If you were online in certain nerdy circles in 2021-22, it’s likely that you encountered the phenomenon of Dracula Daily – the classic epistolary novel by Bram Stoker, sent out to subscribers via email on the dates of the letters’ sending in the book. This was a tremendous success, with readers discussing in great detail and concern online what was going to happen next, and when the next letter might come. (This was all tongue-in-cheek, of course – I doubt very much even a single reader didn’t know at least the gist of what happens in the story – but it was very entertaining nonetheless.)

The success of Dracula Daily spawned a whole assortment of copycat subscription accounts for classic novels in 2023, including Moby Dick, War and Peace, at least one Austen novel, and several more. This is not an entirely new conceit – I remember reading Emma when I was in grad school in the mid-2000’s through an email sign-up that I think was called Literary Page A Day, or something similar. At the time, I got annoyed with reading the story quite so chopped up, and stopped after a few months, but I figured 15+ years was plenty of time for me to have developed a modicum of patience, so on a whim I signed up to receive War and Peace directly to my inbox.

Why War and Peace? I honestly don’t know. It was the most impressive option, perhaps. It’s not a novel I’ve ever particularly aspired to reading, and as someone who was relatively out of the habit of reading , it was, on the surface, an absolutely terrible choice. Sure, let’s pick one of the longest books in the Western classic canon to get you back into reading, why not?

Irritatingly, it worked like a charm.

When it first started appearing in my inbox (a historical introduction, in December 2022, before the actual novel itself), I felt some trepidation – I am admittedly not super well-versed in my nineteenth century European history, nor did I have any idea of the actual plot of the book. But I was determined to do this, so I dutifully read the emails, and prepared for January.

The first month or so was fine, if a little boring. One of the few things I knew was that it purportedly had a truly ridiculous amount of characters, and the first few chapters do indeed introduce you to a broad cast of players. Fortunately, I have read other Russian novels, and was already familiar with the penchant for each character to have at least three names, so I struggled forward, eschewing the assorted character diagrams offered online.

And then… I kinda got into it. What is going to happen to Boris? And silly little Natasha? And when is the war going to break out for real? I love a good soap opera as much as the next bored millennial, and that’s exactly what War and Peace is – it is the print version of Grandma’s shows, and just as addictive. The chapters are also quite short, which made it easy to read on my lunch break because I could sink as little as ten minutes into it, but still have read a section that had a beginning and end and felt at least somewhat complete unto itself, instead of feeling like I was leaving off in the middle of something.

By March, I was once again irritated with only being able to read a small portion a day. I wanted to be able to read ahead if I had the time and felt like it, so I went down to our local bookstore and ordered a hardback copy. War and Peace in hardback is a real door-stopper of a book; I think mine was about 1300 pages, and approximately the size and shape of a large brick. However, with the physical copy in hand, I could now read a few chapters at a time, and I finished it by the end of June, six months ahead of schedule.

Perhaps most unexpected of all? I genuinely enjoyed it!

There’s definitely lots of philosophy, like all the other Russian novels I’ve read, but in War and Peace it’s couched much more in the context of individual characters exploring their own ideas and options and destinies than in thinly veiled narrative interjections. The characters are your standard novel (and soap opera) contingent for the most part: the beautiful dilettante; her somewhat younger and disadvantaged relation; the heroic young man; the handsome but troubled prince; the thoughtful but indulgent buffoon; the devoted religious daughter; and so forth. The book is large enough (heh) that they do all get a certain amount of individual attention and growth, which is nice. But one of the things I enjoyed about it is what I enjoyed about Vanity Fair and, to a lesser extent, David Copperfield – the story isn’t about the individuals per se, it’s about the generations and the society surrounding them. All the world’s a stage and the men and women merely players, etc. There’s a big-picture narrative arc that covers probably thirty years of the lives of the main characters and proves very satisfying.

In any case, it’s not a book I would recommend to everyone, but it’s one I’d recommend to more people than I would have guessed. If you’re interested in history generally and you like ongoing stories about the little melodramas of life (looking at you, Austen fans), you might give it a try. It may surprise you!