When spring turns to summer in Moscow and Anna and Vronsky’s relationship turns frustratingly unbearable, Anna’s behavior becomes increasingly driven by irrational jealousy. I sympathized deeply with Vronsky’s frustration over Anna’s behavior - especially when every action Vronsky does seems to irritate and enflame Anna. Every single story, every letter, every comment sends Anna down a spiral rooted in a reality powered more by emotion than truth. After he agrees to Anna’s demands that he leave the city for the country two days early, Anna’s response is to burst into tears crying:
“Cast me off!” she articulated between her sobs. “I’ll go away tomorrow … I’ll do more. What am I? An immoral woman! A stone round your neck. I don’t want to make you wretched, I don’t want to! I’ll set you free. You don’t love me; you love someone else!”
But even as Anna’s actions and thoughts became increasingly baffling, I came to realize that while I empathized with Vronsky’s position, I myself probably spend more time in Anna’s position. The massive logical contortions I can twist, fueled by feelings of jealousy and loneliness, are too embarrassing to think about which is why it took me a while to come around to Anna’s position. Yet, upon review, I could hear myself thinking the same thoughts that Anna does as she bends every little last piece of the world to fit her world view. So it was with all understanding that I read Anna’s final feelings towards Vronsky and herself.
“There,” she said to herself, looking into the shadow of the carriage, at the sand and coal dust which covered the sleepers-“there, in the very middle, and I will punish him and escape from everyone and from myself.”
Of all of the novels I have read recently, only Anna Karenina has so moved me to feel such grand range of emotions towards all of the characters. Often, I will come to like or dislike a character and that will be how I understand that character. Sometimes, I am sure this is because those characters are written - intensely likeable and flawless (say Desdemona from Shakespeare’s Othello) or irritating and evil (Iago). Sometimes, it is because I am too quick to forgive character actions or dismiss them as out of character (Cassio’s drunken behavior) or simply acknowledge their behavior but never come to change my initial opinion of them (Othello). In other circumstances, it is because I might read a bit too shallowly and quickly and never understand a character entirely as the author might have intended (anyone from the last couple of novels that I read). Indeed, of all of the characters found in Anna Karenina, there was not one that I could not both admire and hate in the same breadth. There is Stiva Oblonsky, the insensitive adulterer that spurs the novel into action and is referenced by the opening lines, who, for all his character flaws, is gregarious and charming and likable. There is Anna, whose charm, beauty, and grace act in contrast to her jealousy, fatalism, and deception. The list continues: Karenin, Levin, Vronsky, Princess Shcherbatsky…
When reading, I found myself switching from agreeing with Levin to being exasperated with him over the course of a page or a chapter. And in those moments, I was amazed by the fact that I could since it is so rare for me to do that when reading. Perhaps the main reason I can switch between infuriated and pleased with each character lies in the narrator. As one commentary I read said, the narrator likes to show and tell, which runs against the common writing advice of “show, don’t tell”. Turning to a random page, I find the following passage:
Sviazhsky was the marshal of his district. He was five years older than Levin, and had long been married. His sister-in-law, a young girl Levin liked very much, lived in his house; and Levin knew that Sviazhsky and his wife would have greatly liked to marry the girl to him. He knew this with certainty, as so-called eligible young men always know it, though he could never have brought himself to speak of it to anyone; and he knew too that, although he wanted to get married, and although by every token this very attractive girl would make an excellent wife, he could no more have married her, even if he had not been in love with Kitty Shtcherbatskaya, than he could have flown up to the sky. And this knowledge poisoned the pleasure he had hoped to find in the visit to Sviazhsky.
In this one paragraph, no action has happened. Instead, the narrator has given us banal facts about Sviazhsky, Levin’s insights into Sviazhsky’s desires, Levin’s true feelings on the situation, and Levin’s current state of mind. And yet, despite this flood of facts without any action, the very next paragraph goes into even more detail about Levin’s rationale for ultimately deciding to go to Sviazhsky’s - to “put himself to the test in regard to this girl” - even though it has already been stated that Levin “could no more have married her”. If War and Peace is written in anywhere close to the same manner, I can see where the novel gets its reputation for verbosity.
Yet, I was never bored by the long winded narration. I attribute this to the precision and accuracy with which the narration happens. There is a sense that every additional detail that Tolstoy adds is somehow doing precisely the same amount of work in adding to the complexity of the situation and narration than the previous details. Though it takes multiple paragraphs to explain, I come to understand the complexity in the simple sequence that has yet to unfold. Sviazhsky invites Levin over to attempt to fix him with his sister-in-law. Though she would make a good wife, she and Levin were not meant to be. Levin is unhappy about the situation. Levin still goes, despite knowing the end result because Levin’s self doubt and double guessing makes him question himself and his understanding of the situation. In attempting to summarize two long paragraphs, I have done a worse job and conveyed less than if I had simply quoted Tolstoy here.
Then, when the situation actually plays out as the narrator has informed us it will, I realize that the context that the narrator offers does not actually capture all the minute, important interactions that occur over dinner and that both were somehow needed for me to appreciate the inconsequential dinner that has taken place. Somehow, in review, every sentence does feel meaningful in understanding our characters.
Tolstoy’s precision and accuracy of conveying exactly what he sees in his story is even more impressive when considering the kinds of metaphors that Tolstoy uses. A metaphor is intended to convey a thought too difficult to capture with the regular adjectives and adverbs at our disposal. It is a difficult task, one that is rarely accomplished. Tolstoy manages to craft metaphors such as this one, where he describes the painter Mihailov’s feelings towards Vronsky’s paintings.
He knew that Vronsky could not be prevented from amusing himself with painting; he knew that he and all dilettanti had a perfect right to paint what they liked, but it was distasteful to him. A man could not be prevented from making himself a big wax doll, and kissing it. But if the man were to come with the doll and sit before a man in love, and begin caressing his doll as the lover caressed the woman he loved, it would be distasteful to the lover. Just such a distasteful sensation was what Mihailov felt at the sight of Vronsky’s painting: he felt it both ludicrous and irritating, both pitiable and offensive.
I can feel myself react to this description - I sort of want to clear my mouth in disgust.
I’m sure that Tolstoy’s style of writing is by no means the most superior form of writing. To be fair to the other novels I have read, perhaps the reason that these characters resonate so deeply with me is simply the type of characters that are featured here. One will find no heroes in Anna Karenina - only flawed, messy, problematic people. And perhaps that is the kind of character that I am in the mood to resonate with right now. I found the following passage which I sent a friend simply because I often think the same thoughts.
An ugly, good-natured man, as he considered himself, might, he supposed, be liked as a friend; but to be loved with such a love as that with which he loved Kitty, one would need to be a handsome and, still more, a distinguished man.
That friend asked me what I got out of literature - what I got out of reading things like Anna Karenina. I did not have a good response. Like Levin in the final part of the novel, I had an almost existential, nihilistic crisis when considering this question. I am not quite sure why I read. I am not quite sure what I got out of reading Anna Karenina. If pressed for an answer, perhaps I would say that I learned about human nature, or writing, or simply enjoyment. Maybe I would say that I found empathy. I’m not even sure whether I would be lying here. I’m not sure even Tolstoy’s narrator could tell you.