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I really get this. The slow and agonising death of Levin’s brother in Anna Karenina really affected me. Tolstoy wrote it nearly 150 years ago, but its portrayal of suffering and death feels entirely unchanged. It brings some kind of weird comfort. As does Barnaby Rudge with the parallels of ../

/2 of today’s political landscape. It’s all happened before. There’s comfort in knowing we’re just sharing an eternal human condition with those who have gone before. //

/3 and I’m reminded of this great post from James Theobald (I miss him) who nails it.