The Immersion Library

How strange it is that when I was a child I tried to be like a grownup, yet as soon as I ceased to be a child I often longed to be like one.

When reading Childhood, Boyhood, Youth, one quickly appreciates that though they read Tolstoy, they do not read TOLSTOY – the master wordsmith who penned War and Peace and Anna Karenina.

Yet, continuing on with this realization, one finds a new angle from which to appreciate Tolstoy. Though I doubt he imagined himself destined as a literary godfather to resound down through the ages, his honest tone throughout this autobiographical fiction might convince his contemporary readers of his potential to become so.

Even though he has yet to become Tolstoy, one finds his characteristic style of contemplation and clarity at the helm. However, as a work – especially one claiming to be fiction rather than autobiographical – his decisions of perspective trouble me. While discussing his childhood, I found myself wondering if I was meeting a child prodigy able to analyze his circumstances with such wisdom. When venturing through his boyhood, I couldn’t help but wonder if such a lad could really express himself with such attention to detail. And through his youth, how could such a pompous, arrogant and confused young man discuss his own attitude as if talking about his own grandson?

After accepting this work in its irreparable state – flaws and brilliance in all – one finds the Tolstoy they love. The man who ponders and explains humanity as if from a vantage point on Mount Olympus, wielding an acute focus on truth and a firm rebuke of egotistical distractions. Despite the book ending without any kind of resolution, one looks forward to the career of a writer with such raw talent.