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Leo Tolstoy's wife finds his grocery list on the kitchen table: "Bread—but what is bread, truly? Is it not the labor of the peasant, the sweat of the earth, the very soul of Russia ground between millstones of fate? Also milk. The milk reminds me of my childhood, of Masha, of mortality, of the infinite sadness of existence. Perhaps cheese. All happy families buy the same cheese; every unhappy family forgets to buy cheese in its own way. Eggs (6). Actually, make it a dozen, for who among us can predict the needs of tomorrow? War may come. Or peace. Or both." His wife sighs and writes underneath: "Just get eggs."

Dostoevsky joins a modern book club. The host cheerfully announces: 'This month we're reading a light beach read!' Dostoevsky raises his hand: 'I have a suggestion. It's about a man who murders an elderly woman with an axe, then spends 500 pages in psychological torment questioning the nature of morality and human suffering.' The room falls silent. 'It's only 671 pages,' he adds helpfully. 'I cut out two existential crises and a fever dream to keep it breezy.'