As someone who loves classic literature, Anna Karenina is probably the most substantial novel I’ve ever read - 1 of Leo Tolstoy’s 3 monumental masterpieces.
Despite the title, Anna actually is not the sole protagonist. The novel follows 2 main storylines: 1 centered on Anna, the other on Levin. Through the people around them - their relationships, emotions, and choices - Tolstoy paints a vivid and profound portrait of 19th-century Russian aristocratic life.
The story revolves around love and marriage: Anna and her husband Alexei, Anna and Vronsky, Levin and Kitty, Stiva and Dolly. Through Levin’s evolving thoughts, Tolstoy explores his views on life, love, society, and the kind of family life he admires. These characters’ lives are intricately woven together, reflecting the complexities of a class on the brink of decline.
Potential Spoilers Ahead!
Anna is portrayed as nearly perfect - beautiful, graceful, intelligent, cultured, and morally upright. Even judged by aristocratic standards, she’s exceptional. If not for the emotional void that Vronsky awakens in her, she would’ve been universally admired. Tolstoy never diminishes her outward elegance, even when her soul is falling apart. She’s not someone to condemn - she’s a tragic figure who evokes deep sympathy and frustration, which we end up projecting onto the people and society around her.
She’s no longer young, a devoted mother to her 8-year-old son, with a refined taste in art and literature. She’s charming, magnetic in social settings, and even Levin - newly married - finds himself drawn to her. Morally, she’s compassionate and kind, caring for a suicidal worker, her sister-in-law, and her nieces and nephews. Even other women, despite their jealousy, can’t bring themselves to dislike her.
But all of this unravels with a single glance from Vronsky on a train. Her emotional world begins to crack, and her suppressed desires explode. Her pain stems from her husband’s coldness and hypocrisy. On the surface, her marriage looks ideal - Alexei is powerful and successful. But he’s obsessed with status and work, neglecting Anna entirely. Their relationship is polite but hollow. Anna sees him as a well-oiled machine - efficient, respectable, but soulless. He provides everything materially, but emotionally, he drains her.
A woman is like a flower, needs emotional nourishment. Without it, she either wilts like a rose or grows wild like a poppy - beautiful but poisonous.
And what about Vronsky? He’s not a villain. He falls for Anna’s beauty and gives up everything for her - his career, his reputation, even his family. He’s talented, generous, admired, and artistic. He’s like a proud, graceful stallion, loved by all. But like someone enchanted by a poppy’s beauty and addicted to its poison, he loses himself in Anna. He tries to build a life with her, even attempts suicide twice. Yet people still blame him for the tragedy.
Alexei, Anna’s husband, isn’t entirely blameless either. He’s emotionally detached, and when he discovers Anna’s affair, he becomes even colder, refusing to divorce her and trapping everyone - Anna, Vronsky, their son - in a moral cage. He’s incapable of love, but he does experience deep pain. At 1 point, he even shows compassion for Anna’s child with Vronsky. In a way, his life is destroyed too.
Anna and Vronsky face not just social judgment but internal torment. Anna knows her overwhelming emotional needs are consuming her. She tries to break things off after giving birth to their daughter, clinging to her son as her last anchor. But after reconnecting with Vronsky, she spirals into obsession. Her love becomes insatiable - like a poppy needing endless sun and water. Even their child becomes a source of resentment. Not even Italy’s beauty and art can soothe her. Her melancholy and emotional hunger become a burden for Vronsky. They drain each other, unable to stop.
Their dream of love lasts less than a year. They return to aristocratic society, and Vronsky tries to build a new life, hoping marriage will fix things. But Anna’s paranoia and emotional intensity make that impossible. Their final fight ends with Anna’s suicide. Vronsky, shattered, heads to the front lines.
Thankfully, there’s Levin. He’s Tolstoy’s semi-autobiographical character, and he brings warmth and depth to the novel. If Anna’s story gives the book its tragic weight, Levin’s journey elevates it to something truly profound.
Levin is ordinary - no dramatic highs or lows. He’s not cynical like his brother Nikolai, nor brilliant like Sergei. He’s awkward, skeptical of aristocratic games, uninterested in politics, and doubtful of religion. He’s more like a humble landowner than a nobleman. He cares about his farm and his workers, joins them in labor, and wants to improve their lives. But even his efforts fail. His intellectual pursuits stall after marriage, and he’s often overwhelmed by life’s demands.
He’s not young or charming. He’s rejected by Kitty, crushed emotionally, and retreats into hard labor to cope. He’s shy, naive, and clueless about love and marriage. Even after marrying Kitty, he doubts his happiness. He’s unprepared for everything - wedding plans, pregnancy, childbirth. Without Kitty’s support, his life would be chaos.
He never reforms his estate or finishes his book. His only success is marrying Kitty, but even that joy is quickly replaced by everyday struggles. The novel ends here, almost abruptly. Anna and Vronsky’s story has closure, but Levin’s doesn’t. He’s still searching, still thinking, and his final realization doesn’t offer a clear philosophical answer.
But maybe that’s the point. Levin’s ordinariness makes the novel extraordinary. He’s relatable, real. We can step into his shoes, feel his emotions, and follow his evolving thoughts.
He doesn’t chase greatness, but he works hard. He doesn’t envy status, but he builds genuine friendships. He’s not wealthy, but he’s happy. He’s simple, but thoughtful. He avoids flashy clubs and enjoys honest labor. He’s timid in love, but wins Kitty’s heart.
Everyone around him - Stiva, Dolly, Nikolai, Sergei, Anna, Vronsky - finds comfort or connection in Levin. Even with his flaws, people love him. He lacks the typical aristocratic traits, but he embodies the virtues that truly matter.
Tolstoy uses Levin to show that the qualities society often overlooks - honesty, humility, kindness - are the ones that lead to real happiness. The aristocrats seem enviable, but their misery is painfully real. Through Levin, Tolstoy critiques both the old nobility and modern capitalist values that chase wealth, status, and pleasure at the cost of morality, happiness, and human connection.
Levin’s fear of death after Nikolai’s passing leads him to existential despair. He feels like a fleeting bubble in the vast universe. Science and philosophy fail to comfort him. In the end, he turns to the religion he once abandoned. Though disproven by science, faith gives him meaning - more than any theory ever could.
So if philosophy is the highest peak of the rational world, then in the emotional world, nothing stands taller than love.
Love is this blazing, sincere, selfless feeling that cuts straight to the heart. It’s pure and precious - often overwhelming, yet hard to put into words. It’s like the “Zen” in a monk’s heart - only truly understood through experience, passed from soul to soul.
Funny thing is, those people who talk about love the most are often the ones who’ve never truly experienced it. These so-called “experts” end up describing something that’s not love at all - more like a messy mix of lust, desire, ethics, money, logic, and analysis. It’s like a stir-fry of everything but the real thing. And when love loses its true face, it becomes hard to swallow.
So yeah, I know this piece I’m writing is probably flawed and flimsy, but I’m still putting it out there - call it a bit of dreamy rambling.
Love, marriage, and family - they’re not the same thing.
Love is deeply personal. It’s emotional, not rational. It’s free, untamed, and rooted in human nature. You can suppress it, but you can’t train it.
That’s why Anna and Vronsky’s love hits so hard. It’s fiery and unstoppable. Anna gives up her family and even her life for love. Vronsky gives up his future and goes against high society for it.
Real love is like that - it defies social judgment, breaks through chaos, ignores rules and expectations. It crosses cities and countrysides just to say, “I love you.” True love doesn’t care about ethics or moral codes. In rejecting those, it stays true to the human heart and protects the purity and freedom love deserves.
Marriage and family, though? Totally different. Marriage is more like a social contract between 2 people. Family brings in material concerns. Unlike love, which is emotional and personal, marriage and family are social and rational. That’s why they’re bound by ethics and norms - they’re about stability, not passion.
Take Oblonsky and Dolly, for example. Their marriage revolves around property, income, kids, chores. Romance fades, passion wears down, but what matters is that Oblonsky comes back after cheating, and Dolly stays after her rage. What matters is compromise, realism, and responsibility.
Sadly, we often confuse love with marriage - like 1 must lead to the other, or that marriage must be built on love. But their very nature hints at a deep conflict: individual vs. society, freedom vs. rules, emotion vs. reason. When these collide, tragedy often follows.
That conflict is clearest in Anna and Vronsky’s story.
Anna, a married woman, falls for Vronsky. What could’ve been a fleeting affair turns into a full-blown relationship - living together, a difficult childbirth, a child out of wedlock. They openly challenge Anna’s marriage, society’s moral boundaries, and every social norm. And why? Because they love each other deeply and want to build a life together.
Their love becomes a clash between human emotion and societal rules. That clash proves impossible to resolve. Anna, crushed by social rejection and Vronsky’s growing coldness, chooses to end her life. Vronsky, heartbroken, heads to the battlefield. Even if love ultimately loses to societal pressure, does that mean their love wasn’t real? Can we really sit on our moral high horses and judge people who stood on the peak of human emotion?
Honestly, anyone with a shred of humanity would struggle to make such a cold judgment. Anna and Vronsky’s love was genuine. It had nothing to do with marriage or being a “third party.” I think anyone who meets their own “Anna” or “Vronsky” would feel their heart skip a beat. The difference is, some act on it - like Anna and Vronsky - and some bury it deep inside, like those of us clinging to moral superiority.
So no, their love isn’t something to condemn. The real issue is that they tried to turn that love into a marriage, into a family. That’s where society steps in, and judgment begins. That’s the tragedy.
Compare that to Levin and Kitty’s relationship - it’s a quieter kind of conflict.
Their love is clearly aimed at marriage. Tolstoy doesn’t dwell much on their romance - it basically starts with Levin’s proposal. Their wedding, though, is one of the novel’s most beautiful moments, and their ending is sweet and enviable.
But it makes me wonder, right: was Levin’s love real? Did he marry because he loved Kitty, or did he love her because he wanted to marry?
Levin’s attention shifts between 3 sisters - first the eldest, then the second, and finally Kitty. So it’s fair to question whether he truly loved her. It feels like he designed a family first, then picked someone to fill the role. His goal was so clear, it almost seems like he loved himself more than anyone else. He wanted a companion, and mistook that for love. That’s what sets him apart from Vronsky. Levin is steady and romantic, but he never experiences the kind of all-consuming passion Vronsky does. And that passion - that overwhelming, selfless love - is what makes great love so unforgettable.
Still, Levin and Vronsky are alike in one way: they both mix love with marriage and family. Levin loses true love for the sake of marriage. Vronsky loses marriage because of true love.
In that sense, both are tragic.
I often imagine - what if Anna and Vronsky had stopped at mutual attraction, or just one magical night? Maybe then their love would’ve stayed pure, untouched by the weight of expectations. Maybe that first meeting at the train station would’ve been their most cherished memory.
Or what if they had escaped judgment and married like Levin and Kitty? Would they, years later, end up like Oblonsky and Dolly - romance gone, stuck in routine?
Love is beautiful because it’s pure. But that purity makes it fragile. Even the most passionate love can’t survive the grind of daily life, let alone the crushing weight of moral expectations.
The most heartbreaking moment in the novel isn’t Anna’s final leap - it’s Vronsky trying to remember their happiest times, only to feel those memories poisoned forever.
Maybe love should just be love. Not about marriage. Not about family. Not about possession or permanence.
Maybe it’s the distance between us and the stars that makes them eternal.
5 / 5 stars
(Really sorry - I think I rambled on for way too long. But that’s what happens when the book I’m reading is that good).