Leo Tolstoy was not merely a writer — he was a universe contained in a man. His words breathed life into entire generations, his pages carried the weight of love and despair, war and redemption, faith and rebellion. To read Tolstoy is not to read a book, but to walk through the corridors of the human soul, where every whisper of joy and every thunder of grief lives eternal. He showed us that life is both unbearably fragile and endlessly profound, that truth lies not in victories but in the silent struggles of the heart. On his birthday, we do not simply remember an author; we remember a companion, a teacher, and a mirror who still reflects us, even across centuries.
