Lili Zhu Zhu itibaren Pelinia, Moldova itibaren Pelinia, Moldova

Good books have an incredible ability to evoke the past. Memories of my favorite books are sometimes not so much of the stories themselves, although those recollections can be strong, but of that period in my life when I was reading them. For me, the most evocative books tend to be works of fiction. They also tend to be books that leave me with a sense of accomplishment once I have gobbled them up. Among my most vivid book memories are the memories surrounding Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace. As vividly as I remember my visualizations of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow in Tolstoy’s work I, remember that I was reading those passages when the leaves were turning in autumn 2004. I remember the uncertainty of the time; I was applying to PhD programs, was earning my living as a barista, and was drinking more beer than usual. I had yet to apply for teaching positions. Since I was sans car, the Milwaukee County Transit System was my transportation and therefore a dear friend. It afforded me plenty of time for pleasure-reading to and from work. War and Peace resonated with me at that time because I had just completed my MA thesis on, coincidentally, representations of war in literature and film. As uncertain as the Russian future was on the eve of Borodino, so to was my future unsure. I was feeling both over-educated for teaching (Who would hire a first-year teacher with an MA?) and under-qualified to attend the types of PhD programs that I was applying to. The latter worry was of no consequence since I did not earn a spot at Madison, Berkeley, Yale, and the like. Still, despite the swirl of uncertainty that was my life, the book steadied me. It filled the cracks. It occupied my down time. The book’s winter chill, Romanticism, Freemason intrigue, and cast of colorful individuals served as the perfect foil to a service industry destiny that I so feared. Indeed, by realizing what makes the book truly great, I began to feel a bit better about my life. This book radiates greatness, I think, because Leo Tolstoy offers not just an intricate snapshot of Napoleonic Europe, but he also gifts the reader with his philosophy of history. The entire closing chapter of his work neither extends plot lines, nor brings them to a close. Instead he explains, in great detail, how history’s pages turn. In short, history is not a story driven by the great names or queen bees of the past. The drones and the worker bees assemble history just as they assembled the pyramids, fought in Great War trenches, and Lowell, Massachusetts textile mills. The slightest change in the actions of the drones can alter the march of history in profound ways. I felt like Leo was giving me a bit of a pep talk. He at least helped me understand that even if being a drone is at times burdened by quotidian drudgery, I am still party to the possibility of greatness. The text of life is unwritten and there is no way to know how large my character will loom.