Writing About Reading: Anna Karenin by Tolstoy

There's nothing left in the house I haven't read. At least, no fiction in the house I haven't read. (This probably isn't true, but I certainly couldn't find anything I wanted to read.)

And after the last disaster from the work "library" (I use the word loosely), I'm determined not to try there.

JC gave me a very sweet short story to read by Saki about a talking cat: Tobermory. It was great, but not the commute-absorbing read I was looking for. The other options he found for me were 1. something I didn't fancy, called The Diagnosis by Alan Lightman and 2. Anna Karenin.

So it comes to pass that I'm embarking on my first Russian masterpiece. Anna Karenin looks very old and tired: it's got JC's mum's name in the front. It also looks hard, and as usual, I'm wary of clunky translations of classics.

But it's been two books since I've read a "classic", so I'm going to take on the challenge. I may be some time....