Anna Karenina, if you ever read the tome by Leo Tolstoy, is not so much a love story, but about a virtuous woman married to an even more virtuous man that spirals into a destructive path, lured away from her 6 year old son and her devoted husband by a younger man, a soldier. It seems romantic, the two lovers forsake all not excluding their place in social standing, family, safety, wealth, and future, all was to throw away because the passion was so excruciatingly seductive. Anna however, was virtuous, but beautiful, charismatic and she would and could have lived a life of swirling romance, carefree adventures if she were not tied down to her dull husband and her 6 year old whom she adored. There was a pivotal moment, between light flirtations, imagination running wild in the privacy of her own mind and the actual moment when she verbalized and make physical what would have been a passing train in the night. She would have remained in good standing with her community, her social circle, with virtuous, illuminati reputation in tact, safe in her own home with a solid husband and a loving son. But she lost all of it. Family. Soldier. Herself.
The article I read strangely cited Anna Karenina too. She plunged into the book in a seminar called "Fiction of Isolation" and she felt highly intrigued and repulsed by the book feeling as though she may become like Anna Karenina. She had a grandmother who had the same spirit as Anna did, beautiful, magical, loved to fall in love, a free spirit and she left her husband and daughter to follow a blond air force pilot (eerily similar to Anna). She also had the same kind of mother who fell in love with a 24 year old African Stunt man and left her husband and daughter to follow him to Africa. I begin to have this strange sense that Anna, this author and I floated a long the same river and maybe even kept company in the same boat...living in our head about the "other" life we may have had. The author was deeply afraid she would be the third in line to do the same to her husband and son, forsaking them and herself for a young poet, but at the end of the article, she finds herself right where she began, in her head. She says to herself, "I did it! I really did it!" She never crossed the blurred lines.
It's the blurred lines, of playing out your inner frustration and letting it die inside your head, instead of allow it to burst into form in the physical reality, where there is severe and monstrous consequence on your subject. Whether it begins with kicking helpless animals or handling your child a little too rough, it is a very dangerous beginning that leads to the point where you never really know where that edge begins and ends. It's easy to give into your emotions when you are not vigilant and wake from your rage of anger, lust or boredom to find yourself on the other side of the line, where the lines are suddenly clear.