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2.0 out of 5 stars
As poor an edition as they get,
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Ce commentaire est de: A Confession (Dodo Press) (Paperback)
Although Tolstoy himself does admit that his autobiographical rumination on the meaning of life (and lack thereof) would probably be printed some day "if it be worth it and if anyone wants it" (p 70), he probably expected it to be at least read before it was published.Such is not the case with this printout of what reads like the unedited result of automatic translation from the original Russian. How else to explain the incredible number of typos? To give but one example, what species of editor would let this one pass at the end of a paragraph: "...I remembered about the shore, the oars and the direction, and began to pull back upwards against the stream and towards the whore." (sic., p 57) What meaning are we to give to his metaphor when he explains in the first line of the next paragraph "That shore was God..."? Well, I have spoiled the book for you anyway, as there lies the only message in this confession. Tolstoy was suicidal until he found the meaning of life in the God of the Russian people (vs that of his church) and accepted that simply looking for Him gave him peace. As for the illustrations by Repin, they are limited to one minute sketch and the book cover. THIS BOOK IS NOT RECOMMENDED IF YOU ARE ALREADY DEPRESSED
5.0 out of 5 stars
Lying awake late at night,
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Ce commentaire est de: Confession (Paperback)
Tolstoy's personal account of the existential crisis he faced after having published War & Peace and Anna Karenina. If you've ever laid awake late at night wondering, "What will come from what I am doing now, and may do tomorrow? What will come of my whole life?" then Tolstoy's Confession is a book for you.
4.0 out of 5 stars
Philosophy one can read,
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Ce commentaire est de: Confession (Paperback)
I'm a student who takes a philosophy class every semester, despite the fact that it does absolutely nothing for my graduation requirements. I always do well in the philosophy classes, but there is one part I hate: the reading. I was convinced that there was no point in philosophy that one could not talk through with another person; the words and semantics in philosophy, meant to clarify arguments when spoken, simply seemed a muddle to me when read. So it was with trepidation that I picked up my latest assignment--Tolstoy's Confession. I read it, and was shocked to find myself completely engrossed. Here, finally, was what I'd been looking for...the On the Road of philosophy, the self-effacing Jack Kerouac of the field. Everyone who's had worries about the fleeting nature of life and everyone who's worried that it all means nothing, this is your book.
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