I have engineered my life so I read kids’ books for a living. As I’ve written elsewhere, I find my literary diet supremely satisfying. Even the simplest seeming picture books can offer piercing glimpses into the human condition and transcendent aesthetic experiences. Only people who inhabit my world understand this, however; those who don’t, even avid readers, seem to have forgotten that the joy a good kids’ book can bring is in no way inferior to that afforded by a grown-up book.

However, it’s good to stretch, and that’s one reason I belong to a book group that’s totally unrelated to my work. The members are great company and incredibly generous readers, willing to commit to adult fiction genres of all kinds, nonfiction, classics, and kids’ books. And bless them, they committed to Anna Karenina after reading, at my suggestion, A Gentleman in Moscow.

Now remember, I read kids’ books for a living, so tackling a mammoth grown-up book sent me into a gentle panic—just think of the professional reading that would pile up—but I felt at some level responsible for the choice, so by golly, I was going to read it.

I turned Anna Karenina into a campaign. In addition to the print copy of the 2001 Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky translation, I downloaded a free copy of the 1901 Constance Garnett translation so I could comfortably read standing in line at the post office and supermarket. I even bought an audio version, with Maggie Gyllenhaal reading the Garnett. I personally hate audiobooks (it’s not a principled stand; I just dislike being confined to the reader’s pace), but I listened on every dog walk and bike ride I took.

And it was amazing.

While I still insist that I’m not missing out intellectually by hewing to my chosen reading diet, I do tend to finish kids’ books pretty fast. That was not the case with Anna Karenina. Because there were always pages and pages and pages to go, I found myself thinking about Anna Karenina in ways I don’t when reading a book that occupies just a few hours.

I wondered about questions of craft. Why did Tolstoy customarily use patronymics for some characters (Stepan Arkadyevich, Agafea Mihalovna) but not others (Levin, Kitty, Vronsky)? Why did Pevear and Volokhonsky choose to ruin the English scansion of one of the most famous opening lines in literature by turning “Happy families are all alike” into “All happy families are alike”?

I considered the development of the major female characters: Dolly, Kitty, and Anna. Had any male novelist before Tolstoy put so much energy into examining women’s interiority? I don’t think I knew even Hester Prynne the way I knew Anna by the end of the book. Mind you, I don’t see Tolstoy as a feminist—the opposition of Kitty’s happy, instinctive simplicity to Anna’s ferocious discontent says something about his attitudes, as does perpetual reformer Levin’s rejection of women’s education—but the clear implication that at least part of Anna’s misery was her inability to exercise her own intellect to its fullest grants her more psychological depth than I expected.

I marveled at the alienness of the culture of these 19th century Russian aristocrats to my own. I felt as though I learned so much—but what nuances would Tolstoy’s contemporaries have seen that I totally missed?

And when I finally got to Anna’s last day, written with such mastery that even though I knew exactly what would happen I was still on the edge of my seat: wow.

Anna Karenina was so damn long that it became realer than life for weeks. I chattered about the characters’ goings-on at supper with my patient spouse, who has not read it. I talked about it to anyone who would listen.

Astonishing though the experience was, I’m not ready to change careers. I have lots of great kids’ books in my future. But I think I’ll keep my eyes out for other opportunities for that kind of sustained literary experience. I’ve heard that Moby-Dick can keep a reader busy for a good, long while.

Vicky Smith is the children’s editor.