So much modern fiction is soft—somewhat trivial—playing with words, toying with minutia to evoke a chuckle, a brief adrenalin rush, a momentary impression of psychosis or a sentimental sigh. However else you might describe today’s short stories, “epic” would be rarely be appropriate. Contrast Tolstoy. His stories have hard contours and rough edges. Read them and you bleed. In this case, he doesn’t line out coffee preferences and analyze Ivan’s interior design preferences. Even Tolstoy’s short stories have a vastness of theme; in less than a hundred pages, panoramic life springs out toward the horizon. No elegant bubblegum here. To say that Ilyich and Master are death stories with a twist is as much as I’ll venture.