In a world gone mad

A few weeks ago, looking for something to get me through the remainder of winter—and away from the TV—I pulled War and Peace off the shelf and started reading it again. This is an abridged translation, only 749 pages, translated by Princess Alexandra Kropotkin, who wisely reduced the number of Russian diminutive names to one. (Diminutives are variations on an individual's name: Natasha becomes Natashenka or Natashka, or Tata, and many more.) Each has its own meaning or mood and the numerous names and added endearments—which Russians love—can easily overwhelm a nonRussian reader.

My mother bought this book in the late 50s as part of a subscription to the International Collectors Library, which also sent her The Moonstone, The Brothers Karamazov, Northwest Passage, and a few more. I was in high school then, and read them all. This is at least my third reading of Tolstoy's masterpiece.

Of course I always felt I should read the unabridged version, and given my age I thought I'd better get to it. So I ordered a Vintage paperback edition, which clocks in at 1179 pages. (Pity the author's wife, who hand wrote the entire manuscript seven times as her husband edited.) It will be interesting to compare them. No doubt I'll have to wade through lots of diminutives, more battles than I have a taste for, and pages of philosophizing. That's okay.

There's a lot of angst in War and Peace. When Napoleon invades Russia and Moscow burns there's bound to be every kind of trouble: broken hearts, financial woes, loss, fears, wounded heroes, endless deaths. Not surprisingly there's also arrogance, stupidity, duplicity, and hypocrisy. And, of course, lots of love.

The protagonists in War and Peace search for meaning in a world gone mad, so we have that in common. But they lived in a well-established culture where the rules were known, and they were united against a single enemy. Today the rules change continually and our battles are with existential enemies: climate catastrophe, the coronavirus, the deconstruction of our democracy, the tearing of our social fabric.

When Tolstoy's book ends his characters are, for the most part, happily settled and looking forward to a future they can imagine. Imagining the future is a little harder for us; our world is far more diverse, and I welcome that. The enthusiasm of the young, the dedication of teachers and researchers and scientists and artists and workers of every stripe, all contribute to the change that bubbles on our collective hearth. I retain my optimism. Change is good and solutions will be found. Until that happens we can each write our own book, trusting life and moving forward. It's the only thing to do.