Principally Tolstóy

I have done quite a lot of things today that needed doing. I also managed to get to Mass, which was good.

I am up to page 1,164 of Tolstoy - less than 200 pages to go! I want to get to the end of the book by the end of this year. That would be good. But it will entail hard reading. I should probably not stay up all night on the 30th of December when I am going to a party on the 31st. I shall just have to manage my time judiciously. I am not very good at that. (Depression does not make it any easier, either.)

Here is a passage from Tolstoy (from Book XIV, chapter II); pages 1162-4:

Petra ought to have known that he was in a forest with Denísov's guerrilla band, a verst from the road, sitting on a wagon captured from the French beside which horses were tethered, that under it Likhachëv was sitting sharpening a sabre for him, that the big dark blotch to the right was the watchman's hut, and the red blotch below to the left was the dying embers of a camp-fire, that the man who had come for the cup was an hussar who wanted a drink; but he neither knew nor wanted to know anything of all this. He was in a fairy kingdom where nothing resembled reality. The big dark blotch might really be the watchman's hut or it might be a cavern leading to the very depths of the earth. Perhaps the red spot was a fire, or it might be the eye of an enormous monster. Perhaps he was really sitting on a wagon, but it might very well be that he was not sitting on a wagon but on a terribly high tower from which, if he fell, he would have to fall for a whole day or a whole month, or go on falling and never reach the bottom. Perhaps it was just the Cossack, Likhachëv, who was sitting under the wagon, but it might be the kindest, the bravest, most wonderful, most splendid man in the world, whom no one knew of. It might really have been that an hussar came for water and went back into the hollow, but perhaps he had simply vanished - disappeared altogether and dissolved into nothingness.
Nothing Pétya could have seen now would have surprised him. He was in a fairy kingdom where everything was possible.
He looked up at the sky. And the sky was a fairy realm like the earth. It was clearing, and over the tops of the trees clouds were swiftly sailing as if unveiling the stars. Sometimes it looked as if the clouds were passing, and a clear black sky appeared. Sometimes it seemed as if the black spaces were clouds. Sometimes the sky seemed to be rising high, high overhead, and then it seemed to sink so low that one could touch it with one's hand.
Pétya's eyes began to close and he swayed a little.
The trees were dripping. Quiet talking was heard. The horses neighed and jostled one another. Someone snored.
'Ozheg-zheg, Ozheg-zheg...' hissed the sabre against the whetstone, and suddenly Pétya heard an harmonious orchestra playing some unknown, sweetly solemn hymn. Pétya was as musical as Natásha and more so than Nicholas, but had never learnt music or thought about it, and so the melody that unexpectedly came to his mind seemed to him particularly fresh and attractive. The music became more and more audible. The melody grew and passed from one instrument to another. And what was played was a fugue - though Pétya had not the least conception of what a fugue is. Each instrument - now resembling a violin and now a horn, but better and clearer than violin or horn - played its own part, and before it had finished the melody merged with another instrument that began almost the same air, and then with a third and a fourth; and they all blended into one, and again became separate and again blended, now into solemn church music, now into something dazzlingly brilliant and triumphant.
'Oh - why, that was in a dream!' Pétya said to himself as he lurched forward. 'It's in my ears. But perhaps it's music of my own. Well, go on, my music! Now!...'
He closed his eyes, and from all sides, as if from a distance, sounds fluttered, grew into harmonies, separated, blended, and again all mingled into the same sweet and solemn hymn. 'Oh, this is delightful! As much as I like and as I like!' said Pétya to himself. He tried to conduct that enormous orchestra.
'Now softly, softly die away!' and the sounds obeyed him. 'Now fuller, more joyful. Still more and more joyful!' And from an unknown depth rose increasingly triumphant sounds. 'Now voices ojin in!' ordered Pétya. And at first from afar he heard men's voices and then women's. The voices grew in harmonious triumphant strength, and Pétya listened to their surpassing beauty in awe and joy.
With a solemn and triumphal march there mingled a song, the drip from the trees, and the hissing of the sabre, 'Ozheg-zheg-zheg...' and again the horses jostled one another and neighed, not disturbing the choir but joining in it.
Pétya did not know how long this lasted: he enjoyed himself all the time, wondered at his enjoyment and regretted that there was no one to share it. He was awakened by Likhachëv's kindly voice.
'It's ready , your Honour; you can split a Frenchman in half with it!'
Pétya woke up.
'It's getting light, it's really getting light!' he exclaimed.
The horses that had previously been invisible could now be seen to their very tails, and a watery light showed itself through the bare branches. Pétya shook himself, jumped up, took a ruble from his pocket and gave it to Likhachëv; then he flourished the sabre, tested it, and sheathed it. The Cossacks were untying their horses and tightening their saddle-girths.
'And here's the commander,' said Likhachëv.
Denísov came out of the watchman's hut and, having called Pétya, gave orders to get ready.