War and Peace - Back to War!

Book, or Volume, 3 puts peace aside and sets off to war. 1812. France invades Russia. Begins with Tolstoy's disquisition on the forces of history. This would be annoying or pompous if it weren't (a) from Tolstoy and (b) part of a book so grand and sprawling that it can accommodate anything (cf. Moby Dick). Tolstoy argues history made up not solely of grand decisions by great men but of petty decisions by great men (so and so insulted by the tone of a letter) and in fact millions of decisions by millions of people - the war would never have happened if one soldier had refused to serve, leading to another and another... In a way, he anticipates contemporary historical studies that examine the lives of ordinary individuals as a historical and cultural force. But in another way - he can't relinquish his fascination with the great, and the first few chapters make Napoleon (who appeared almost incidentally earlier in the book) into a major figure, proud, irascible, shrewd, fearless. Again, character sketched with amazing efficiency of observation (his broad forehead with a stray lock of hair) and detail (the cheering crowds distract him, as he tries to focus on his plan to cross the river; the soldiers rushing their horses into the cold water and dying, drowning, as Napoleon studies a map, indifferent).

Also yesterday read the New Yorker story by Helen Simpson, something like "Diary of a very bad year." Yet another post-apocalyptic narrative. I suppose it's an open topic, but aren't all these pretty much the same - one horror after another? That movie of a few years ago, can't remember title right now, with the one pregnant woman on earth, was a unique take, but so many others just seem the same: The Road, that Atwood novel. There's a Theroux that I haven't read. I remember a striking Czech film from the 70s. All wandering through wasted landscapes, lament about (in the 70s) nuclear war or (today) ecological disaster), scrounging, fighting, fear, filth. In a way, I think this topic is too easy. Easier to describe a culture in ruins than a complex culture of the living, and definitely easier to go for the big effect. I thought the story, at first, was by Mona Simpson - whatever happened to her? - but saw all the Britishisms that New Yorker fiction editors swoon over - Biro, Uni, gap year - in the first few paragraphs and knew it was someone else.