wow, if i could ever write sentences half that beautiful, i think i’d die a happy woman.
for those of you who’ve read wharton before in the dim of your own personal history, or for those who never have, i commend you to her sheer wickedness. now that woman was funny, killer funny, with a bodice festooned with the sharpest of bloodletting, pearl-handled fruit knives. nobody escapes without a patch or two of flesh missing.
which is not to mention the larger cutlery she keeps on hand for eviscerating the pretensions of her society and the self-deluding capacity of all its members.
and last, if you’re looking for a book that will leave you feeling superior to all the ignoramuses in it, beware: their pretensions did not all die with their time, and you will doubtless find yourself closing the book only to find some of your own blood has dripped on its pages.