By Stefan Zweig at Poetic Outlaws: For I saw nothing more magnificent, nothing more moving in Russia than Tolstoy’s grave.
Away from the road and lonely, this noble shrine lies shaded in the forest. A small footpath leads to the mound which is no more than a built-up rectangle of earth, guarded by none and watched by none, merely shaded by a few big trees. These towering trees, as his granddaughter told me at the grave, Leo Tolstoy had planted himself.
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