Nineteenth century novel: everyone dies or gets married. Also there's a war. Peace is mighty thin on the ground.
I am so extremely glad to be done with this that I have declared this No More Tolstoy Day. Coincidentally enough, having packed away both this and Anna Karenina, there's no damn more Tolstoy to read (short stories? I can't heeearr you!). And I am glad.
Haven't I already said all this? I thought I had but maybe not. It's too long a book in audio for me right now: I only cranked through the last eighth because I gave up and listened at work until work got loud or busy. Its narrator should be slapped; the recording was made in 1982 before audiobooks were stolen by people who could still use their eyes. And possibly the Garnet translation doesn't convey Tolstoy's linguistic genius, if such genius can come through in translation at all. It's not the translation's fault that Tolstoy gives a child's age and then within 15 or 10 minutes gives it again. Damn.
My paper copy, which is the Maud translation, is at home, where I have to confirm this quote. I kept rewinding to see if I really have to hate the book after devoting two and half days plus, 64 hours, to it: "Once admit that human can can be guided by reason, and all possibility of life is annihilated."
Begun in early March. Oy.
I just found this. It's exactly a year old and I never published it.
It occurred to me that my list of shit I don't get is much longer than my list of stuff that pleases me. This struck me on Friday and on and off over the weekend I was able to think of three things:
That wasn't the original third one. The first third one inspired me to start this entry. Then I forgot it, because I'm such a deeply troubled, bitter soul.
Three things, people.
Later...