War and Peace centers broadly on Napoleon’s invasion of Russia in 1812 and follows three of the best-known characters in literature: Pierre Bezukhov, the illegitimate son of a count who is fighting for his inheritance and yearning for spiritual fulfillment; Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, who leaves behind his family to fight in the war against Napoleon; and Natasha Rostov, the beautiful young daughter of a nobleman, who intrigues both men. As Napoleon’s army invades, Tolstoy vividly follows characters from diverse backgrounds peasants and nobility, civilians and soldiers as they struggle with the problems unique to their era, their history, and their culture. And as the novel progresses, these characters transcend their specificity, becoming some of the most moving and human figures in world literature.
Pevear and Volokhonsky have brought us this classic novel in a translation remarkable for its fidelity to Tolstoy’s style and cadence and for its energetic, accessible prose. With stunning grace and precision, this new version of War and Peace is set to become the definitive English edition.
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About the Author
Count Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) was born in central Russia. After serving in the Crimean War, he retired to his estate and devoted himself to writing, farming, and raising his large family. His novels and outspoken social polemics brought him world fame.
Richard Pevear has published translations of Alain, Yves Bonnefoy, Alberto Savinio, Pavel Florensky, and Henri Volohonsky, as well as two books of poetry. He has received fellowships or grants for translation from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Ingram Merrill Foundation, the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the French Ministry of Culture. Larissa Volokhonsky was born in Leningrad. She has translated works by the prominent Orthodox theologians Alexander Schmemann and John Meyendorff into Russian.
Together, Pevear and Volokhonsky have translated Dead Souls and The Collected Stories by Nikolai Gogol, The Complete Short Novels of Chekhov, and The Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment, Notes from Underground, Demons, The Idiot, and The Adolescent by Fyodor Dostoevsky. They were twice awarded the PEN Book-of-the-Month Club Translation Prize (for their version of Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov and for Tolstoy's Anna Karenina), and their translation of Dostoevsky's Demons was one of three nominees for the same prize. They are married and live in France.
Date of Birth:September 9, 1828
Date of Death:November 20, 1910
Place of Birth:Tula Province, Russia
Place of Death:Astapovo, Russia
Education:Privately educated by French and German tutors; attended the University of Kazan, 1844-47
Read an Excerpt
Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky
Part Three, XV
At eight o’clock Kutuzov rode to Pratz at the head of Miloradovich’s fourth column, the one which was to take the place of the columns of Przebyszewski and Langeron, which had already gone down. He greeted the men of the head regiment and gave the order to move, thus showing that he intended to lead the column himself. Having ridden to the village of Pratz, he halted. Prince Andrei, one of the enormous number of persons constituting the commander in chief’s suite, stood behind him. Prince Andrei felt excited, irritated, and at the same time restrainedly calm, as a man usually is when a long-desired moment comes. He was firmly convinced that this was the day of his Toulon or his bridge of Arcole. How it would happen, he did not know, but he was firmly convinced that it would be so. The locality and position of our troops were known to him, as far as they could be known to anyone in our army. His own strategic plan, which there obviously could be no thought of carrying out now, was forgotten. Now, entering into Weyrother’s plan, Prince Andrei pondered the possible happenstances and came up with new considerations, such as might call for his swiftness of reflection and decisiveness.
To the left below, in the fog, exchanges of fire between unseen troops could be heard. There, it seemed to Prince Andrei, the battle would concentrate, there an obstacle would be encountered, and “it’s there that I’ll be sent with a brigade or division, and there, with a standard in my hand, I’ll go forward and crush everything ahead of me.”
Prince Andrei could not look with indifference at the standards of the battalions going past him. Looking at a standard, he thought: maybe it is that very standard with which I’ll have to march at the head of the troops.
By morning the night’s fog had left only hoarfrost turning into dew on the heights, but in the hollows the fog still spread its milk-white sea. Nothing could be seen in that hollow to the left, into which our troops had descended and from which came the sounds of gunfire. Over the heights was a dark, clear sky, and to the right–the enormous ball of the sun. Far ahead, on the other shore of the sea of fog, one could make out the jutting, wooded hills on which the enemy army was supposed to be, and something was discernible. To the right the guards were entering the region of the fog, with a sound of tramping and wheels and an occasional gleam of bayonets; to the left, beyond the village, similar masses of cavalry approached and disappeared into the sea of fog. In front and behind moved the infantry. The commander in chief stood on the road out of the village, letting the troops pass by him. Kutuzov seemed exhausted and irritable that morning. The infantry going past him halted without any command, apparently because something ahead held them up.
“But tell them, finally, to form into battalions and go around the village,” Kutuzov said angrily to a general who rode up. “Don’t you understand, Your Excellency, my dear sir, that to stretch out in a defile through village streets is impossible when we’re marching against an enemy?”
“I intended to form them up outside the village, Your Excellency,” said the general.
Kutuzov laughed biliously.
“A fine sight you’d be, lining up in view of the enemy, a very fine sight!”
“The enemy’s still far off, Your Excellency. According to the disposition . . .”
“The disposition!” Kutuzov exclaimed biliously. “Who told you that? . . . Kindly do as you’re ordered.”
“Mon cher,” Nesvitsky said to Prince Andrei in a whisper, “le vieux est d’une humeur de chien.”
An Austrian officer in a white uniform with green plumes on his hat rode up to Kutuzov and asked on behalf of the emperor whether the fourth column had started into action.
Kutuzov turned away without answering him, and his gaze chanced to rest on Prince Andrei, who was standing close by. Seeing Bolkonsky, Kutuzov softened the angry and caustic expression of his gaze, as if aware that his adjutant was not to blame for what was going on. And, without answering the Austrian adjutant, he addressed Bolkonsky:
“Allez voir, mon cher, si la troisième division a dépassé le village. Dites-lui de s’arrêter et d’attendre mes ordres.”
Prince Andrei had only just started when he stopped him.
“Et demandez-lui si les tirailleurs sont postés,” he added. “Ce qu’ils font, ce qu’ils font!” he said to himself, still not answering the Austrian.
Prince Andrei galloped off to carry out his mission.
Overtaking all the advancing battalions, he stopped the third division and ascertained that there was in fact no line of riflemen in front of our columns. The regimental commander of the front regiment was very surprised by the order conveyed to him from the commander in chief to send out riflemen. The regimental commander stood there in the full conviction that there were more troops ahead of him, and that the enemy was no less than six miles away. In fact, nothing could be seen ahead but empty terrain sloping away and covered with thick fog. Having ordered on behalf of the commander in chief that the omission be rectified, Prince Andrei galloped back. Kutuzov still stood in the same place and, his corpulent body sagging over the saddle in old man’s fashion, yawned deeply, closing his eyes. The troops were no longer moving, but stood at parade rest.
“Very good, very good,” he said to Prince Andrei and turned to a general who stood there with a watch in his hand, saying it was time to move on, because all the columns of the left flank had already descended.
“We still have time, Your Excellency,” Kutuzov said through a yawn. “We have time!” he repeated.
Just then, from well behind Kutuzov, came shouts of regimental greetings, and these voices began to approach quickly along the whole extended line of the advancing Russian columns. It was clear that the one being greeted was riding quickly. When the soldiers of the regiment Kutuzov was standing in front of began to shout, he rode slightly to one side and, wincing, turned to look. Down the road from Pratz galloped what looked like a squadron of varicolored horsemen. Two of them rode side by side at a great gallop ahead of the rest. One, in a black uniform with white plumes, rode a bobtailed chestnut horse, the other, in a white uniform, rode a black horse. These were the two emperors with their suite. Kutuzov, with the affectation of a frontline veteran, ordered his standing troops to “attention” and, saluting, rode up to the emperor. His whole figure and manner suddenly changed. He acquired the look of a subordinate, unthinking man. With affected deference, which obviously struck the emperor Alexander unpleasantly, he rode up and saluted him.
The unpleasant impression, like the remains of fog in a clear sky, passed over the emperor’s young and happy face and disappeared. He was somewhat thinner that day, after his illness, than on the field of Olmütz, where Bolkonsky had seen him for the first time abroad, but there was the same enchanting combination of majesty and mildness in his beautiful gray eyes, and the fine lips had the same possibility of various expressions, with a prevalent expression of good-natured, innocent youth.
At the Olmütz review he was more majestic; here he was more cheerful and energetic. He was slightly flushed after galloping two miles and, reining in his horse, gave a sigh of relief and looked around at the faces of his suite, as young, as animated as his own. Czartoryski and Novosiltsev, and Prince Volkonsky and Stroganov, and the others, all richly clad, cheerful young men on splendid, pampered, fresh, only slightly sweaty horses, talking and smiling, stopped behind the sovereign. The emperor Franz, a ruddy, long-faced young man, sat extremely straight on his handsome black stallion and looked around him with a preoccupied, unhurried air. He called up one of his white adjutants and asked something. “Most likely what time they started,” thought Prince Andrei, observing his old aquaintance, and recalling his audience with a smile he was unable to repress. In the emperors’ suite there were picked fine young orderly officers, Russian and Austrian, from the guards and infantry regiments. Among them were grooms leading the handsome spare horses of the royalty in embroidered cloths.
As fresh air from the fields suddenly breathes through an open window into a stuffy room, so youth, energy, and certainty of success breathed upon Kutuzov’s cheerless staff as these brilliant young men galloped up.
“Why don’t you begin, Mikhail Larionovich?” the emperor Alexander hurriedly addressed Kutuzov, at the same time glancing courteously at the emperor Franz.
“I am waiting, Your Majesty,” answered Kutuzov, inclining deferentially.
The emperor cupped his ear, frowning slightly and showing that he had not heard properly.
“I’m waiting, Your Majesty,” Kutuzov repeated (Prince Andrei noticed that Kutuzov’s upper lip twitched unnaturally as he said this “waiting”). “Not all the columns are assembled, Your Majesty.”
The sovereign heard, but this reply clearly did not please him; he shrugged his slightly stooping shoulders, glanced at Novosiltsev, who stood nearby, as if complaining of Kutuzov by this glance.
“We’re not on the Tsaritsyn Field, Mikhail Larionovich, where you don’t start a parade until all the regiments are assembled,” said the sovereign, again glancing into the eyes of the emperor Franz, as though inviting him, if not to take part, at least to listen to what he was saying; but the emperor Franz went on looking around and did not listen.
“That is just why I do not begin, Sire,” Kutuzov said in a ringing voice, as if to forestall the possibility of not being heard, and again something twitched in his face. “I do not begin, Sire, because we are not on parade and not on the Tsaritsyn Field,” he uttered clearly and distinctly.
All the faces in the sovereign’s suite instantly exchanged glances with each other, expressing murmur and reproach. “Old as he may be, he should not, he simply should not speak that way,” these faces expressed.
The sovereign looked fixedly and attentively into Kutuzov’s eyes, waiting to see if he would say something more. But Kutuzov, for his part, bowed his head deferentially and also seemed to be waiting. The silence lasted for about a minute.
“However, if you order it, Your Majesty,” said Kutuzov, raising his head and again changing his tone to that of a dull, unthinking, but obedient general.
He touched up his horse and, calling to him the column leader Miloradovich, gave him the order to advance.
The troops stirred again, and two battalions of the Novgorodsky regiment and a battalion of the Apsheronsky regiment moved on past the sovereign.
While this Apsheronsky battalion was marching by, ruddy-faced Miloradovich, with no greatcoat, in his uniform tunic and decorations and a hat with enormous plumes, worn at an angle and brim first, galloped ahead hup-two, and with a dashing salute, reined in his horse before the sovereign.
“God be with you, General,” said the sovereign.
“Ma foi, sire, nous ferons ce que qui sera dans notre possibilité, sire!” he replied merrily, nevertheless calling up mocking smiles among the gentlemen of the suite with his bad French.
Miloradovich turned his horse sharply and placed himself slightly behind the sovereign. The Apsherontsy, excited by the presence of the sovereign, marched past the emperors and their suite at a dashingly brisk pace, beating their feet.
“Lads!” cried Miloradovich in a loud, self-assured, and merry voice, obviously so excited by the sounds of gunfire, the anticipation of battle, and the sight of his gallant Apsherontsy–his companions from Suvorov’s time–marching briskly past the emperors, that he forgot the sovereign’s presence. “Lads, it won’t be the first village you’ve taken!” he shouted.
“We do our best, sir!” the soldiers shouted out.
The sovereign’s horse shied at the sudden shout. This horse, who had carried the sovereign at reviews while still in Russia, also carried her rider here, on the field of Austerlitz, enduring the distracted nudges of his left foot, pricked up her ears at the sound of gunshots just as she did on the Field of Mars, understanding neither the meaning of the shots she heard, nor the presence of the emperor Franz’s black stallion, nor anything of what her rider said, thought, or felt that day.
The sovereign turned with a smile to one of his retinue, pointing to the gallant Apsherontsy, and said something to him.
Kutuzov, accompanied by his adjutants, rode at a walk behind the carabineers.
Having gone less than half a mile at the tail of the column, he stopped by a solitary, deserted house (probably a former tavern), where the road forked. Both roads went down the hill, and troops were marching along both.
The fog began to lift, and enemy troops could be dimly seen about a mile and a half away on the heights opposite. To the left below, the gunfire was growing louder. Kutuzov stopped, talking with an Austrian general. Prince Andrei, standing slightly behind him, peered at the enemy and turned to an adjutant, wishing to borrow a field glass from him.
“Look, look,” said this adjutant, looking not at the distant troops, but down the hill in front of him. “It’s the French!”
The two generals and the adjutants began snatching at the field glass, pulling it away from each other. All their faces suddenly changed, and on all of them horror appeared. The French were supposed to be a mile and a half from us, and they suddenly turned up right in front of us.
“Is it the enemy? . . . No! . . . Yes, look, he’s . . . for certain . . . What is this?” voices said.
With his naked eye, Prince Andrei saw below, to the right, a dense column of French coming up to meet the Apsherontsy, no further than five hundred paces from where Kutuzov was standing.
“Here it is, the decisive moment has come! Now it’s my turn,” thought Prince Andrei, and, spurring his horse, he rode up to Kutuzov.
“The Apsherontsy must be stopped, Your Excellency!” he cried.
But at that same moment everything became covered with smoke, there was the sound of gunfire nearby, and a na•vely frightened voice two steps from Prince Andrei cried: “Well, brothers, that’s it for us!” And it was as if this voice was a command. At this voice everyone began to run.
Confused, ever increasing crowds came running back to the place where, five minutes before, the troops had marched past the emperors. Not only was it difficult to stop this crowd, but it was impossible not to yield and move back with it. Bolkonsky tried only not to be separated from Kutuzov and looked around in perplexity, unable to understand what was happening in front of him. Nesvitsky, looking angry, red, and not like himself, shouted to Kutuzov that if he did not leave at once, he would certainly be taken prisoner. Kutuzov stood in the same place and, without responding, took out his handkerchief. Blood was flowing from his cheek. Prince Andrei forced his way to him.
“Are you wounded?” he asked, barely able to control the trembling of his lower jaw.
“The wound isn’t here, it’s there!” said Kutuzov, pressing the handkerchief to his wounded cheek and pointing to the fleeing men.
“Stop them!” he cried, and at the same time, probably realizing that it was impossible to stop them, spurred his horse and rode to the right.
A fresh crowd of fleeing men streamed past, caught him up, and carried him backwards.
The troops were fleeing in such a dense crowd that, once one landed in the middle of it, it was difficult to get out. Someone shouted, “Keep going, don’t drag your feet!” Another, turning around, fired into the air; someone else struck the horse on which Kutuzov himself was riding. Extricating themselves with the greatest effort from the flow of the crowd to the left, Kutuzov and his suite, diminished by more than half, rode towards the sounds of nearby cannon fire. Extricating himself from the crowd of fleeing men, Prince Andrei, trying to keep up with Kutuzov, saw on the slope of the hill, amidst the smoke, a Russian battery still firing, and the French running up to it. Slightly higher stood Russian infantry, neither moving ahead to aid the battery, nor backwards in the direction of the fugitives. A general on horseback separated himself from the infantry and rode up to Kutuzov. There were only four men left in Kutuzov’s suite. They were all pale and exchanged glances silently.
“Stop those villains!” Kutuzov said breathlessly to the regimental commander, pointing to the fleeing men; but at the same moment, as if in punishment for those words, bullets, like a flock of birds, flew whistling at the regiment and Kutuzov’s suite.
The French had attacked the battery and, seeing Kutuzov, were shooting at him. With this volley, the regimental commander seized his leg; several soldiers fell, and an ensign holding a standard let it drop from his hands; the standard wavered and fell, stopped momentarily by the bayonets of the soldiers around it. The soldiers began firing without any orders.
“Oooh!” Kutuzov moaned with an expression of despair and looked around. “Bolkonsky,” he whispered in a voice trembling with awareness of his old man’s strengthlessness. “Bolkonsky,” he whispered, pointing to the disordered battalion and the enemy, “what’s going on?”
But before he finished saying it, Prince Andrei, feeling sobs of shame and anger rising in his throat, was already jumping off his horse and running towards the standard.
“Forward, lads!” he cried in a childishly shrill voice.
“Here it is!” thought Prince Andrei, seizing the staff of the standard and hearing with delight the whistle of bullets, evidently aimed precisely at him. Several soldiers fell.
“Hurrah!” cried Prince Andrei, barely able to hold up the heavy standard, and he ran forward with unquestioning assurance that the entire battalion would run after him.
And indeed he ran only a few steps alone. One soldier started out, another, and the whole battalion, with a shout of “Hurrah!” rushed forward and overtook him. A sergeant of the battalion ran up, took the standard that was wavering in Prince Andrei’s hands because of its weight, but was killed at once. Prince Andrei again seized the standard and, dragging it by the staff, ran with the battalion. Ahead of him he saw our artillerists, some of whom were fighting, while others abandoned the cannon and came running in his direction; he also saw French infantrymen, who had seized the artillery horses and were turning the cannon. Prince Andrei and his battalion were now twenty paces from the cannon. Above him he heard the unceasing whistle of bullets, and soldiers ceaselessly gasped and fell to right and left of him. But he did not look at them; he looked fixedly only at what was happening ahead of him–at the battery. He clearly saw the figure of a red-haired gunner, his shako knocked askew, pulling a swab from one side, while a French soldier pulled it towards him from the other side. Prince Andrei saw clearly the bewildered and at the same time angry expression on the faces of the two men, who evidently did not understand what they were doing.
“What are they doing?” Prince Andrei wondered, looking at them. “Why doesn’t the red-haired artillerist run away, since he has no weapon? Why doesn’t the Frenchman stab him? Before he runs away, the Frenchman will remember his musket and bayonet him.”
In fact, another Frenchman with his musket atilt ran up to the fighting men, and the lot of the red-haired artillerist, who still did not understand what awaited him and triumphantly pulled the swab from the French soldier’s hands, was about to be decided. But Prince Andrei did not see how it ended. It seemed to him as though one of the nearest soldiers, with the full swing of a stout stick, hit him on the head. It was slightly painful and above all unpleasant, because the pain distracted him and kept him from seeing what he had been looking at.
“What is it? am I falling? are my legs giving way under me?” he thought, and fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the fight between the French and the artillerists ended, and wishing to know whether or not the red-haired artillerist had been killed, whether the cannon had been taken or saved. But he did not see anything. There was nothing over him now except the sky–the lofty sky, not clear, but still immeasurably lofty, with gray clouds slowly creeping across it. “How quiet, calm, and solemn, not at all like when I was running,” thought Prince Andrei, “not like when we were running, shouting, and fighting; not at all like when the Frenchman and the artillerist, with angry and frightened faces, were pulling at the swab–it’s quite different the way the clouds creep across this lofty, infinite sky. How is it I haven’t seen this lofty sky before? And how happy I am that I’ve finally come to know it. Yes! everything is empty, everything is a deception, except this infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing except that. But there is not even that, there is nothing except silence, tranquillity. And thank God! . . .”
 On 17 November 1796, fighting the Austrians in northern Italy, Napoleon, at the head of his grenadier and with a banner in this hand, charged onto the bridge at Arcole to keep the enemy from taking it. The plague that was raging in Jaffa when the French stormed the city afflicted both the local population and the French army. Napoleon visited the plague victims in the hospital with his marshals Berthier and Bessières, an incident commemorated by the French painter Jean-Antoine Gros (1771-1835) in The Plague Victims of Jaffa (1804).
 My dear . . . the old man’s in a foul humor.
 Go and see, my dear, if the third division has passed the village. Tell him to stop and wait for my orders.
 And ask him if the riflemen are posted . . . What they’re doing, what they’re doing!
 A square in Petersburg used as a parade ground. In 1818 the name was changed to Marsovo Polie (“the Field of Mars”).
 By my faith, Sire, we will do that what which will be within our possibility, Sire!
Excerpted from War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy Copyright © 2007 by Leo Tolstoy. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
What People are Saying About This
"This is, at last, a translation of War and Peace without the dreadful misunderstandings and "improvements" that plague all other translations of the novel into English. Pevear and Volokhonsky not only render the meanings and nuances of Tolstoy's language faithfully and beautifully, they also strive to transmit the structure and feel of his prose, down to the level of individual sentences and phrases (as much as the constraints of English allow)."--(Vladimir E. Alexandrov, B. E. Bensinger Professor of Slavic Languages and Literatures, Chair, Slavic Department, Yale University)
Everybody has the same technology. But what's going to make the difference is the imagination that the people bring to that technology. Until people learn how to have computers serve their idiosyncratic behavior, we aren't going to see anything (Red Burns is Chair, NYU Interactive Telecommunications Program).
Reading Group Guide
Often called the greatest novel ever written, War and Peace is at once an epic of the Napoleonic Wars, a philosophical study, and a celebration of the Russian spirit. Tolstoy’s genius is seen clearly in the multitude of characters in this massive chronicle—all of them fully realized and equally memorable. Out of this complex narrative emerges a profound examination of the individual’s place in the historical process, one that makes it clear why Thomas Mann praised Tolstoy for his Homeric powers and placed War and Peace in the same category as the Iliad: “To read him . . . is to find one’s way home . . . to everything within us that is fundamental and sane.”
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Translations of great works are usually a tricky business. One problem is that translations do not really age well. In works by Homer or Vergil, for instance, the originals remain fresh and timeless, but the translations soon come to seem stodgy or stuffy or worse -- what was truly great about the original can easily become obscured. So basically, the translations of the great works have to be recalibrated for each new generation. And even with that, not all translations are equally effective. This translation of War and Peace is a model of the translator's craft and art. They seem to have fully understood Tolstoy's goals and style. A long story, War and Peace does require a certain amount of commitment on the part of the reader. But this absorbing, erudite, clever and deeply human translation rewards the time dedicated to reading it. It is often said that War and Peace encompasses every possible emotion and experience that could be found in human life. Pevear and Volokhonsky have produced a translation that honors the original and makes it accesible to a larger audience than ever before. I have strongly requested a number of friends to read this book. They have all thanked me profusely and we have enjoyed many wonderful conversations about its contents.
This is Tolstoy at the height of his powers. This edition translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky is in its own right a masterpiece. I have read Constance Garnett's translation and this one is far superior. Their translations of Dostoevsky, Gogol, and Chekov are also some of the best translations of Russian works I have read. Tolstoy's War and Peace he did not consider a novel and I would agree. It does not have the elements of a novel and is more a meditative investigation of the time period, Russia, and history.
Tolstoy's insight into human nature is unsurpassed. His philosophical meanderings mark the dawn of modernism. His characters are charming. His depiction of battle is utterly humane. His grasp of history and its implications is unerring. Just read it, you'll be glad you did. By the way, this translation is indeed lucid and approachable.
As a proud new Nook owner (purchased after both of my sons came home within one week of each other with theirs), I wanted something serious to try it out on, so I went looking for a copy of War and Peace, which I had not read in many years. Being aware that there are usually several translations of a classic, I of course was looking for the one that I was familiar with, the old stand-by translation by Constance Garnett. As it was not obvious which edition on the last was that translation, I took advantage of the free sample available for this one, and I am very glad that I did. A few pages and I was hooked. I read the Section I of the first part in its entirety at one sitting. The decision was apparently made to leave the French portions intact, as the author had written them, showing how the upper class would normally slide in and out of both languages. It gives one a real feel for the way they talked. The translations of the French passages are at the back, but in the electronic version it is very easy to switch back and forth via the links provided. (I like to try to translate the passages on my own and then check to see if I did it right.) There is another entire set of notes on the historical references which are also invaluable. Tolstoy's incredible mind would shine through a merely competent or even a poor translation, I think; but this translation seems to me to have something a little extra: It seems to give one a feel for what it might be like to read him in the original Russian. Highly recommended.
just a note: Though at times it seems frustrating to read the translated French in footnotes, the dynamic between French and Russian is purposefully there. So, it becomes very helpful to know what characters regularly speak in French (and the general style of how it's used in the Russian aristocracy) when reading War and Peace.
The novel has long been canonical. Pevear and Volkhonsky realize the poetry of Tolstoy's Russian to give non-Russian-readers a sense of how deserved is the novel's canonical status.
Given War and Peace's reputation, it was a little intimidating to pick up. It starts out slow, but if you can stick with it, it is an amazing story and actually goes quite fast after you get to know the characters. My daughter and I had a bet on how long it would take to read. She thought 6 months. I was done in a month and a half just reading daily before bed. This is a classic for a reason. Everyone should read it once in their lives.
DON'T buy the NOOK version of this book. I did. And I regretted it INSTANTLY. This book has TONS of footnotes that you have to read as you go along. However, in the NOOK version you can't easily access the footnotes as they are all at the back of the book rather than on the same page. I'm totally disappointed that I can't return this ebook (B&N has a no returns policy on ebooks). I'm going to have to buy the PAPER version of this book in order to read it.
I recently read War and Peace for the first time. The length of this 'loose baggy monster' as Henry James once described it always prevented me from tackling the famed novel. This was a mistake. Anyone who has read the equally great Anna Karenina can attest that Tolstoy grabs hold of the reader from the first and never fails to 'yes' entertain as well as provoke seemingly endless ideas about family, war, society, economics etc. This novel will haunt you from the first. Tolstoy's image making/evocation is unsurpassed. He will describe a place or person or thing or event, such as several notable battles and your mental image will crystalize with a clarity that is unmatched by other novelists. The shear ambition of this novel is stunning. Numerous characters who are all interesting, set pieces to fill many novels. Even when Tostoy's story is put on hold for essays on Napoleon or other subjects you will find yourself riveted. It seems strange to call this novel a page turner, but it is. It is a 'monster', a wildly entertaining ride through the heart and soul of Russia and in the end all of us. This may be the greatest novel ever. I know you hear that with other novels as well, however, this is one work that can make a claim to encompassing everything and all of us.
If you've put off reading "War & Peace" due to its length and reputation, you have the chance with this new translation to redeem yourself. This translation is eminently readable and is a major step forward over previous translations, according to my book club friends. While the translation can do nothing about the formidable length, the time taken to cover that length is enjoyable, even intoxicating at times. If there are weaknesses, they are the common ones attributed to "War & Peace," the heavy reliance on French by the upper class Russians, especially in the beginning chapters (which was historically accurate) and the historical essays that initially provide an intriguing commentary on the battles with Napoleon but bring a stultifying conclusion to an otherwise brilliant work. By the way, my version was an e-book version, and while it was a relief not to have to lug the printed book with me on my train commute everyday, the historical and translation footnotes are all handled by hyperlinks which are tiring to access in an e-book with its primitive cursor placement. Still, highly recommended.
Spend a few extra bucks and get the Pevear and Volokhonsky translation. This is a book I've read every few years since I was 11. 30 years later, it's more relevant than ever. Tolstoy is simply unequaled in his mastery of plot, characters and understanding what really matters. If you've never read it, read it! If it's been a few years, read it again!
There's something absurd about reviewing a novel nearly 150 years old which is one of the most famous and best regarded ever written. Let me just say that Tolstoy's genius is his ability to find his way into to the heads of some many different kinds of people -- from the young Natalia Rostov first falling in love to her brother Nikolai's iniital reaction to combat to the old general Bolkonsky moving increasingly into senility. The plot moves from battle scenes to ballrooms, and it is breathtaking that Tolstoy is equally at home as a writer. The man also had experience in both. *Count* Leo Tolstoy was a Russian aristocrat who was no stranger to the daily life of the aristocracy and also had served as a soldier in the siege of Sevastopol (about which he wrote Sevastopol Stories). I can't read Russian, but the translation is highly readable in English and a Russian lit professor I know -- also a native Russian speaker -- thinks that Pevear and Volokhonsky are very good.
This book is translated by the best Russian team ever. It's perfect!
I feel like a phillistine admitting that I have never been able to get through War & Peace. This translation of the russian is much better than previous ones, but it still has the problem of the french language used. To read the french translation, you have to go to the footnotes. Then you lose sense of who was talking going back and forth. Why could the translators not have translated the french in the main text? They translated it anyway. I finally gave up in frustration and regretted spending that much on the book.
Age: 15 b-day 9-23-99 <p>Looks: Has andy biersacks hair cut has a black rose tattoo on his back and a few scars on his wrists. Blue eyes
This book was incredible! The plot was completely engaging from start to finish. Tolstoy went to great lengths to research historical documents about the War of 1812 to create this work of historical fiction, and the result allows the reader to become immersed in a novel filled with both an intricate suspensful plotline and one which brings the war of 1812 and the culture of Russia during that time period to life. The recount of certain battles like the one at Borodino and the depiction of the French Army's invasion of Moscow and later on their retreat is rendered with great detail and although the novel is not a historical work, and even Tolstoy himself claims the novel is not even a 'novel', the images he creates give the reader a sense of closeness to the events that happened and what life was like in Russia during that time period. The story itself is captivating, with a multitude of characters and families that all become connected in some way. Scandal, romance, passion, treachery, this novel has it all up until the very end. Tolstoy at times injects his own viewpoints on the role of historians in society and the weaknesses inherent in their reasoning for why events happened the way they did. This dialogue can be tough to get through at times, but it was only a minor hindrance in the progression of the overall storyline. The length of the novel was appropriate given the amount of character development, plot details, and depictions of the war itself and its aftermath. Overall a true masterpiece, quite a pleasure to read this one. For those that cannot read the work in its original language, it is an absolute necessity to get the translation by Pevear and Volokhonsky, which translate it as faithfully as possible without abridging the french language passages scattered throughout the novel, and with an endless array of endnotes, summary, glossary of historical names, to keep the reader informed of the countless historical and cutural references within the novel. This novel is a Must-Read!
Fantastic book. Don't be scared by the length. Tolstoy keeps you engaged. Reading it now for the second time.
In "owy" res 7 but might rewrite it here lol *shrugs*
Age: 17 Looks: Around 5'5... jet black shiny curly hair to her waist... normally seen in skinny jeans amd a crop top..... Likes: honesty...love... sports... water Dislikes: fakeness... cowardice... haters... Personality- loves water...playing in it..having fun loves fighting and swimming with dolphins and fish
Name: Olivia. Goes by lvi. <br> Age: 18 <br> In a relationship with Rex! <br> Looks: Brown hair curly and down to the middle of her back. Gold eyes. About 5"7. <br> Al you need to know.
i figured out how to make custom name, but u have to do computer one minute, I'm signing in the rain shower.
next minute, I'm surrounded by my may flowers.
it don't take hours, it's like a roller-coaster;
up and down, bump around then the show is over.
slow down young fella, don't blow your motor.
put your nose to the roses like a motorboater.
get a good whiff, better sniff good.
i'm sick of floating through my life like drift wood.
it could be worse, and I know it.
if all we need is love, I'll be the first one to show it,
but you beat me to the punch so I really have to thank y'all
for being flowers in the hours of my rain fall.
I actually remember finding Tolstoy's Anna Karenina a good read, although it's been so long I'd have to reread it to relate what I found absorbing. War and Peace is a very different matter. It's a mammoth novel, one of the longest in the Western canon, roughly 560,000 words; it comes to over a thousand pages in the editions I've seen. I was determined to stick it out to the end because this is considered one of the greatest and most influential novels in literature, so I wanted to experience it first hand, and I didn't want to ever have to go back for another try again. I took it in slow steps, reading only one "book" of the 15 each day. Encompassing dozens of characters written in a God's eye omniscient view, it takes hundreds of pages before you get a sense who are the important characters. Among the LibraryThing reviews is an interesting comment by CS Lewis about War and Peace. It's meant to be complimentary, but expresses well exactly what I hated in it as a novel. Lewis talks about how Tolstoy negates what is "dangerous" in the novel form by never invoking the "narrative lust" to find out what happens next and instilling an indifference to the fate of the characters "which is not a blank indifference at all, but almost like submission to the will of God." In other words, you rarely care about what happens or about any of the characters.The novel centers on five interconnected aristocratic families, and if the novel has a chief character, it's Count Pierre Bezukhov. And he's a buffoon. When we first meet him, he's described as a "a stout, heavily built young man" with "natural" manners (meaning none) and he's such a social disaster his hostess follows him around to try to repair the damage of his ill-judged outbursts. He lisps, he stammers. He's easily led yet subject to grandiose delusions, he's absentminded and he's lucky he comes into an inheritance, because he had no idea what to do for a career, and lacks the basic competence to succeed. Soon after the party introducing him, he gets involved in a drunken incident where a police officer was tied to a bear and thrown into a river. Following him and his emo musings around for hundreds of pages wasn't a joy. It occurred to me that if we were in an Jane Austen novel, Pierre would be the comic relief--a Mr Collins or Mr Rushworth--not a character taken seriously. But it wasn't as if any of the characters initially popped out at me as distinctive or sympathetic or complex. Nicholas Rostov struck me as a fool, Prince Andrew Bolkonsky arrogant and callous, Boris Drubetskoy a mercenary social climber and all the Kuragins are despicable. Whenever I started to feel sympathy for some of the characters, such as Prince Andrew or his sanctimonious sister Princess Mary or the flighty Natasha Rostov, before long they'd do something to lose my liking.Pierre and his loves take up a lot the peace part, which contain long drawn-out set pieces such as masonic initiations, aristocratic hunting parties and opera performances. The book does give you a sense of everyday life among the 19th century Russian gentry. But the book is also famously about the Napoleonic Wars, but if anything, I found that part even more wanting. Please understand, I've read and finished and enjoyed lots of weighty 19th century classics, and a lot of them have been very, very long. And I love history, too, having read plenty of books on the subject around as long as War and Peace. This also isn't a girl thing. I was fascinated by Shaara's novel Killer Angels centering on the Battle of Gettysburg. But Tolstoy's battles are on the whole as sleep-inducing as his ballrooms. Despite some gory imagery here and there, and some vivid passages, his battle scenes are rarely exciting except when one of the major characters are in danger of their lives or wounded--a few pages out of many dozens. Tolstoy expressed well the contingent, chaotic aspect of battle, but neither leadership nor the bond b
Took me so long to read as it was really heavy going, but i enjoyed it, a well crafted novel that develops beautifully, because of its length you really get to learn about the characters, settings and everything else you can imagine, for a book so old it really has stood the test of time.