Anna Karenina, a painting.
He knew she was there by the rapture and the terror that seized his heart. She was standing talking to a lady at the opposite end of the rink. There was apparently nothing striking either in her dress or her attitude. But for Levin she was as easy to find in that crowd as a rose among nettles. Everything was made bright by her. She was the smile that shed light on all around her. “Is it possible I can go over there on the ice, go up to her?” he thought. The place where she stood seemed to him a holy shrine, unapproachable, and there was one moment when he was almost retreating, so overwhelmed was he with terror. He had to make an effort to master himself, and to remind himself that people of all sorts were moving about her, and that he too might come there to skate. He walked down, for the long while avoiding looking at her as at the sun, but seeing her, as one does the sun, without looking.
I am currently reading Anna Karenina and am already thoroughly swept away by the exquisite world of Leo Tolstoy. Russian literature, in general, has a deeply emotional effect on me, and Tolstoy, in particular, strikes a resonant chord with Anna Karenina.
The translation I am reading is by Constance Garnett from The Modern Library. Another excellent and more current translation is by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky from Viking as well as other publishing houses. It would be interesting to compare translations.
Whether I continue with this version or another one, you can be sure, I will be writing a blog-post on this book as soon as I’m finished with it!
short stories diary 