Literature
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The last six months of my life have been filled with Anna Karenina. Nearly 1,000 pages of languishing Russian aristocratic life, printed in the smallest letters possible that could still be interpreted. Like many classical Russian works, it is filled with romantically mundane portraits of everyday life that often double as thinly veiled metaphors. Most abundantly, there is a concentration of raw misery conveyed in the beautifully written prose. As if Leo Tolstoy is deeply unsatisfied with the society he has been brought up in, but cannot help but express this in his own prideful way. In that sense he’s a selfish writer, penning his angry critique into chapters that were then disseminated into the general public. Expressing emotions that should best be kept to oneself or those close.
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