think what some people expect of others, and, I think, one of the most powerful insights to come out of this book: there are no ideals, and those who spend their lives trying to find them will be inevitably disappointed. This is something that Tolstoy clearly struggled a lot with. But God was always the out. It happened in W&P and in the “oh holy shit, I feel like a bad person,” screeching brakes of an ending on Anna Karenina. But of course, this ideal is unknowable and insubstantial in many ways, it’s mysteries therefore customizable and different for everyone who encounters them. God allowed him to hold onto the idea that the Ideal existed and allowed him a vessel into which to pour all his hopes after everything else, inevitably, disappointed him.It’s really unfair, of course, for Tolstoy to have expected mere humans to do anything different if he’s going to put that kind of insane expectation on everyone and everything around him. It’s almost laughably arrogant to expect that the world will live up to the way that you think that it should be and that it should change itself to suit you. Sometimes I felt like I was the Cary Grant character in The Philadelphia Story, wanting to face down Katherine Hepburn and tell her that she needed to have some regard for human frailty. If Tolstoy was like that, it would be easy to dismiss him. His rage would have no power. It would be simply a delusion, not an ideal. But he does understand it, is the thing. To his great despair. Tolstoy is afraid of that frailty and spends this whole book running from it. This was some of the great power of Anna Karenina for me, as well as this book. He can’t sustain that fire and brimstone condemnation of the sinful for long. He understands the flaws far too well. In the same way, he can’t sustain his belief in a system, a person, or even a religion for too long. He keeps having to find something else to believe in, something new to try, in just the same way that his characters keep having to “renew” themselves after doing something that they feel is sinful. Tolstoy’s protagonists are always too active in their minds and hearts to settle down to something forever, state their belief and call it good. They keep changing and evolving for a very specific reason: because they keep living. It reminded me of something something he wrote in Anna Karenina about the blissful period after Anna and Vronsky run away together:He felt that the realization of his desire had given him only a grain of the mountain of happiness he had expected. It showed him the eternal error people make in imagining that happiness is the realization of desires. At first, after he had united with her and put on civilian clothes, he felt the enchantment of freedom in general ...but not for long. He soon felt arise in his soul a desire for desires, an anguish."People who keep living don’t get to live happily ever after. They get to keep living, and that is all. Tolstoy’s metaphor for this in this novel is Natasha. Natasha, like Anna, is a unique female figure for this time period in literature in that she gets to live, think and love very much as a male protagonist would do. She gets her own inner soul and feelings and Tolstoy is very firm about protecting that, no matter what ideals the men want to project on her from the outside. Natasha is flighty, self-involved and changeable in her feelings depending on the moment or situation. Natasha loves acting the part of romance, but finds that she cannot sustain her feelings long enough to make it worth it. This puts her in sharp contrast to most of the other women in this novel: her childhood friend and cousin Sonya, who remains self-sacrificing and self-effacing and loyal as a dog to the man she declares she loves (in ways that are often humiliating), being one example, and the religious, blushing, pure Princess Marya being another. Natasha’s joys and worries are the simple, straightforward, predictable and all-too-recognizable feelings of a teenage girl: ”Natasha was going to the first grand ball of her life. She had gotten up that day at eight o’clock in the morning and had spent the whole day in feverish anxiety and activity. Since the morning all her powers had been directed towards getting all of them-herself, mama, Sonya-dressed in the best possible way...”“Natasha was interested neither in the sovereign nor in any of the important persons that Mme Peronsky pointed out-she had one thought: “Can it be that no one will come up to me, can it be that I won’t dance among the first, can it be that all these men won’t notice me, who now don’t even seem to see me, and if they look at me, it’s with such an expression as if they were saying: ‘Ah! it’s not her, there’s no point in looking!’ No, it can’t be!” she thought. “They must know how well I dance, and what fun it will be for them to dance with me.”Natasha hasn’t a single thought about the greater good of Russia, God, or, really, her family. Natasha wants to be young and admired and have a wonderful time every day of her life. It makes her selfish (she doesn’t want to hear ANYONE’s opinion if they contradict a desire of hers). It makes her heedless and reckless. It also makes her at least the temporary desire or deep love of almost every man that comes into contact with her in this novel. She is another one who throws herself into every moment of her life 110%. But she’s just much more honest about the fact that what makes her happy changes frequently. People judge her for this constantly, which gradually gives her a self-conscious complex which I think has a lot to do with why she agrees to marry Prince Andrei under the worst idea-ever-in-the-world circumstances. Is anyone surprised when the engagement fails? Anyone? You can say what you want about the repentance afterwards, but the way that Tolstoy sets it up, it is difficult to judge Natasha for the way things go down. She’s sixteen and has been abandoned by her much older fiancé for reasons she hasn’t a prayer of understanding involving the passive aggressive fights of fathers and sons that never end. As far as she knows, she's been told not to live or love for a year, and girl does not play like that. Natasha tries her best, but she’s living proof that we keep on living and being people and having to get through the day no matter how many oaths we swear or how many good intentions lie on that road paved to hell. This is like people who think that Bluebeard’s wife should be condemned for going inside the secret room or that Pandora is the worst for opening the box. You put her in a situation that was completely incompatible to her temperament and personality, made her undergo a test to prove something that you don’t really want her to be anyway and all because YOU got cold feet and realized that maybe you weren’t ready for the reality of marrying a beautiful, passionate sixteen year old who loves society and is probably being set up for Anna the Sequel to happen, especially if you are going to insist on your tortured, strong-and-silent thing continuing, which I am fully sure it would have.Natasha is loved and adored because she symbolizes passionate, uninhibited, it-goes-on- Life. She hasn’t got a single complex to speak of. Natasha is almost the only one in this book who deals with her feelings honestly and doesn’t hide behind philosophies or false generosity to make herself feel better. She even throws herself fully into the passion of the guy she’s cheating on Andrei with. If she feels bad afterwards, it’s because of pure, human guilt, not because Jesus told her that doing that was bad. She doesn’t like hurting people, especially not the person that she had made her Romantic mind up that she was going to marry and live happily ever after with. Again, human love. When she collapses when she finds out the guy she loves is already married, it’s not out of a feeling of sin, it’s out of grief for the love she feels. Like every other protagonist, she wants forgiveness and purification for her sins before she is able to be well again. But she wants forgiveness from a man, from Prince Andrei, not from a philosophy or a religion or a government. She wants to be able to love and have her love be worth something in her eyes and anyone else’s. Love is at the center of her own sense of self, and if she is not allowed to give love she feels that her life is not worth anything.Natasha’s erstwhile fiancé, Andrei, is allowed to find peace and purity before he dies. He is allowed to give himself entirely over to Jesus and find the serenity that he has always lacked. But here’s the thing, he only does it through feeling inhuman: “Yes, love.. but not the love that loves for something, for some purpose, or for some reason, but the love I experienced for the first time when, as I lay dying, I saw my enemy and loved him all the same. I experienced the feeling of love, which is the very essence of my soul and needs no object… To love everything- to love God in all His manifestations. You can love a person dear to you with a human love, but an enemy can only be loved with divine love.”All this and martyrdom too so that he can somehow find a way to express and get over what he feels is his unacceptable anger at a woman who betrayed him. But she’s around and he suddenly starts to feel human, not God-like love again. He starts thinking about the man who she cheated with and how he wanted to kill him. He thinks constantly about how near she is in the room. He starts to hope and negotiate with death. But life is too scary for him to do that. He ends up retreating away from confusion into death.Seriously, screw the men in this novel. If there’s a hero here, I think it is Natasha. I would argue that the gauntlet thrown down to all these characters at the start of the novel is to find their way to honesty and peace. Natasha is the only character who consistently tackles the world with honesty, so she is the only one who can lead us to peace. Draw your wider metaphors for the implications for world affairs.Which, you will notice, I did not touch on in this review. This is because they could not possibly matter less, except as a manifestation of everything else I am talking about here, just on a bigger and more impersonal scale, for those who can only recognize Truth when it is stated to them in a titanic voice with pomp and circumstance attached.Partway through the novel, Tolstoy puts these words into the mouth of the Freemason who converts Pierre: ”Look at your inner man with spiritual eyes and ask if you are pleased with yourself. What have you achieved, being guided by reason alone? What are you? You are young, you are rich, you are educated, my dear sir. What have you done with all these good things that have been given to you? Are you content with yourself and your life?Tolstoy’s never done asking these questions, which is why he was never able to find that Great Man in reality and lay down his burdens. It’s sad, in a way. From reading his two great works of fiction, it seemed like the one thing he always wanted. But on the other hand, he already told us, implicitly, that if he ever found the ideal he always said he was seeking, he would be dead inside. He would no longer be human. He would be God. Nirvana. Whatever you want to call it.Is this really what he wanted? Or did he want to want it? Did he want that feeling of wanting it… that intense passion that only a human could feel? That desire for desires that never went away. There’s no way to know.But for God’s sake, if these thousands of pages have taught me anything, it’s this: We’re pretty much stuck with being human. So we’d better make the best of it.Find joy where you can. And realize, in a quote by Stoppard that I will never tire of repeating, “It’s the wanting to know that makes us matter.” I wish Tolstoy could have found God in that ideal, if he had to have one. I feel sure that that is perhaps the one way he could have avoided being disappointed.Tolstoy is two for two on breaking my heart with words. And yet I feel sure that I’ll be back again for him to break my heart a third time.

I was sitting in my upstairs room with the Paperback on my lap. I could not believe all the tumultuous, heart-rending, and unforgettable events were finally behind me, though safely residing in my memory lane. I closed my eyes and sat pensively without actually thinking anything. A consoling feeling of tranquility possessed me I am calm like a placid sea. Suddenly I heard a bizarre sound: it was like a hoof sound, something galloping in my yard; A horse? .I didn’t open my eyes and tried to envision the cause of these outlandish ,befuddling sounds with my blank, lethargic mind . I followed the sound of footsteps from the yard to the staircase in my mind’s eye; definitely more than 2 people with a lady of-course ( I could hear the faint rustle of silk, and light steps) . My calm, saturated mind suddenly seized an imminent prospect in terror! ‘They…’? I mused. I thought I was sleeping and tried not to heed to these unremitting chain of events by mentally deeming it as ‘dream’. But I wasn’t sure even if I was dreaming. I was puzzled as to not able to comprehend what was happening around me. I was enfeebled by the huge, overpowering waves of events that had been throbbing against my whole being for over a month. Door knocks!! The sound of heaving, coughs, rustles were all distinct now. I tried not to yield to the dream (I seriously thought it was a dream) . No! It can’t be a dream! I started playing a duel with my failing mind and remnant energy. The door suddenly clicked open and two gentlemen and a lady emerged into the room with beaming faces . The Men were in full uniform ( I have seen the Russian uniforms in google) and the lady was in a pink silk dress ( charming , full of energy) . My heart pounded like a mad man playing drums. My hands froze and my eyes dazed. Prince Andrew Bolkonski , Count Pierre Bezukov , and Natasha Rostova - they could be no one else as I can find them even in a crowded street . Am I dreaming? Of-course, I am !! But wait! I am not! I see them, right before my eyes. Believe me folks!!!!Pierre: We harnessed our horses to a pole in the backyard. A lady was looking us as if we were demons! *laughs* Me: That’s our maid. (Still unable to recover from the shock)Pierre: You still keep maids? I freed them as soon as I joined free masons. *smiles questioningly*Me: They are not slaves. They can quit whenever they want. They get more income than clerks nowadays. Why were you so confused with your life Pierre? Your aimless wanderings in search of ‘meaning of life’ consumed the better part of your life. You resorted even to Free masons for Spiritual enlightenment. *cheeks turned crimson at making the unseemly abrupt question* ( I considered these people in front of me as my close relations . I knew everything about them, and I traveled with them in the crests and troughs of their lives)Pierre: *smiles affably* I had been engrossed and appalled by the mystery of life.” What is bad? What is good? What should one love and what hate? What does one live for? And what am I? What is life, and what is death? What power governs it all? “ and the contrived answer my conscience furnished was this :”you’ll die and all will end. You’ll die and know all, or cease asking.” Then one day, on a journey, I happened to meet an Old mason and he imparted me the first shimmering vial of wisdom to my dark, clouded mind.He said: “The highest wisdom and truth are like the purest wisdom we may wish to imbibe. Can I receive that pure liquid into an impure vessel and judge of its purity? Only by inner purification of myself can I retain in some degree of purity the liquid I receive.”And I knew I had to perfect myself to retain the purity of the truths that are revealed to me.Me: And you joined the Old man and free masons to muster all your faculties and ideas into a definite path. What if I say, though you considered their teachings and rule with ardent spirit, yet later on your actual disposition took possession of you again, and you were reverted back to your brooding, disquieting, absent-minded life. Pierre: That is not so. Living for others is a principle I carried……Andrew: *interrupts* Everyone lives in his own way .You live for others; I lived for glory. And after all what is glory? The same love of others, a desire to do something for them, a desire for their approval- so I lived for others, and not almost, but had quite ruined my life. And I have become calmer since I began to live for myself ….until… I met her.* glances at Natasha* I am happy when I can do good, but to remedy injustice is the greatest happiness.Me: Your first meeting with Natasha was very moving. I was so carried away by the blissful, picturesque quality with which you experienced it. girl at the window…….Natasha : *eyes fixed at a random tile* why u had to die Andrew? I know I had vexed you once with my breaking your trust. I was an imbecile back then, and knew nothing but folly. He ( Anatole Kuragine) took advantage of my weakness ; And when I lost everything (you), I felt I was dead. Everything that once shone before my eyes seemed lackluster after your breaking up with me. For the first time, I started dreading my life. I thought my existence was abominable. And, finally, fate brought you near me only to witness your death. *sobs*Andrew: And it united us too , momentarily yet eternally. When Pierre first said one must believe in the possibility of love, I denied it. But I started believing it once I saw you. And Pierre is the best husband you may ever get .Aren’t you happy with him?Natasha: *nods with a melancholic smile*Me: (interrupts, feeling things are going too sentimental) Is Napoleon really that abject?Andrew: Our Creator has had reiterated the answer for your question in innumerable ways. I think you have forgotten it. It is not the question whether he is abject or not, or whether he is genius or not . Napoleon, like Tsar Alexander, had been just a tool, a mere cog- wheel, in the machine of history.“Man lives consciously for himself, but is an unconscious instrument in the attainment of the historic, universal aims of humanity. A deed done is irrevocable, and its result coinciding in time with the actions (and spirit) of millions of other men assumes an historic significance. The Higher a man stands o the social ladder, the more people he is connected with and the more power he has over others, the more evident is the predestination and inevitability of his every action.The king’s heart is in the hands of the lord; A king is history’s slave; History use every moment of life of kings as a tool for its own purposes “ 'War and death' has taught me the meaning of ‘divine love’. It was when I saw him (Anatole) dying as he lay prostrate near my bed, my heart kindled with fire of unconditional love. At that time I felt no animosity toward him, just love. “love one’s neighbors, love one’s enemies, love everything, love God in all his manifestations. It is possible to love someone dear to you with human love, but an enemy can only be loved by divine love. When loving with human love, one may pass from love to hatred. But divine love does not change. Neither death nor anything can destroy it. It is the very essence of the soul.”Me : The mystery of love and life , their combination , their complete solubility in the solvent of Faith, which was revealed to you in your death bed, is one of the most profound of life’s teachings my eyes had ever chanced to see.“Love hinders death. Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love. Everything is united by it alone. Love is god, and to die means that, I, a part of love shall return to the eternal general source”The Title “ War and Love” , instead of the present one would have been more appropriate as to the essence and soul of the novel, as Peace, in the unremitting turmoil that pervades throughout the story and individuals alike, seems to be only an unfulfilled wish.Pierre : That’s not true .The absence of suffering , the satisfaction of one’s needs , and consequent freedom in the choice of one’s occupation is indubitably man’s highest happiness , thereby attaining peace. So whatever the context of the story may be, attaining Peace after unrest (war) is the highest form of happiness. The Creator leads the readers to that pinnacle of happiness (peace); to guide you find the light of happiness amid the ghastly darkness of inner turmoil. Me: You have been alluding to this ‘Creator’ for several times now. You refer to God?Andrew: I don’t know if u can call him that. We call him ‘Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy’---------------------------------------------------------------------------All three of them radiantly smiled at me instantaneously. Their smile, their happiness imparted a luminous quality in their eyes. The highest form of happiness, peace, evident in their smooth countenances, shimmered in their faces. I felt a sense of joy brimming in my heart. The remnant dark clouds that reigned my whole being diffused away to reveal the sunshine of hope and happiness.They smiled radiantly, and knowingly. My eyes became dazed or was it the entire room getting filled with pale light? The pale, white light grew as the faces of my friends faded in the overwhelming colorless light that seethed in the room (or my eyes?). The door-knocks resounded in my ears with indomitable ferocity and it grew louder and louder. I got up, lurched forward, staggered to the door, and managed to open it. The pale light abruptly ceased and the maid was standing at the threshold evidently perplexed, with my evening Coffee nestled in her little hands. I looked at her, but my gaze was not fixed at her or anywhere. Wiping my damp forehead mechanically, I half turned to see my brightly-lit room, with golden yellowish light filtered through the billowing net curtains, all silent and placid, except for the sound of the fluttering pages of the wide-opened War and Peace which lay on the bed majestically. “truk tuk tuk*The Creator of this Saga, Leo Tolstoy, with his unparalleled brilliance sketched a vast panorama of Love, hatred, war, and existence, and all we have to do, as a reader, is to bask in all the nice things he has to offer. 5 stars on 5 !-gautam(Note : the whole scenario above is purely imaginative)P.S : Best moments :1.tPrince Andrew during Battle at Austerlitz :“Above him there was now nothing but the sky- the lofty sky, not clear yet immeasurably lofty, with grey clouds gliding slowly across it. ‘How peaceful, quiet and solemn not at all as I ran’, thought Prince Andrew-‘not as we ran, shouting and fighting ,not at all the gunner and the Frenchman with frightened and angry faces struggled for the mop ; how differently do those clouds glide across that lofty infinite sky! How was it I did not see that lofty sky before? And how happy I am to have found it at last! Yes! All is vanity, all falsehood, except that infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing, but that. But even it does not exist, there is nothing but quiet and peace. ‘Thank God!’”2.tPrince Andrew and the Old Oak Tree :“Yes, here in this forest was that oak which I agreed. He started gazing at the left side of the road, and without recognizing it he looked with admiration he sought. The Old oak, quite transfigured, spreading out a canopy of sappy dark- green foliage,stood rapt and slightly trembling in the rays of evening sun. Neither gnarled fingers nor old scars nor old doubts and sorrows were any of them in evidence now. Through the hard century old-bark, even where there were no twigs, leaves had sprouted such as one could hardly believe the old veteran could have produced. All at once Prince Andrew was seized by an unreasoning spring-time feeling of joy and renewal. All the best moments of his life rose to his memory. ‘ No ! life is not over at thirty-one. It is not enough for me to know what I have in me! ‘“3.tGermination of love in Pierre for Natasha: “On the contrary he gazed joyfully, his eyes moist with tears, at this bright comet ( comet of the year 1812) which, having traveled in its orbit with inconceivable velocity through immeasurable space, seemed suddenly- like an arrow piercing the earth- to remain fixed in a chosen spot, vigorously holding its tail erect, shining and displaying its white light amid countless other scintillating stars. It seemed to Pierre that this comet fully responded to what was passing in his own softened and uplifted soul, now blossoming into a new life.”Personal Advice if you are planning to read War and Peace:1.Buy a paperback ( refrain from using kindle atleast for one time) so as to enjoy the physical presence of the book along with the comfort given by the novel.2.You don’t have to write down the character names. (if you read wholeheartedly ,and not merely as a challenge) . There are only a dozen prominent characters and you will be well acquainted with them with the progress of the story.3.I found the theories interesting. If you are not a big fan of theories and their detailed explanation, skip some parts along the road. (Especially of history, Napoleon’s folly etc). I guarantee it won’t meddle much with the soul of the novel.(edited 3 times)

What do You think about War And Peace (1998)?

Before I turned the last page of this massive volume, which had been neglected in my bookshelves for more than six years, War and Peace was a pending task in my mental reading universe knowing it to be one of the greatest Russian or maybe simply one of the greatest novels of all times.Well, in fact, it was something else. I have a selective memory, I don’t know whether it comes as a blessing or as a curse, that enables me to remember the most insignificant details like for instance, where and when I bought my books, which are often second hand copies. When I pull one of them off my shelves it usually comes loaded with recollections of a certain moment of my life that add up to the mute history of their usually worn and yellow pages.So, War and Peace was also a memory. This one had to do with an unusual cloudless and shiny afternoon spent in Greenwich Park eating the greatest take-away noodles I had ever tasted and browsing through my newest literary purchases, recently bought in one of those typical British second-hand bookshops, where I spent hours besotted with that particular scent of moldy ancient paper.That’s what War and Peace meant to me until I finally shook my sloth off and decided to read it. It turns out I rather lived than read it, or maybe the book read me, but in any case, I curse my lazy self for not having taken the plunge much sooner.This book is an electroshock for the soul. There is no division between Tolstoy’s art and his philosophy, just as there is no way to separate fiction from discussions about history in this novel. Without a unifying theme, without so much a plot or a clear ending, War and Peace is a challenge to the genre of the novel and to narrative in history. Tolstoy groped toward a different truth- one that would capture the totality of history, as it was experienced, and teach people how to live with its burden. Who am I?, What do I live for?, Why was I born? These are existential questions on the meaning of life that restlessly impregnate this “novel”, which also deals with the responsibility of the individual, who has to strive against the dichotomy of free will as opposed to the influence of the external world, in the course of history. Fictional and historical characters blend naturally in the narration, which occasionally turns into a reasoned philosophical digression, exploring the way individual lives affect the progress of history, challenging the nature of truth accepted by modern historians.Tostoy’s syntax is unconventional. He frequently ignores the rules of grammar and word order, deliberately reiterating mannerisms or physical details to identify his characters, suggesting their moral qualities. He uses several languages gradually changing their sense, especially with French, which eventually emerges as the language of artifice and insincerity, the language of the theater and deceit whereas Russian appears as the language of honesty and seriousness and the reader becomes a privileged witness of the formation of a community and national consciousness. In repeating words and phrases, a rhythm and rhetorical effect is achieved, strengthening the philosophical pondering of the characters. I was emotionally enraptured by the scene in which Count Bezukhov asks himself what’s the meaning of love when he glances at the smiling face of Natasha or when Prince Andrey lies wounded in Austerlitz battlefield looking up at the endless firmament, welcoming the mystery of death and mourning for his hapless and already fading life. The book is full of memorable scenes which will remain imprinted in my retina, eternal flashing images transfixing me quite: the beauty of Natasha’s uncovered shoulders emerging from her golden dress, the glow of bonfires lit by kid-soldiers in the night before a battle, the agony of men taken prisoners and the absent faces of circumstantial executioners while shooting their fellowmen, the unbearable pain of a mother when she learns of her son’s death, a silent declaration of love in a dancing embrace full of youth and promise…War and Peace is much more than a novel. It is a vast, detailed account - maybe even a sort of diary or a confession- of a world about to explode in constant contradiction where two ways of being coexist: war and peace. Peace understood not only as the absence of war, but mainly as the so much coveted state in which the individual gets hold of the key to his identity and happiness, achieving harmonious communion with others along the way.Now that I have finally read this masterpiece, I think I can better grasp what this “novel” represents among all the great works of art created by men throughout our venturesome existence: the Sistine Chapel or the 9th Symphony of Literature, an absolute triumph of the creative mind, of the spirit of humankind and a virtuous affirmation of human life in all its richness and complexity.My battered copy of War and Peace and I have fought many battles together, hand in hand. We have been gently soaked by the descent of moist beads in the misty drizzle at dawn in Paracas. We have been splashed by the salty waves of the Pacific Ocean only to be dried off later by the sandy wind blowing from the dunes of the Huacachina Desert. We have been blessed by the limpid droplets dripping down from branches of Eucalyptus Trees in the Sacred Valley of the Incas and scorched by the blinding sunbeams in Nazca. Particles of ourselves were left behind, dissolved into the damp shroud of grey mist falling from the melting sky in MachuPicchu, and whatever remained of us tried to breathe in deeply the fragrant air of those dark, warm nights spent under scintillating stars scattered endlessly down the Peruvian sky.With wrinkled pages, tattered covers and unglued spine, my copy of War and Peace has managed to come back home. I have just put it back reverently on my bookshelf for literary gems, where I can spot it at first glance. An unbreakable connection has been established between us as fellow travellers, as wanderers of the world. Somehow, we have threaded our own unique history; an unrepeatable path has been laid down for us. The story of this particular shabby copy comes to an end though, because I won’t ever part from it. My copy of War and Peace has come back home, where I intent to keep it, now for good. No more war for these battered pages but everlasting peace emanating from my shelves for all times to come. My traveling companion in MachuPicchu.
—Dolors

This book is bloated old piece of crap. How this even got published in the first place is beyond me, much less how it has been considered a 'classic' for years.I had read that this was 1400 pages of Tolstoy giving his readers a dry, boring recount of the French invasion of Russia but I didn't believe it. I wish I had believed it. Not only is War and Peace a sleep-inducing lecture on way too many perspectives of this war, it also comes complete with Tolstoy's never-ending butt-in chapters that he uses to force his opinion on us of France, Napoleon, Alexander, Russia itself, religion, politics, love, family, and anything else that apparently came to his mind.This was worse than a textbook. This was a textbook that came with the annoying, opinionated professor built in! The only slightly interesting parts of this book were the lives of Natasha and Ellen and that only accounts for maybe 15% of the total. This book is so bad it has two epilogues. That right there should be warning enough to you to stay far, far away from War and Peace. Don't be as dumb as me.I wish I had never picked this up. I am an angrier, more cynical person for it. If Tolstoy wasn't already dead, I would wish him so.
—Emma

"Si dice: le disgrazie, le sofferenze…” esclamò Pierre. “Ma se adesso, in questo stesso istante, mi domandassero: vorresti esser rimasto quello che eri prima della prigionia, oppure di nuovo, da principio, passare attraverso tutte queste cose… com’è vero Dio, un’altra volta la prigionia e la carne di cavallo! Noi crediamo che, non appena qualcosa ci sbalza fuori dalla solita carreggiata, tutto sia perduto: e, invece, soltanto allora incomincia il nuovo, il buono. Fin quando c’è vita, c’è anche felicità."Quando consegni due mesi di vita nelle mani di un solo romanzo e tutte le sere è il tuo appuntamento fisso – spegni la tv, accantona il pc, limita le uscite – allora il rapporto che si crea tra te e quell’opera è tutto particolare, una cosa che non riusciresti a spiegare in due parole senza sentirti terribilmente ingiusto. Perché se è vero che quel romanzo l’hai amato e odiato, se è vero che l’hai carezzato e poi hai desiderato scagliarlo sul pavimento e saltarci sopra coi piedi, è anche vero che hai imparato a conoscerlo molto meglio di quanto conosci qualunque altro e, se così si può dire, è anche vero che quel romanzo conosce te. E come, col passare degli anni, si ha sempre di più da raccontare su un vecchio amico e giorno per giorno veniamo sorpresi da qualche inaspettato guizzo della sua personalità, così la mole dei commenti, dei pensieri, delle riflessioni è troppo consistente per ridurla in due parole. Metà delle annotazioni le dimentichiamo strada facendo, alcune ci sovvengono soltanto alla fine, altre le veniamo contraddicendo pagina per pagina e così, cammina cammina, sei arrivato alla fine: la tua conoscenza deborda, si rifiuta di limitarsi a una frasetta. Con questo, l’autore della recensione si viene scusando della chilometricità di quanto segue. Che cos’è Guerra e paceGuerra e pace è un romanzo storico ambientato in Russia tra il 1805 e il 1820. Particolare attenzione è rivolta a eventi quali la guerra dei tre imperatori, la battaglia di Austerlitz, l’invasione napoleonica della Russia, la battaglia di Borodino, l’abbandono e l’incendio di Mosca, la precipitosa ritirata dei francesi. Anche al più lampante idiota salta all’occhio che una descrizione del genere dev’essere completamente inadeguata. Ebbene, proviamo a darne un’altra. Guerra e pace è un romanzo nel quale gli eventi della Grande Storia si intersecano cogli eventi della piccola storia di due famiglie della nobiltà russa, i Rostov e i Bolkonskij. Mentre la Grande Ruota della Storia avanza su se stessa consumandosi, i Rostov e i Bolkonskij verranno consumando le loro vicende umane, di uomini e donne vitali, disorientati, tutti alla ricerca di un senso che renda giustizia all’esistenza, tutti tesi verso una felicità che vanno ricercando ognuno in una direzione diversa. Il lampante idiota si arriccia i baffi e dice, embè? Va bene, riproviamo. Guerra e pace è un romanzo in cui la Grande Storia e la piccola storia si formano alla visione filosofica e metafisica del suo autore. Che cosa sia la storia, come e da chi venga portata avanti, in cosa consista la felicità, il bene, perché c’è il dolore, la morte, esiste o no il libero arbitrio, sono solo poche delle tante questioni che Tolstoj non manca puntualmente di affrontare, consegnando al lettore una filosofia completa e complessiva di enorme portata. Questa terza definizione piace ancora meno al lampante idiota, che solo alla parola “metafisica” ha fatto una smorfia. Il lampante idiota, nella sua lampante idiozia, ha cominciato a chiedersi dove stia la verità e come in un romanzo possa finirci tutta questa roba insieme. Il lampante idiota ha ragione: la nostra definizione pecca già nell’esordio. Sì, bisogna essere sinceri col lampante idiota. Ebbene, vi inganniamo. Guerra e pace non è un romanzo. Ahimè, no. Non è un romanzo perché per essere romanzo dovrebbe non essere anche un trattato storico. Non è un romanzo e non è un trattato storico perché per essere romanzo e trattato storico dovrebbe non essere anche un trattato filosofico. Quel che sia Guerra e pace non è facile a dirsi e, se una parola è possibile, allora Guerra e pace dev’essere un universo, un universo staccato dal nostro, con le sue leggi di gravitazione particolari, un universo solido, funzionante, completo, che Tolstoj ci consegna in luogo del nostro. Consegnandoci il suo universo, Tolstoj viene in qualche modo a privarci del nostro. Per due mesi, viviamo altrove, due mesi ospiti della Galassia-Tolstoj. I personaggiCome, alla fine di un viaggio, più che i posti che abbiamo visto ricordiamo le persone con cui li abbiamo visti e le disavventure, le risate che li hanno accompagnati, così di Guerra e pace ricorderò i personaggi – le persone – che m’hanno accompagnata nel viaggio più che le tappe del viaggio in sé. E temo d’averlo detto più di una volta, per più di un romanzo, ma mai è giusto e sacrosanto quanto questa volta: che a considerare questi personaggi solo dei personaggi si fa un torto a Tolstoj e a se stessi. Mai quanto in questo caso il personaggio è tanto vero, chiassoso, debordante di vita da non poter più essere figurina di carta. Qualche giorno fa, a lezione, il professore di letteratura russa ha raccontato di un tale internato nei gulag che diceva di essere riuscito a sopportare quella terribile esperienza perché il pensiero gli andava alla famiglia Rostov, all’autenticità di Nataša, Nikolaj, del vecchio conte. E così, se una cosa tanto potente può accadere, se pensare a Nataša può risollevarci da una situazione estrema di prostrazione, lenire la nostra disperazione, allora la giustificazione non possiamo trovarla in una somma di tratti particolarmente convincente. A volte si è così presi dalle vicende umane di questi esserini di inchiostro e corteccia che si scoppia a piangere da una riga all’altra, senza motivo, perché si è troppo felici o troppo tristi o perché quello che accade a loro accade contemporaneamente a noi, la loro vita è la nostra, anche se tra le due non c’è alcuna somiglianza. A molti potrà sembrare un’esagerazione e confesso che suona un po’ sciocco anche a me che lo scrivo, ma è andata così. Per due mesi ho camminato e mi sono guardata allo specchio e ho pensato a me stessa come se non ci fossi solo io, circondata da un crocchio di fantasmi che mi imponevano i loro pensieri e le loro concezioni di vita. E ho parlato da Pierre, son stata male come Andrej, ho cercato Nataša nel mio riflesso. Ho dimenticato che al di sotto della finzione c’ero ancora io, sono stata leggera. È impossibile in questa sede dare una definizione o anche solo menzione di tutti i personaggi del romanzo. Per questo motivo ho deciso di sceglierne uno solo, che poi è di nuovo Nataša, e per ogni strada mi sembra di tornare a lei. Nel film del ’67 la prima apparizione di Nataša avviene così:Inquadratura in campo medio - il salotto di casa Rostov. La contessa Rostova, il marito e alcuni ospiti tra cui Pierre Bezuchov siedono su poltroncine, prendono il tè, si scambiano pettegolezzi su membri dell’alta società e discutono delle imprese di Napoleone. Al centro dell’inquadratura, una porta chiusa. Tre raccordi sull’asse – la porta si spalanca e Nataša, tredici anni, un vestito bianco, occhi sgranati e un sorriso quasi innaturalmente teso, entra correndo in salotto. La sua figura è investita da un fascio di luce che proviene dal fuoricampo, oltre la porta, ma che sembra emanare da Nataša stessa e si riversa nel salotto come in un quadro del Caravaggio, La vocazione di San Matteo. Inquadratura in campo medio – Nataša si stringe alla madre e le sussurra qualcosa nell’orecchio, poi esce sempre correndo dalla stanza. Quando la porta si chiude, cessa il fiotto di luce. Ora, a parer mio, non c’era modo migliore di introdurre Nataša che questo. Perché Nataša è luce, e questa è la definizione più completa che possiamo dare di lei. Nataša è luce che brilla per se stessa e che al contempo illumina tutti gli altri, facendo dono a ognuno della sua vitalità, della sua luminosità di prospettiva. Grazie a lei, molti altri tornano in vita: il principe Andrej Bolkonskij, il fratello Nikolaj, il conte Bezuchov. Nataša è capace di restituire la forza vitale a chiunque l’abbia perduta, per il solo fatto che la sua forza è così immensa che solo una minima parte le è necessaria. L’altra, può donarla tutta. Ma come il sole non si avvede di illuminare la Terra e non si cura di bruciare il raccolto, di seccare il suolo, di accecare gli occhi, così Nataša, se fa del male, non se ne avvede, non già perché sia cattiva ma perché è centrata su se stessa, non concepisce altri sentimenti che non siano i suoi. Così è Nataša, dilaniata tra impeti di grande generosità e un principio di totale egoismo, il suo egocentrismo essendo spontaneo come quello del sole. Ma allo stesso modo che, con la fine del sole, pure la nostra galassia finirà, senza Nataša la Galassia-Tolstoj collasserebbe, trascinando sul fondo tutti gli altri, impedendo loro di trovare una risposta. WeltanschauungDue parole, il minimo indispensabile, vale di spenderle sulla visione del mondo che non solo emerge, ma è continuamente esplicitata dall’autore. Per Tolstoj, l’uomo non può fare a meno di avere coscienza della sua libertà. Egli sente di agire di sua volontà e capisce che, se il suo libero arbitrio fosse annientato, non sarebbe neanche più umano. Ma quando l’uomo è inserito nel corso della storia e, in quanto tale, è trascinato da eventi immensamente più grandi di lui, allora si perviene a una contraddizione insolubile. L’uomo è sì libero, ma nel contempo è schiavo della necessità della storia. Che la storia si svolga in un certo modo e non in un altro appare a Tolstoj la conseguenza di una necessità, di una predeterminazione più alta, che conduce a un certo fine con certi mezzi, e non altrimenti. Non sono l’uomo con le sue azioni né il caso a determinare il corso degli eventi storici, poiché il loro svolgimento è già scritto. L’uomo pensa di guidare la storia, in realtà ne è guidato.Alla domanda “da chi è ordinato il corso degli eventi?” Tolstoj non offre una risposta netta. Certe volte sembra che sia Dio, “senza il quale neanche un capello cade dal capo degli uomini”, certe volte una necessità che è legge, una necessità che esiste ma di cui non si può capire perché esiste, una sorta di legge di gravitazione universale applicata alla storia. Il problema fondamentale dell’uomo è che si chiede il perché delle cose. La continua ricerca di un senso lo priva della possibilità di essere felice. Per essere felice, l’uomo non ha che due vie, o smettere di chiedersi “perché?” o rispondere “perché è la volontà di Dio”. Al di fuori di queste due vie, la fede o l’indifferenza, non c’è riposo dall’inquietudine. The dark side of Tolstoj Ora, chiunque si accinga a una recensione del genere e voglia nascondere al pubblico quanto Guerra e pace sia al contempo estremamente tedioso e, apparentemente, superfluo in molte sue parti non sarebbe un recensionista onesto. Perché, per il lettore del duemila, Guerra e pace è effettivamente tedioso e superfluo in molte sue parti. L’editor di una qualsiasi casa editrice oggi ne sfronderebbe la maggior parte, per presentarci una vicenda ripulita da tutti i suoi orpelli, dalle descrizioni di avvenimenti bellici estremamente complesse e complicate da visualizzare, da personaggi minori il cui impatto sul lettore risulta solo in un incremento di noia. Tolstoj è uno scrittore molto diverso dagli scrittori che conosciamo, dagli scrittori di oggi. Innanzitutto, è uno scrittore che non sembra in alcun modo curarsi del suo pubblico. Che il lettore lo segua o no, che si interessi o meno, Tolstoj va per la sua strada, incauto, irriverente, egoista. Elitario, impopolare, anti-democratico, poco rispettoso del giudizio altrui, sono tutte cose che mi sento di dire di Tolstoj senza temere di offenderlo. Perché se, nello scrivere Guerra e pace, Tolstoj immaginava un possibile pubblico di lettori, allora non poteva che visualizzarlo come tanti piccoli, barbuti Tolstoj, tutti ugualmente interessati a ciò che aveva da dire. Ma il lettore medio, no, non è interessato almeno al 60% di quel che Tolstoj dice. Sospira, sbuffa, non vede l’ora di scavallare i capitoli in cui Napoleone ha il raffreddore. Ma proprio per questo enorme limite di sensibilità e comprensione per il prossimo, Tolstoj si qualifica uno scrittore molto più grande dei suoi colleghi contemporanei. Uno scrittore che scrive quel che vuole scrivere fino in fondo, che non risparmia nulla di quel che vuole dire, che dice quel che vuole dire pur sapendo quanto sarà noioso, che non accetta di prostituirsi ai gusti dei lettori più superficiali, quelli che vanno in cerca solo di belle frasette: ecco, uno scrittore del genere non può definirsi altro che onesto. Tolstoj è questo: l’onestà nella sua forma più cruda, con tutti i limiti (apparenti e non) che l’onestà porta con sé. E se vi state chiedendo, “ma insomma, questo libro t’è piaciuto così tanto oppure ti sei annoiata così tanto?”, la verità sta certamente da entrambe le parti. M’è piaciuto così tanto nonostante mi sia annoiata così tanto. Sembra una contraddizione insolubile, come quella tra necessità e libero arbitrio, il cui scioglimento sta nell’accettarla come una verità di fede. Il mio augurio è che possiate, un giorno, prendere in mano questo libro, prenderlo in mano in un periodo libero da impegni, un periodo tranquillo o magari disperato della vostra vita. Il mio augurio è che i suoi difetti superficiali non vi impediscano di vedere quanto sia straordinario nel suo centro, quanto vi possa arricchire non come lettori, ma come persone. Perché Guerra e pace – ormai il lampante idiota ha capito – è questo, non solo un libro, ma una diversa esperienza di vita.
—Chiara Pagliochini

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