I’ve tried twice, enjoyed reading it, and I have read and loved other Tolstoy novels – but Anna Karenina? It’s so doom-laden, I think I can’t quite bear it.
I couldn’t sleep and I went into my husband’s office and looked for a boring book to put me to sleep. Oh, there’s Moby Dick, I thought. That’ll do the trick. Five chapters later, I was wide awake and practically shouting with pleasure.
Didn’t somebody once claim to have found a long-forgotten slice of bacon when he returned to a book after several years?
Reading puts me more into a fugue state where I experience the sadness of the story like a chill in my bones.
The first book I remember is A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson, maybe because my mother read it so often that I can still recite chunks of those poems.
Tom Jones was a book where the ending made me literally jump up and down. I was on an Amtrak train, somewhere in the middle of Nebraska, and I was just hopping up and down the aisle.