XENITH

Four years ago I walked into Barnes ‘n’ Noble with a $50 gift card and purchased a handful of books, one of which being Anna Karenina. From the first moment of holding it I was excited about reading it, having heard it touted as the greatest novel ever written, a masterpiece of Russian literature, a heartbreaking piece of life; it seemed, however, that it was never the time to read it. After I finished all of the reading for school this last semester, about three weeks before school actually ended, I rewarded myself with a book I’d been dying to read—Blood Meridian (which I’ll get to later)—and then I considered the wintry weather, ice, a violent chill in the air, days of overcast skies, and thought of no better way to spend my time on the couch than with a dense Russian novel. I worked up the ambition and dove into this monstrously thick book (I believe I read online that it totals about 350,000 words), and I finished it surprisingly quickly—about three and a half weeks.

What is left to say about Anna Karenina (or any of the canonical texts I read, for that matter)? I’m not here to break new ground or delve into any revolutionary literary analysis on the book; after all, I’ve always been a somewhat simple reader, my critical skills being extremely underdeveloped. What I generally do, when reading a book, is approach it in the frame of my own writing, and writing in general. I look for what Anna Karenina can teach me.

Anna Karenina is the synthesis of two protagonists’ lives and trials: the eponymous Anna and the hardworking, hot-blooded Levin. What I get from this novel is a side by side comparison: both characters face similar temptations of the spirit, both have elements of the same emotions, yet one triumphs and the other is destroyed. In this way, Anna Karenina comes off as a little didactic, and at first this really bothered me. After the flawless spiral of psychological destruction that ended the seventh part of the novel, the eighth part felt superfluous and almost transparently moral. I suppose one must feel a slight glimmer of hope, especially if one must complete the parallel between Anna and Levin, but in the traditions of the novel it felt unusual, clean, and thus jarring.

What was extremely successful throughout the novel, however, and possibly the most important thing a young writer can take away from it, was its characterization. Never once did I doubt a single character in Anna Karenina, and its hero and heroine are complete and real enough to make a novice writer quiver with inadequacy. I’d never realized the complex psychology that runs through this novel. It’s similar to Madame Bovary in that one both loves and hates, pities and reviles, the main character; and this quality of inarticulate judgment on behalf of the reader is, I believe, the real essence of a successful character: human beings are always unfolding one surprise after another upon those they know and love, and it’s only natural that our fictional human beings should do the same, especially to the person who knows them more intimately than any other—the person that delves into their thoughts on every page—the reader.

It is January 3rd. Throughout most of the northern hemisphere, wherever you are, you should have plenty of winter left. Take the time to read this literary monument. Its reputation isn’t for nothing, regardless of Tolstoy’s personality. Besides, it’s always beneficial to know one’s novelistic roots.

Note: I read the Barnes ‘n’ Noble edition with notes by Amy Mandelker, translated by Constance Garnett.

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