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As far as I was concerned, Anna was a shallow airhead, and Vronsky was the Upper Class Twit of the Year. Sure, her marriage was a loveless sham, but Vronsky? Sheesh, his horse would have been a better conversationalist, and been more ethical to boot. You can only spend so much time between the sheets - no matter how young and horny you are. Eventually you're going to have to say something to each other, and the moment Vronsky opened his mouth, I would have kicked him to the floor. "I'm into gambling, binge drinking, adultery and cheating my tailor". 'Bye. At least he had decency to marry her, but that marriage was even more of a disaster than her first. This is a woman who learns nothing from experience.
So her husband divorced her, and she's lost custody of her son, and is no longer welcome in high social circles. Get over it. She was still young, healthy, good looking and had more money than she knew what to do with. Dump Vronsky, move to Paris and open a Salon - the French are much more sophisticated about sexual indiscretions. Volunteer at a hospital, start a battered woman's shelter, open a school to teach peasants how to read, do something besides stay at home feeling miserable.
My own diagnosis was that Anna was clinically depressed - that train bit was the clincher. These days we'd advise some Prozac and cognitive-behavioral therapy. But she just wasn't that interesting a character, so when the miserable wretch finally killed herself, I gave a sigh of relief.
Given the times, Anna had to "pay" for her adultery. Anything else would have been beyond scandalous - Tolstoy could never have published the book. But she and Emma Bovary took my prize as the least sympathetic women in literature. It wasn't the adultery: it was the character. Stupid.
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