Yes, My Favorite Novel is War and Peace. Because It's Fun, That's Why.

Inspired by the 186th anniversary of Tolstoy's birth on Sept. 9th, this was going to be a post about the many wonderful things about Tolstoy as a writer and thinker, despite his failures as husband and father. But there is too much to say on that, so I focused instead on answering the question I've received many times--why is War and Peace my favorite novel?

Natasha on the balcony, as envisioned by Google guest doodler, Roman Muradov. For more about the creative process behind Muradov's Tolstoy tribute, read this. (1)

Yesterday I had coffee with some nice folks, and one I had just met asked my favorite book. I could feel one of my friends look at me, waiting for an answer she knew all too well after eight years of friendship. I chuckled and said a little awkwardly, "Well, it's War and Peace."

The raised eyebrows and the "wow" were expected, and I did my best to look totally casual and not snotty about saying my favorite book was this grand epic known colloquially as being so long that nobody actually reads it.

Saying War and Peace is my favorite novel has it benefits--it helps me get away with heartily enjoying some really low-brow literature and consuming some of the corniest shows on television. But the downside is that while it may make me look smart, it can make me look a little pompous. I have a terror that I am actually pompous, and so even if it might ruin my excuse for enjoying trashy literature and TV, I insist on telling people that War and Peace is actually this fun romp about people just like you and me, who goof off, have good times, screw up, and live life. As my favorite English professor said, "War and Peace has EVERYTHING, except boats."

And I'm totally sure it would have boats, if the nearest ocean wasn't the Arctic. The "war" in the title is the war with Napoleon and the French (which should be a band name), so no arctic voyages are undertaken. :/ (2)

I don't remember how or when I first heard of Tolstoy, but I know it was in reference to him being the author of War and Peace, a massive dull novel that seemed to be only invoked as an impossible read. I assumed the book was exactly what the title sounded like, a lengthy treatise on war and peace, until I was fourteen. My sister Melissa was a college freshman, and in typical freshman style, had gotten the wrong edition of the novel, one that didn't include the essay she was supposed to read. Because I liked to poke through her textbooks, I picked the book up and started reading, surprised to find dialogue in the tiny print.

It should come as no surprise that my social life at the time wasn't exactly poppin', if I actually read other people's assigned readings. Large parties made me nervous and I'd already sworn off personal birthday parties because those were even worse (I still think this). Realizing that the novel opened with a party, those most loathsome social events that filled me to the brim with anxiety, I was surprised to find an assortment of characters who were simply trying too hard. They didn't flow with the grace and elegance so common in 19th-century English classics. Princess Bolkonsky is pretty, but her upper lip is "darkened with down" and she has buckteeth that she tries to hide. Pierre Bezukhov is an educated well-traveled bastard son of a great nobleman, "afraid at every moment of missing some intellectual conversation which he might have heard," and "waiting for an opportunity of expressing his own ideas." The gossip passed between the party-goers is vicious and tinged with a knowledge of vulgarity that is only ever implied in Austen or Dickens. It was strikingly real, and as the story shifted to another party, this time a wild drunken one that involves dancing with a chained bear and downing an entire bottle of rum while standing on the sill of an open window, I was enthralled.

The book is that long because it introduces readers to a group of young people that are every bit as relatable as Holden Caulfield and shows them living, growing up, marrying, having kids, and being old. Pierre is awkward and insecure, but just wants to be loved. Natasha is impulsive and dreamy, and thinks everything's going to work out just as she likes it. Andrei is apathetic and depressed, and wallows in self-loathing. Marya is lonely and sheltered, convinced she is stupid and ugly. Nikolai is easily enraptured by cool confidence and readily conforms to whoever he's friends with. Sonya is trusting and loyal, but embarrassingly pathetic. With times of war and of peacetime as the historical backdrop, the characters stumble along, trying to be happy, trying to be popular, and trying oh-so-very hard that it's as painful to watch as if you were living it with them.

And this guy wrote this by hand. All that. And kept track of the little details. How even??? (3)

Like many Russian novels, depression is depicted vividly, but unlike Dostoevsky, Tolstoy writes with tenderness and without concern of seeming petty. As Andrei ruminates on business and his constant depression while riding in a coach, he sees a group of girls running past him, and notices one "very slender, strangely slender" girl laughing with her hair coming loose.

"The day was so lovely, the sun so bright, everything around him so gay, and that slim and pretty girl knew nothing of his existence, and cared to know nothing, and was content and happy in her own life--foolish doubtless--but gay and happy and remote from him. What was she so glad about? What was she thinking of? Not of army regulations; not of the organization of the Ryazan rent-paying peasants. 'What is she thinking about, and why is she so happy?' Prince Andrei could not help wondering with interest." (4)

Andrei's wonder continues through the chapter, to the point of silliness, which was relatable to me at fourteen and even now at twenty-four--that feeling of looking through the haze of depression and realizing that somehow, somewhere, someone is happy, and the whole world is not some plot to keep you down. Suddenly, everything seems like signs that he should be happy. The moon is bright late that night and the happy girl is talking about flying into it, and Andrei is filled with "youthful hopes and ideas" and gets so excited he goes to bed so he doesn't have to think. The old tree he associated with the collapse of his whole life is leafy and alive, and he realizes that his life isn't over, and he desperately needs the whole world to know him and be a part of him.

Romance is not the focus of the novel, but it weaves through it, with love triangles and love quadrilaterals and betrayals and passion and longing. Once again, Tolstoy's readiness to capture the utter silliness of human thoughts without any shame or mockery is seen in his romances. Watching Natasha flit about at a party, Andrei tells himself that if she talks to her cousin next, she will totally be his wife. By chance, she does and Andrei is simultaneously embarrassed and excited. Pierre falls fast for the prettiest and richest girl, and finds that his shallow choice resulted in a shallow wife. Sonya yearns for Nikolai, her cousin, and tells herself she doesn't quite deserve him, but of course he will be hers, because he promised, and will keep his promise even as he leaves her to go out in the world.

Additionally, the book doesn't end with weddings, like an Austen novel, but skips ahead to years later, which is so very satisfying and ultimately what I secretly wish all books would do. There is a picture of married life, the wife and husband talking, thinking how much they love each other, occasionally being annoyed at one another, and gossiping lightly about their relatives. Tolstoy doesn't see a need to either idealize or be a cynic about love and marriage. It's not perfect, but it can be good. The book has a happy ending, but you don't come away feeling like everyone will be happy all the time. The characters grow and most improve, but they're still flawed. One of my favorite lines is Natasha talking to her husband about how wonderful her sister-in-law is and how much of a better person she is than Natasha herself, while expecting him to "prefer her to Marie and all other women, and now...to tell her so anew." It's not a fine thought, it's silly and a bit narcissistic, but Tolstoy includes it and doesn't criticize it.

It's little details like that which are so hard to capture on film. I've only ever watched King Vidor's 1956 adaptation of the novel, starring Audrey Hepburn, Mel Ferrer, and Henry Fonda, and that only last year after much hesitation because I was sure that it would be all wrong. I mean, if something as simple to adapt as Harry Potter was a mess on film, how could a novel as complex as War and Peace be decently adapted? I'd just watched Joe Wright's Anna Karenina (2012) and that was an insult to literature, history, and my evening. But I was on an Audrey Hepburn kick, so I gave the film a try.

Fonda (Pierre), Hepburn (Natasha), Ferrer (Andrei). Costuming is actually fairly accurate, though maybe not quite Russian enough. (5)

No doubt my expectations were ridiculously low, which probably helped. The movie is utterly beautiful, and surprisingly accurate. The casting was dictated more by star power than suitability, and Henry Fonda, while a great actor, is simply too handsome for the awkward Pierre. Hepburn and Ferrer are both more suited to their roles, and they have excellent chemistry, being that they were a couple in real life at the time. Many supporting characters and minor sub-plots are cut to keep the film at 208 minutes, and the focus is tightened to the three main characters, but watching it I felt something very close to my feelings while reading it for the first time. It was like a beautifully-illustrated abridged book--a wonderful way to experience the story, but only a taste of the real thing. That's about all I hope for in an adaptation, and for those who won't read the book, I'd recommend it, though I'd warn you that with little special effects, the war scenes are far-away and dull, so the ending drags a bit.

There are other versions as well that I haven't yet seen--a 1966/1967 Soviet Russia 7-hour version, which is thought to be the best; a 1972 BBC 15-hour version starring Anthony Hopkins; a 2007 394-minute version starring a cast made up of actors from all over Europe, including Clémence Poésy of France; the upcoming 2015 six-part BBC reboot. There's also a silent one, which I can't find anywhere, but wasn't planning to watch anyway because silent films creep me out to no end.

This all goes to say that I think most people don't realize how genuinely fun the right translation of War and Peace is, because of misconceptions from people who have either never read it or have read some shoddy translations. I don't remember what the translation I originally read was, but I currently have one by Constance Garnett, and I've been enjoying re-reading it. If you have that pretty sky blue copy translated by Pevear and Volokhonsky, please toss it, because it's horrible and leaves the French untranslated, which results in the opening paragraph being entirely in French--a major turn-off for most. When reading foreign books, it is important to know what a difference the translator can make.

Deceptively pretty design. Stay far away. (5)

I've been going on about the cuteness, because Tolstoy's ability to excel in that is so under-appreciated and unknown, but I also want to convey what an incredibly deep and powerful read it is. Through his wild youth, his middle-aged years as a scholar and family man, and as an elderly philosopher, Tolstoy was fascinated by redemption--not just redemption under God, but the process of self-improvement through repentance or the struggles of obtaining forgiveness from others. He recognizes that some go to their end without redemption, not because it's impossible, but because they refuse it. As a Christian, this is especially moving, because it's much of what we worry about from day to day and read of so often in the Bible. As a human, it's striking to see such a full representation of life, woven over time.

So why is War and Peace my favorite novel of all time? Because it has the beauty and breadth of an ancient epic, but it has all the heartiness and liveliness of a modern novel. It is entirely tangible in its grandeur. It is every bit the novel I want to write.

_________________________________________________________

Sources

1. "Tolstoy Google Doodle," Sept. 9, 2014. See full tribute here.

2. Map of Russia, 1820. Found image here.
3. Photo - Tolstoy, writing. Found image here.
4. Excerpted from the Constance Garnett translation.
5. On-set photo from War and Peace (1956).
6. Photo of Pevear & Volkohonsky translation from Amazon, which I will not link to.

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Kitty Konsumerism (Or, Brittany Likes Stuffed Cats So Much, Someone Should Buy Her a Real Cat)

When I want something very badly, images of what I'll do with it and how incredibly awesome my life will be once I get it are all that fill my mind. Eventually, one of two things happen. One, I get it and do what I planned, it's great, and eventually I accept it is a normal part of life. Or two, I never get it and the desire fades--luckily, I've always been resilient enough not to get bitter about not getting whatever I want.  There are ways to deal with the disappointment of not getting what you want.

I don't know where I first heard of or saw Hello Kitty (maybe one of those weird Hello Kitty cartoons where she somehow speaks without having a mouth), but from ages six to nine, I was obsessed with having a Hello Kitty doll. I loved drawing her and I loved the occasional Hello Kitty paraphernalia I would find at Korean stores near the ballet studio I went to. But in the 90s, Sanrio stores were not common at all and I'd actually never seen a Hello Kitty doll, though I assumed they must exist somewhere. 

HERE. THEY'RE ALL HERE.

So I mostly resigned myself to not having one and I took Albert, my stuffed white cat, whose inscrutable frown had always marked him as male to me, and put a pink hairbow around his head. Albert remained Albert (where on earth did he even get that name in the first place?), but occasionally, when I was in a Hello Kitty mood, he donned his bow and I imagined he was the Hello Kitty I wanted.

By the time I was nine, the Hello Kitty phase was beginning to pass in favor of a Pokemon phase. Not that I could play Pokemon well, mind you, but I loved the show so much and begged my mom for the Pokemon puzzle I found in a store mostly so I could draw the characters from the box. In that same store there were shelves of Beanie Babies, those floppy awkwardly shaped stuffed animals that so many stores used to tempt children in frothing fits of need by filling cases of them at child-level near the cash register, not far from the candy. In one of those cases, I found a striped grey-and-black cat and was suddenly consumed by a NEED to have it be MINE that is probably only comparable to Frodo and the One Ring, or Bella and Edward, or my current self and any food containing avocado.

It may not look like much, but hey, I never expect understanding for my unhealthy obsessions.

My mother said no, and at home it was all I could think about, as my mind replayed fantasies of me sitting on the stairs landing by my bedroom and dangling her over through the bars of the railing. The possibilities of our future together! I pleaded for that cat. I knew her name already from her ear-tag (Prance) and there was a little poem about her that seemed to tantalizingly promise that YES, this cat was basically fuzzy bean-filled happiness and I would not be complete without it:

She darts around and swats the air

Then looks confused when nothing's there

Pick her up and pet her soft fur

Listen closely, and you'll hear her purr!

This was so much more necessary than a Hello Kitty. A Hello Kitty doll was a character already invented and crafted by someone else, and although new stories could be imagined around her, she wouldn't be entirely MINE. Prance was a blank slate for any story I wanted. I don't know how many times I visited that store, clutched that Beanie Baby and insisted that I have it, but it was more than once. I also don't even remember the day I got it, though I do remember that swinging her by the tail through the railing was about 150% as satisfying as I expected (no idea why).

Prance could be anyone. Obviously, Albert being a male cat and with his transvestite Hello Kitty days in the past, was automatically her boyfriend, but somehow never a husband because Prance didn't settle down. Most of the time when I played with her, she was in high school (teenagers were literally the coolest people I could imagine....

In this drawing, she is actually in front of a high school with her classmate Albert. Yes, her shirt says Girl Power. It was the 90s; shut up.

...and moonlighted as a superhero (because of that magic rock she's always holding).

I was not particularly gifted at designing costumes, obviously. Also, cut off next to her is Albert. Check out those Pokemon-inspired toothless mouths!

Throughout everything, I never called her any name but Prance (she was so much luckier than Albert!!), but she fit into dozens of "stories" my brother Steven and I would play. With three colorful rocks, a toy garbage can, Prance, Albert, and Steve's stuffed sunglasses-wearing dragon, Drago (seriously, ask him about Drago next time you see him!), we had a whole story about crime-fighting teenaged animal-people. Being 1 1/2 years older, I always led the play, and the plotlines were mine, especially when I followed out my fascination with tragedy by saying, "Let's play the END of the story." I'm sure Steven dreaded those (Melissa always refused to play those when she had played), but he went along with it, being a very easy-going and happy-go-lucky kid (believe it or not). So everyone died, or it was all a dream, or they had to give up their memories to save the world, or some other contrived sad ending.

Despite my morbid story-telling, Steven followed me along on other stories starring Prance, Albert, and Drago. There was a medieval one that was short-lived enough for me to not remember any of it, but long enough for me to draw a lot of it.

Someone was probably being killed, thus the tears.

Eventually, we created Tech-Lin, a story about a town populated by our combined hordes of stuffed animals including my Puppy Surprise and his Sonic the Hedgehog, as well as Prance, Albert, and Drago. Because I was the boss of everything, Prance was undeniably the main character and the hero of every storyline. She had to be the one to fight the villain.

She had wings for some reason and there is something seriously wrong with her wrists. Also, she became a redhead? (She still carried a broadsword, which sadly isn't pictured here.)

Albert was usually high-minded and a know-it-all, but not half as tough as Prance (don't let her cute outfits fool you). As for Drago, like most characters Steve played with or as, he was the comic relief. This is the boy who used to tell people he'd be Timon from The Lion King when he grew up, after all.

There's still time for him to make that dream come true.

All that to say, Steven wasn't the most discerning. He and I don't have all that much in common now, even though we're the closest in age, but we did spend years communally imagining whole worlds and characters based on the toys we had. And before then, when Melissa and I had played together, she led the stories we imagined and all my ideas were subject to hers (the price of being younger sibling). When she stopped playing with me (I was about eight and she was twelve), I turned to Steven, who till then had been an occasional playmate, but mostly was relegated to playing in the corner while Melissa and I played our games. Steven was my first audience as I tested my storytelling abilities beyond imitating Melissa's ideas. I could try out a tragedy or alternate universes or characters who straddled the line between good and bad (Melissa always hated those guys because they were massive jerks) and he accepted it as the "reality" of the story.

I don't think we played like most children; I understand that now. We had particular stories that we called "shows", and Steven and I took mine and Melissa's use of the word "shows" even farther--we played commercials at random segments. Playing was performing, while my writing was still a private activity only shared with Melissa, who has consistently read all my writings since, barely literate, I wrote my first story at 6 or 7 (I so regret throwing that out!). But through playing I learned how to craft stories and how to build characters, something that my writing skills still weren't quite strong enough to explore. I didn't have the patience to finish even a lengthy scene, much less an actual story, till I was about 11, but I could happily play all day.

Imagination is a powerful thing. So I guess that little Beanie Baby did change my life. Thanks, Mom, for buying this little brat the stuffed cat she insisted she needed.

Art by Steven, showing how what looked like a dead-eyed fat-headed animal (top) could be transformed into a moody animal-person wearing a communicator on her ears and with a microphone extending around her face so she could keep in touch with the team (bottom).

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