it, and to tell you the truth, I am surprised that people are so
pleased with such ordinary and EMPTY stuff."

The same year he wrote to Fet:

"It is two months since I have defiled my hands with ink or
my heart with thoughts. But now I am setting to work again on my
TEDIOUS, VULGAR 'ANNA KARENINA,' with only one
wish, to clear it out of the way as soon as possible and give
myself leisure for other occupations, but not schoolmastering,
which I am fond of, but wish to give up; it takes up too much
time."

In 1878, when the novel was nearing its end, he wrote again
to Strakhof:

"I am frightened by the feeling that I am getting into my
summer mood again. I LOATHE what I have written. The
proof-sheets for the April number [of "Anna Karenina" in
the "Russky Vyestnik"] now lie on my table, and I am
afraid that I have not the heart to correct them.
EVERYTHING in them is BEASTLY, and the whole thing
ought to be rewritten,--all that has been printed, too,--scrapped
and melted down, thrown away, renounced. I ought to say, 'I am
sorry; I will not do it any more,' and try to write something
fresh instead of all this incoherent, neither-fish-nor-flesh-
nor-fowlish stuff."

That was how my father felt toward his novel while he was
writing it. Afterward I often heard him say much harsher things