"Happy families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way" - Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

One of my favourite books which I'm finally getting a chance to re-read; and I'm being swept off my feet all over again. I think Tolstoy gets a reputation for heavy, long-winded epics and 'War and Peace' has become the literary equivalent of rocket science or brain surgery - something that a lay reader would resign themselves to never having the motivation or patience to undertake. In actual fact, his writing is delightfully human. It reads like a modern day novel, albeit more beautifully and accurately than anyone has, or maybe ever will, describe the turmoil, joy and neurosis that exist in the human mind. The first complete edition of the novel was published in 1877, and few books of that era still produce the same effects as they did then; few manage to create characters so rich and detailed but remarkably modern that you feel you've known them your whole life. Anna and I are separated by 140 years, 1 revolution, 2 world wars, 1800 miles and a hell of a big class difference, and yet I still wish I could pick up the phone and call her up one evening to gossip over that mega-bitchy argument she just had with her husband.

I am rather a fan of the 2012 film version with Kiera Knightly, which is strange, because the vast majority of her other roles I find intensely irritating and hollow. But I think this films' strength lies in the fact that they created a theatrical, crimson whirlwind of adrenaline which doesn't lay claim to anything more than sharing the same storyline. I laughed when I first realised that Vronsky (the handsome Count who conquers Anna's heart) was a blonde; in the book he is a brooding dark horse, and to make him a blonde pretty-boy seemed a crime of epic proportions; like making The Hulk a pastel pink. Knightly's casting as our tempestuous and passionate heroine also awoke the sceptic in me, I doubted her having the skill and experience to carry off the gravity of such a role. 

It took a little while for me to look past her vacant stare and to adjust to the mildly chaotic use of scenery changes in this version, but I was won over by the costume, use of music and brilliant timing and restraint exercised by the director/writers/whoever is responsible for that (I don't pretend to know the first thing about film production). Whenever a lengthy and detailed novel is translated onto the screen, I always commiserate the inevitable loss of subplots, the simplification of dialogue and the feeling that it's all a bit sped up, with the characters running away with their emotions before we've had a chance to properly explore their psyche. It's unavoidable, and even the best attempts often fall short to audiences familiar with the original.
Perhaps my saving grace was that I hadn't read the book in many years, and it was much easier to overlook such inconsistencies and appreciate the story on a different level. Jude Law's role as Anna's ever-faithful and righteous husband Karenin was also a pleasant surprise, he has transitioned well from playing the lovable rouge into characters with more complexity and weight, and I thought his Karenin was brilliantly subtle in his strength and saved the jilted husband from being a complete spoil-sport in the eyes of the viewer. Knightly, too, is well suited to playing the tragic, delirious final days of our heroine; this time her open mouth and shaky countenance didn't scream of overacting but added to Anna's loss of reality. (This, too, I think is why the only other performance of hers that I have truly enjoyed is the mental patient in 'A Dangerous Method' with Michael Fassbender... maybe she's finally found her niche?)

Back to the novel; I've always been most enthralled by the way Tolstoy handles moments of silence and pause during dialogues. His description of every glance, every chewed lip and every involuntary shudder speaks volumes about what is going on inside the mind and body of the characters. His understanding of worry, of indecision and of human frailty is what transports him above and beyond what even some of the best psychologists and writers of our day can ever hope to achieve. I like to think that the sign of a good book is when you read something that you had previously thought you were the only person in the world to ever experience; and here, on this page written hundreds of years ago by someone with whom you have nothing in common, are YOUR feelings and your thoughts as if he'd taken a pair of tweezers, plucked the words right out from the deepest level of your cortex and written them down more perfectly than you ever could.

(This is why, when attempting to describe how I feel about something to my therapist, I often have no choice but to paraphrase lines from my favourite authors, which allows me to better describe what I mean than cobbling my own words together. Why make Cava when you can buy Champagne?)

I don't think my family is unhappy, per se. I think it's individuals are often unhappy, which reflects upon the household dynamic and strains relationships that are still under construction. My father says he cannot sleep unless I am in my own bed. I've been living at home for 6 months now, and his response to me wishing to spend the night elsewhere is that of hurt, of betrayal and the panic of a father whose beloved child is lying in a gutter somewhere sticking syringes into her arms.
I took on an evening waitressing job last week, told him I would be late home and didn't know when. Around midnight, the customers are getting ready to leave and I'm tidying up the bar, when in storms my hurricane of my father, eyes wide and fuming, hissing why wasn't I  answering my phone and how much longer I'd be. Between the baffled looks of the restaurant staff and red-faced, merry patrons, my father's pale face stood like a scared and angry child whose mother has accidentally left him at the supermarket. He later angrily dismissed my claim that I had felt humiliated. Apparently; my devotion to him should override my own feelings of pride and therefore awareness  of how strangers perceive me.

I wonder to what extent we are responsible for the happiness of our parents. We do what we can to avoid making them unhappy, but how far should we bend over to fulfil needs which originate in issues beyond our control? When does being lenient and accommodating towards someone's weaknesses and quirks become damaging not only to ourselves, but to their own well-being? How much can we discipline someone on whose kindness, love and support we still very much depend?
I fear my father is lonely, and I don't have the strength to provide him will the attention and care that he wants and needs. I don't think he understands the concept of emotional blackmail. In any case, he acts the way he does out of fear and worry rather than any malicious intent whatsoever. It's heartbreaking to witness someone drive themselves into a state of helpless animalistic fury over situations that seem so inconsequential to the untrained eye.
I feel like I'm watching the me of two years ago, a car crash happening in slow motion and understanding how frustrated and useless my friends and family must have felt; screaming at me because they knew no better.

I think that's why I read; because the best of friends can offer us a shoulder to cry on, but only the greatest of authors can make us understand exactly why we are crying.