Chapters (19)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- No Cops
- With the Christopher Kids
- Childhood, Boyhood, Youth
- The Changed Party
- Attention
- Cool for America
- Short Swoop, Long Line
- The Boy Vet
- Deep Cut
- Bad Feelings
- A Dog Named Jesus
- Acknowledgments
- Also by Andrew Martin
- Praise for Cool for America
- A Note About the Author
- Newsletter Sign-up
He’d been proven wrong in his interpretations of the text at every turn over the eight months they’d spent reading and discussing the book, his theories and analyses shot down by better, or at least more confidently, educated members of the group. Some of them had gone to Yale and others to Harvard, and he’d developed a handy cheat to remember which was which. The Harvard kids acted mildly embarrassed when he said something dumb, sometimes even waiting until after the session to correct him on his political or geographical ignorance. The ones from Yale made sure to keep the humiliation public and, if possible, prolonged.
In one of their first meetings, Derek had suggested that Tolstoy showed a grudging respect for Napoleon, or was at least willing to acknowledge his world-historic importance, even though he was the enemy.
“That’s completely the opposite of true,” a tall, dark-haired man named Jonathan said. “Tolstoy despised Napoleon, and thought the whole idea of historical significance was nonsense. Do you have any examples?”
Derek had glanced around the room for support, but even Thomas, his roommate, whom he had invited specifically to back him up in moments like this, only stared down at the massive open book in his lap.
“Just … in the prose itself, I guess,” Derek said. “The prose about Napoleon just feels like it has an air of respect to it.”
“Well, does his prose ever seem disrespectful to you?” Jonathan said, peering down his nose through invisible reading glasses.
“To be fair, it is translated,” Violet said. “I don’t imagine any of us can really comment on the prose style very accurately.”
They all, consciously or not, transferred their gazes toward Pyotr, who had moved to the States when he was seven and was ostentatiously reading the book in his Russian parents’ Soviet-era multivolume set.
“Sorry friends, my literary analysis isn’t strong enough in either language to gauge, ah, respectfulness,” he said amiably. “Plus, I didn’t even know Napoleon was in this section. I was too busy the last couple of weeks to keep up.”