Booknotes 5.4

Days of Rage: America’s Radical Underground, the FBI, and the Forgotten Age of Revolutionary Violence, by Bryan Burrough, published 2016, history, 814 pages. I’d had no idea there was a rash of bombings throughout the ’70s and had never heard of Weatherman or FALN or the SLA before this. It’s bonkers. Good book, though in the course of reading it I realized that maybe I don’t actually like reading about criminals all that much. (Or at least drugged-up violent ones.)

War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy (translated by Louise & Aylmer Maude), published 1869 (translation published 1922), fiction, 2,175 pages. Very long, clearly, but oh so good, and most of the chapters are only a few pages long which helped a lot. I liked the translation, too. Lots of Tolstoy pontificating about history and military theory, with a little bit of math (calculus! actual equations!) thrown in for seasoning. The only part that felt like a slog to me was the second epilogue, but that’s probably because I was excited to cross the finish line.

Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth volume 1, by Dorothy Wordsworth (edited by William Knight), published 1897, diary, 309 pages. Enjoyed this. It takes place in the Lake District and in Scotland and among other things is full of nature descriptions (like “the ivy twisting round the oaks like bristled serpents,” for a very short example), lots of walking around (and even after reading that, you are probably still underestimating just how much walking around there is in this journal), Coleridge not being well, and her brother William writing poetry. I think I enjoyed the Scotland trip the most. This resonated with me as a fellow diarist: “I have neglected to set down the occurrences of this week, so I do not recollect how we disposed of ourselves to-day.” I’ll leave you with this story: “The wife was very generous, gave food and drink to all poor people. She had a passion for feeding animals. She killed a pig with feeding it over much. When it was dead she said, ‘To be sure it’s a great loss, but I thank God it did not die clemmed’ (the Cheshire word for starved).”

Eugene Onegin, by Alexander Pushkin (translated by Henry Spalding), published 1837 (translation published 1881), poetry, 140 pages. I knew nothing about this going in; I’d heard Pushkin’s name but that was it. Found it interesting enough, with some compelling characterization, but I didn’t love it.