The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Other Stories (Vintage Classics)
Language: English
Pages: 528
ISBN: 0307388867
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A vibrant translation of Tolstoy’s most important short fiction by the award-winning translators of War and Peace.
Here are eleven masterful stories from the mature author, some autobiographical, others moral parables, and all told with the evocative power that was Tolstoy’s alone. They include “The Prisoner of the Caucasus,” inspired by Tolstoy's own experiences as a soldier in the Chechen War, “Hadji Murat,” the novella Harold Bloom called “the best story in the world,” “The Devil,” a fascinating tale of sexual obsession, and the celebrated “The Death of Ivan Ilyich,” an intense and moving examination of death and the possibilities of redemption.
Pevear and Volokhonsky’s translation captures the richness, immediacy, and multiplicity of Tolstoy’s language, and reveals the author as a passionate moral guide, an unflinching seeker of truth, and ultimately, a creator of enduring and universal art.
Kostylin screamed: “Ow, that hurts!” Zhilin froze. “What are you shouting for? That Tartar’s close by, he’ll hear you.” And he thought: “He really has grown weak; what am I going to do with him? It’s no good to abandon a comrade.” “Well,” he said, “get up, and I’ll carry you on my back, since you can’t walk.” He hoisted Kostylin onto his back, held him under the thighs, went out to the road, and lugged him on. “Only for Christ’s sake don’t squeeze my throat,” he said. “Hold me by the
had not been for his enemy Akhmet Khan, who wanted to ruin him and slandered him before General Klügenau. “I know, I know,” said Vorontsov (though if he had known, he had long forgotten it all). “I know,” he said, sitting down and pointing Hadji Murat to the divan that stood by the wall. But Hadji Murat did not sit down, shrugging his strong shoulders as a sign that he would not venture to sit in the presence of such an important man. “Akhmet Khan and Shamil are both my enemies,” he went on,
thirty murids. They were all holding drawn sabers. Beside Hamzat walked Aselder, his favorite murid—the same one who cut off the khansha’s head. Seeing us, he shouted for us to take off our burkas, and came towards me. I had a dagger in my hand, and I killed him and rushed for Hamzat. But my brother Osman had already shot him. Hamzat was still alive and rushed at my brother with a dagger, but I finished him off in the head. There were about thirty murids and the two of us. They killed my brother
disturbed people. She was in the full vigor of a well-nourished, excited woman of thirty who is not bearing children. Her appearance was disturbing. When she passed among men, she drew their eyes. She was like a stable-bound, well-nourished harness horse whose bridle has been taken off. There was no bridle at all, just as with ninety-nine percent of our women. And I sensed it and was frightened.” XIX HE SUDDENLY GOT UP and moved over to the window. “Excuse me,” he said and, turning his
some small pieces? It was all so natural and simple that it was impossible to find fault with it, but at the same time I was certain that it was all untrue, that they had been arranging how to deceive me. “One of the most tormenting relations for a jealous man (and in our social life all men are jealous) is certain social conventions which allow for the greatest and most dangerous closeness between a man and a woman. One would make oneself a laughingstock among people if one objected to