War and Peace

By Leo Tolstoy

**Penguin translation

Growing Up with Pierre and Natasha: My Epic Adventure with War and Peace

War and Peace is not just a book; it’s a time capsule.

My journey with Tolstoy’s masterpiece began when I was 12 years old, on a trip to the bookshop with my mum, my sister, and my mum’s friend. I remember the moment vividly: my mum’s friend, with a nostalgic gleam in her eye, suggested buying me Winnie the Pooh, her childhood favourite. My mum, however, would have none of it. “Winnie the Pooh is for babies,” she declared, adding that I had a reading age four years above my own and shouldn’t waste my time on books that “teach you nothing.” Whether it was pride or genuine belief in my abilities, she plucked what seemed like the largest, most intimidating book from the shelf—a 1,200-page behemoth of War and Peace in size 9 font.

At 12, I didn’t stand a chance. I barely made it through the first chapter before abandoning it to gather dust on my bookshelf. But the book never left me. It sat there, a silent challenge, for a decade. At 22, I finally picked it up again, determined to conquer it. What followed was a five-year slog—a journey that was as much about the book as it was about my own growth.

The physical state of my copy became a metaphor for the effort it took to finish it. By the time I turned the last page, the book was battered and bruised. The front cover was duct-taped back on, the first 20 pages were missing a corner thanks to my dog’s chewing phase, and the pages were stained with coffee, tears, and who knows what else. It didn’t know what it was, but nor did I during those five years, and somehow, that felt fitting.

Tolstoy’s characters are not just well-written; they are achingly, breathtakingly human. Pierre, Natasha, Andrei, and the rest are so relatable because they are flawed, inconsistent, and constantly evolving. They are not static archetypes or moral absolutes; they are messy, contradictory, and real. Pierre’s existential crises, Natasha’s impulsive decisions, Andrei’s disillusionment—they all felt like reflections of my own struggles and growth.

Tolstoy’s genius lies in the way he intertwines these characters’ lives without making their connections feel forced or unrealistic. Their relationships are delicate, nuanced, and deeply human. They cross paths, drift apart, and come together again in ways that feel organic, mirroring the ebb and flow of real-life friendships. Just like my real-life friends, I didn’t see the characters of War and Peace every day. I picked up the book when I felt in the mood—or, more often, when I felt guilty for neglecting it for too long. Each time I returned to it, it was like catching up with old friends. I’d find Pierre still searching for meaning, Natasha still navigating love and loss, and Andrei still grappling with his ideals. They had changed, just as I had, and yet there was a comforting familiarity in their struggles.

Over the five years it took me to finish it, my life changed a lot. I went from being a university undergraduate to moving countries, starting my first job, experiencing heartbreak, and eventually beginning my PhD. There’s something profoundly moving about spending so much time with a story. The book became a constant, a thread that connected different phases of my adulthood. By the time I finished it, I felt a strange sense of loss, as though I was saying goodbye to people I had known for years.

War and Peace is not an easy read, and I won’t pretend it is. It’s sprawling, and at times overwhelming. But it’s also deeply rewarding. It’s a book about life—about love, loss, ambition, failure, and the inexorable passage of time. It’s about how history shapes us and how we, in turn, shape history. It’s about the small, seemingly insignificant moments that define who we are.

I don’t think I’ll ever have the same experience with another book. War and Peace is more than just a novel; it’s a journey, a companion, and a mirror. It taught me patience, resilience, and the beauty of imperfection. And while my mum’s insistence on buying it for me might have been a bit ambitious at the time, I’m grateful for it now. That battered, duct-taped copy will always hold a special place on my bookshelf—and in my heart.