|No lengthy introductions for the Penguin Classics Red!|
Here I am thinking that my one doorstop for the year would be The Count of Monte Cristo. But Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina has been in my TBR pile for so long that I simply decided one day to just get it over with.
There was a time, when I was in my 20s I believe, that I wouldn't think twice about reading doorstops. Ah, those glorious yesteryears when I read Victor Hugo's Les Misérables (unabridged), James Joyce's Ulysses (with annotations), David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest (the footnotes alone can make a novel), and Theodore Dreiser's An American Tragedy (not really very American but very, very tragic), to name a few.
Now I'm around 300 pages in the novel and, so far, I'm liking it. Perhaps it's due to the wonderful translation of Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, which makes the text very accessible indeed. Or maybe I am on a natural high from reading all the name switching that's happening (e.g., Levin is Konstantin is Kostya; Kitty is Katerina is Katya). It could also be that I'm just a masochist.
So how long will Anna Karenina stay in my bag, lugging it with me everywhere I go? I don't really know. I've been reading 80 pages or so every night and, frankly, I might lose some steam. Hmmmm... Steam. Now I'm thinking of trains. Anna Karenina did love the train, didn't she?