You know, I have very little to say about this read. I think I react poorly to bad translations of high realist novels. Could just be me, but I think it’s a pretty wide-spread affliction…

Anyhow, unless you’re a stubborn, pig-headed being like myself, I would suggest stearing clear and reading about 10 other novels instead - because even if they’re bad, they’ll feel more rewarding than this was.

Now, I would be lying of I said that there was nothing at all to be gleaned from the book, or that none of it was enjoyable. I would not be lying if I said that the bad/arduous desrts far outstrip the occasional oases that one comes accross while reading it.

Some readers have taken issue with the portrayal of Anna Karenina herself and feel that she’s a weak, cry-baby. Sure, if the novel was written in the last few decades, I might agree to some extent, but I think that assessement just isn’t fair: it’s not like she had many options at the time. In that respect, I feel that Tolstoy has created a believable heroine for his novel, and renders her as realistically as he can imagine, given the culture in which he is writing and which he is portraying in the book.

So, read at your own peril and if you see some good bits, point them out to me, alright?

Here’s an article pointed on bookninja.

I found the following passage particulalrly interesting:

(about one of the authors) ““She knows that she is writing bad poetry,” said Dr Sanders. “But clearly poetry - along with cake - is something to which she feels she is entitled (italics mine), something which brings pleasure and which she wants to have.”

You would never EVER expect to hear anything like this today, would you?

So, I now have a cat. Seeing as I don’t have a digital camera, you’ll all have to make due with this grainy, picture phone snapshot of Moppy. (Yes, Moppy. Her actual name, was MopCat…)

So, I’m trying to find her a new name before the end of the week, otherwise I may have a hard time getting her used to it and she may bear the unfortunate name of MopCat for life.

Was never a cat person before but having lived with cats for 3 years or so, you kind of get used to them. Anyhow, she’s a sweatheart and a heartbreaker. She’s tearing up a cardboard box as I write this…

Post any suggestions for Moppy’s new name below.

Were he still alive, today would be the 100th birthday of poet W.H. Auden.

Unfortunately, much of Auden’s oeuvre has yet to make it into the public domain, so I can’t just put up a favourite poem. Thankfully though, the executors of his estate have made some available online. (I am a big fan of In Memory of W.B. Yeats, personally.) Go read. They’re short and AWESOME!

For myself, I’ll point you directly to Auden’s Musée des Beaux-Art. You’ll want to have a good look at the painting first and, as I was just telling my art history friend (Auden, because of this poem, automatically makes me think of my friend), you’ll want to make sure you find Icarus’ leg in the lower right of the painting.

Either way, the article talks about it so I’ll save you the spiel and Auden himself kind of takes you through the painting, so it shouldn’t be hard to make sense of it.

(While the aim of each is different, this poem is also closely associated in my mind with Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn: both are poems built around existing works of art, which the poet then animates or comments on to make his point.)

So go and read some Auden today, in celebration of his birthday, you uncultured boors!

More relevant links, found through bookninja.com.

Happy birthday W.H.!