It’s all about that red

Or listen to Chekhov, he won’t say stupid things

Ah, what a distinct and utter pleasure to bathe in the gentle and comfortably warm waters of classic literature that caress your tired mind and eternal soul, always longing for more: more beauty, more questions, more love, more kindness, more passion. More.

And that’s what reading classic literature is for me at the end of the day: an exquisite and sophisticated way to fill my existential void that the word “more” doesn’t stop digging.

Classic literature is like that wine you keep for special occasions. When you finally open it, decant it into the cut glasses, and take a first sip, the richness and deepness of its taste and texture render the bland and plain surface of reality ornate.

And while I’m not really into drinking, consuming good old classic literature is my antidote to the grayness and dullness of my days.

Not only does my inner linguistic aesthete rejoice every time I open — and don’t even argue with me, classic literature should be read from physical books — my copy, but also my inner philosopher and literary nerd, for classic literature possesses this superpower to ask you vital questions and generously scatters details, essential for understanding the story.

That’s why I believe that classic literature was created to be read with a notebook in your hands. This is the Alpine-size hill I will die on. (Even though I prefer not to die. At least, not right now, if you don’t mind.)

And if you don’t believe me, then listen to Monsieur Chekhov, who knew a thing or two about writing.

“If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don’t put it there.”

And it is our role, as readers, to find all the guns and understand what they were put on the wall for, in the first place.

Still feel the pangs of doubt?

Okay, I have a failsafe proof that will dissipate the clouds of hesitations. (Or not, you never know what will work with bookish skeptics.)

Without finishing reading Anna Karenina, we already know what destiny Count Tolstoy prepared for Kitty in the marriage department.

Why?

In one of the episodes, Kitty says that

“‘Oh, yes, I’m coming. I’ve had scarlatina, and I’ll persuade mamma to let me.’”

And off she went to help her sister nurse the sick children.

Okay, you raise your brows dubiously, so what?

All we learn is that Kitty is a nice person, ready to help her sister. And she had scarlatina.

So plenty, as Paul Varjak exclaimed in one of my favorite movies Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

In another episode later, at a dinner, we witness an interesting conversation between socialites of Saint-Petersburg about marriages and passion:

“‘Yes, but then how often the happiness of these prudent marriages flies away like dust just because that passion turns up that they have refused to recognize,’ said Vronsky.

‘But by marriages of prudence we mean those in which both parties have sown their wild oats already. That’s like scarlatina — one has to go through it and get it over.’”

Is it really a coincidence that passion is compared to scarlatina? Do you really believe in it? And why, by the way, scarlatina? And not the flu? Or some nasty rotavirus?

Okay, an easy question.

What color does the word “scarlatina” make you think of?

Scarlet, right?

As I’ve already written, this color has lots of symbolic meanings, among which you can find sin, passion, blood.

And it does make sense, doesn’t it?

When Kitty’s obsession with Vronsky passed, she was able to see who she really loved. And with whom she could have a prudent marriage that Tolstoy glorified so much. She went through scarlatina and her interest in Vronsky and was ready to build a family with Levin.

So, if we use cinematic language, Tolstoy hid Easter eggs everywhere in the text, and it is up to us, readers, to decide whether we want to take part in this egg hunt or not.