I feel that I am in a perpetual state of rereading War and Peace. I paint my nails “Boris and Natasha” mauve and “An Affair in Red Square” scarlet. I try to drink Russian Caravan tea, but it tastes like a campfire. I call acquaintances "Dear Heart" and they do not understand.
I put on a white nightgown and hang out my window. I want someone in the room with me so I can tell her that I cannot go to bed because the moon is just too beautiful! Because maybe, just maybe, my would-be lover is in the room below me waiting for my words to bring him back to life. I want to speak; I want to dance; I want to sing; I want to shriek.
People I know accuse me of wanting to be Natasha Rostov. I tell them that they are wrong. To want to be her, to try to be her, is an insult to her character. I return to War and Peace because the characters are so very much alive. My Natasha cannot finish a sentence because she is too immersed in the immediacy of experience. To try to live like the Rostovs is to experience a life that is one degree removed.
No, I do not want to become Natasha. Natasha makes me want to be. I want to savour my existence, and so I savour the words. With every breath, I am filled with their vitality. I shut the book, and I live better—at least for a little while.
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