See, I’m not the only person who is critical of novels that seemingly many other love. I haven’t read “Doctor Zhivago” and from this post, it won’t be on my list anytime soon.
I’ve come to the end of an incredible year of Russian reading and, I’ve got to say, I’m very proud of myself. I didn’t feel this congratulatory earlier, because there’s nothing really impressive about reading lots of great books. I’ve just finished ‘Doctor Zhivago’ though, and I do deserve some kudos because I’m afraid a slight feeling of smugness is the most I’ve got out of the experience.
‘Doctor Zhivago’ was a humbling and frustrating read. Frustrating for reasons that I’ll get into below, humbling because it moved me closer to the ranks of those who claim they ‘don’t get’ or ‘don’t like’ the most famous Russian literature. I can no longer look on with aloof pity as such claims are made; frankly, I can honestly say that I’ve been there too.
It was all so promising, set against the backdrop of the revolution, ‘Doctor Zhivago’ brings love and romance…
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