Eleven weeks ago, I started reading Tolstoy's War and Peace. And I've been reading it, and reading it, and reading it ever since. I've only taken a few breaks with other books, in the vain hope that it would spur my reading of the Russian masterpiece. It did, and it didn't. Anyway, it's over now. And I have to say, I thought I would feel more of a sense of accomplishment. It's a huge freaking book (my copy has 1074 pages), and it's not light reading. There's all the war, and the occasional peace, and all of Tolstoy pontificating on the nature of power and the impetus behind armies and crap. Dude! The second epilogue was really pushing it too far. And even though I hate epilogues, I read both of those bad boys. Not that they added much (except more days to my reading time). On the whole, it was clearly a literary tour de force, but it wasn't fun to read -- I never really loved any of the characters or felt for them. I have to admit, I prefer Anna Karenina. And not just because of the train action.
Bygones. I'm moving on to something easier. Perhaps my new Sue Grafton. Or Haven Kimmel. Or my annual Richard Russo.