In the four stories of Lives and Deaths, Tolstoy writes with an efficient, crystalline directness that should be recognisable to any reader as being purely human; the anxieties and hapless fears that each and every one of us feel are described in a effecting accuracy that feels pathologically, desperately personal, still fresh and compelling after over a century.
Here's a passage from The Death of Ivan Ilyich that stood out to me as beautiful, it's Ivan Ilyich's all-too-late realisation that he's lived a wasted life.
The marriage... So accidental... The disillusionment, the smell of his wife's breath, the sensuality, the pretence... And the soul-deadening work, the worries about money - a year of that, then two, ten, twenty - all the same. Only more deadening with each step... It's as if I had been trudging steadily downhill, all the while imagining that I was going uphill.
Pace-Setter: The Story of a Horse was probably my favourite of the collection; in it, a withered pie-bald colt tells us and his paddock mates the story of his dismal, tortured life. This was the first story I've read set from the point of view of a horse, and in a pleasantly odd manner it seemed to have the most feeling, it was the most depressingly real of the four. Pace-Setter is confounded at the vile power-hungry tendencies of man, whose inherent nature is to possess as much of anything as possible.
... I just couldn't comprehend what it meant to say that I was the personal property of a human. The words "my horse" in reference to me, a living horse, seemed as strange as the words "my land" "my air" or "my water".
Boris Dralyuk's new translations are for the most part fantastic; Tolstoy comes across with a simple immediacy that becomes almost hypnotic. Unfortunately, the spell breaks in a section or two, sentences seem to have been smushed together haphazardly in places which I couldn't help but feel could have been done better with a little more thought. I haven't read the originals, so maybe these parts are exacting translations of Tolstoy's original Russian prose, but anywho, here's an example that I thought read particularly badly.
Ivan Ilyich saw that he was dying, and he was in constant despair. Deep down, Ivan Ilyich knew that he was dying, but he not only failed to accustom himself to this fact, he simply did not and could not understand it.
Pushkin Press really knocked it out of the park with this little edition. The stories are newly collated and translated, and though they only display a tiny sliver of Tolstoy's short story library, I feel this selection does a terrific job of encasing his emotive precision and human understanding in an elegant, enticing nutshell.