Arguably, the worst kept secret in classic literature is that Leo Tolstoy could flat-out write. In The Death of Ivan Ilych, Tolstoy put me inside the head of a dying man. I believed it, I felt it, I went out the next day and bought life insurance. Here, LT has posited me firmly in the mindset of a homicidally jealous husband. If I were married I might be pondering how to hide a body in the crawlspace…