Literature

Fyodor Mindset

nonfiction

This essay was published in Bletilla: Memories Preserved From Times Lost, which can be found here

The last eight months of my life have been cursed with Anna Karenina. Nearly 1,000 pages of languishing Russian aristocratic life, printed in the smallest legible text possible. 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 constructed around him, 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.