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.

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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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Thoughts on Dealing with this Mortal Coil Before It Can Rightfully Be Shuffled Off

When people talk about suicide, especially suicide caused by long-term depression, you can generally split them up into two camps: 1) Those who say things like "how terrible that death was the only solution he knew to make the pain stop"and "we need people to understand how much they are loved." 2) Those who say things like "this is terrible that anyone should resort to a lazy and cowardly way to end their life" and "how selfish; they don't even think of the people they leave behind."

Now I'm not saying any of those perspectives are right or wrong. They both have a point and are a valid way of looking at suicide. Which is what makes understanding suicide and depression so confusing.

With Monday's celebrity suicide, the word "suicide" seems to be trending as much online as the late celebrity's name. Organizations like TWLOHA say their piece about how you are loved, yes YOU, and everyone should know that, don't end your life, YOU are LOVED. It's a sweet message, and while I respect TWLOHA and its supporters because I know they are doing good and hey, the more love going to those suffering from depression the better, but their words fall, as they often do for me, woefully short. The very tangible love of family and friends can mean nothing when someone is crushed by depression; the kind but bland love of a random stranger will generally mean even less. Individuals use this as a platform to talk about depression, which is wonderful in that it may help in the long fight to de-stigmatize depression (and other mental/emotional issues), but of course doesn't always help those struggling through it.

How should we look at someone who killed themselves? Are they a victim of an untreated illness, or worse, a victim of a system that treats their illness as a passing mood and misguided perspective on life? Are they a beautiful lovely loss to humanity simply by cutting their life short? Are they a strong brave individual who sought to solve their problems on their own? Are they a weak-willed coward who gave up when the going got tough?

And when you choose one of those ways to look at the situation, what does it say about those who don't kill themselves, who resist the urge? That's what always threw me off the most--as an insecure teenager, as an overachieving college student, as a graduate who sometimes can't see hope anywhere--should one be congratulating oneself for not ending one's life, or even harming oneself? Holding the blade to your skin...and only making one small cut and throwing that blade away...is that a small victory? Then doing it again, but this time not breaking skin, and then next time, only looking at the blade before putting it away--is that bravery? Is persisting in living because you're scared of dying a brave choice?

Or, perhaps the bravest of all are those who live with sadnesses and pains but never know the dull horror of sinking into depression. These people are not necessarily living better lives; they are just able to deal with it differently. Does that make them the strongest of all?

When I was a teenager, I couldn't find an answer to those questions. I was too afraid of physical pain to make self-harm a habit. Concluding that there are remarkably few painless and foolproof ways to end life, I convinced myself out of suicide again and again. I knew I was loved by certain people, but it didn't change the feeling I had when I looked in the mirror, when I was alone with my thoughts, or when I was inadequate where I wanted to be successful. I was in a horrible living situation and I was powerless to change it then, but I knew one day it'd *probably* get better. I knew the effect hormonal imbalances can have on one's mental state, especially as a teenager. But none of that was what kept me from destroying myself, either in small ways or that one big way. What kept me from something terrible was simply fear of physical pain. One day I told myself I was a coward for not doing it; another day I told myself I was really quite brave for continuing to tote the weary load.

Things are different for me now, but when life doesn't go well, there's that switch that goes on and my perspective becomes bleak and grey and I can't remember where the exit is. I can barely remember that I wasn't always in this rut. I don't know that it's bravery that keeps me going. I want to say it's cowardice, but that might be some lingering self-contempt.

I can't answer that for myself, so I certainly can't say anything about Robin Williams' suicide. I understand, but I don't understand at all. I think it was a horrible tragedy and maybe there was something that could have prevented his making that choice, but maybe there wasn't. I can't say "he had other options" because when you're stuck in your own head and no option includes getting away from yourself except for suicide...well, it's a struggle. I'm still shocked and saddened, because I loved him as an actor, and I still find his voice so very comforting to listen to. I know this is hardest on his family and friends, and the rest of us, just fans of his work and admirers of his self-presentation and sense of humor, are only feeling a fraction of what they're going through. It's hard to not feel like my sorrow is somehow encroaching and insulting theirs, which is just so much deeper because they knew him personally.

This news came at an interesting time, as I was struggling out of a fog of depression. What drew me out was not the love of my family and friends (though that has been appreciated, and I hate that I seemed like a sad-sack to anyone during those weeks--so sorry to everyone), but reading a rather depressing book, Edith Wharton's The Custom of the Country, which was gifted to me by a dear friend. It's one of those novels where the selfish heroine throws herself headlong into a money-grubbing miserable life that leads inevitably to ruin (I haven't finished it yet though, so it may surprise me), and it didn't exactly help the way I was feeling, despite the beautiful writing. But when my favorite character (not the heroine) committed suicide, it took me by surprise and jolted me out of my misery. I didn't want to just end all this, I realized. The pages after the character's suicide are empty of them, with only a few mentions to their name, which is not the way one likes to think of the world being after their death. Rather ironically, it lifted my spirits considerably.

I am not advocating that book as an anti-depressant, obviously. It worked for me (this time). Last time, it was a week doing absolutely nothing in Ohio (thank you, Katie, for taking me out of my fog without even knowing it), and when I was younger it was a combination of changes. There is no one way out of it. Suicide is possibly the worst choice of all, but it's the quickest way out. Love can help, but it might not draw you out. As a Christian, I can't even say that believing in Jesus is a surefire way to happiness, because it ain't easy and many, many Christians are depressed (seriously, the Bible is full of them too!). Being busy can help, especially since depression is mind-numbingly BORING, but you will always have some moment alone to think and be miserable. Doing things for others is definitely something I can advocate, but sometimes it's hard to do that with your soul being pulverized under all the sadness. There are millions of things that can help and that won't help.

Try them. Don't end it. Talk to people. Stop being ashamed, and know that some people will look down on you for depression, but remember that those are not the people that matter most. I don't know if you're brave or a coward, but I know that depression does not automatically mean weakness. You can be strong under pressure. Find your own way out--not necessarily alone or without help, but find what works for you and gets you through each day, and what will maybe eventually heal you.

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Original image found here on Pinterest
Quote is Proverbs 18:14

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