[Aug. 1885. Anna Karenina.] ... And don't lend me any sad stories, my dear,; no, not if they are masterpieces. I cannot afford to be made unhappy and I suspect that book Anna Karenina - I suspect it is Russian and if it is I know what to expect and couldn't bear it. There would be a beautiful woman in it, all that is best in woman, and she would be miserable, and love some trumpery frip (as they do) and would die of finding out she had been a fool - and it would be beautifully written, and full of nature and just like life, and I couldn't bear it - these books are written for the hard-hearted - to melt them into a soft mood for once, before they congeal again. As much is written not for poets but for stock-jobbers to wring iron tears from them once - that is the use of sorrowful art - to penetrate the thick hide of the obtuse. I don't mind being harrowed, but then it must be in lofty rhyme, or verse heroical - great kings and queens, and then I like it very much - but I can't bear a tale that has in it a woman - who is made miserable and mad and thrown away on a wretch, and is altogether heart-breaking. I know the Russians can make splendid women in their books - and I know that ours are but poor things - in our books - and do really suffer when I read them, and get demoralised with miserable reflections. ...