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Sentimental outbreaks are like liquorice; when first you suck it, it's not bad, but afterwards it leaves a very nasty taste in the mouth.

Turgenev at his most tepid, a notion previously explored by Gogol, but applied here to the worn jilted gentry becomes dualist now dying trope. It reached realization in Tolstoy (think The Death of Ivan Ilych meets The Kreutzer Sonata) but alas this Diary is as if ale was poured through a cloth and then mixed with flat seltzer.

2.4 stars rounded up, well, because it is Turgenev.