Society’s punitive cruelties are meted out by women in Jacques Doucet gowns and condemnation is served over terrapin with a Roman Punch chaser, but don’t let Edith Wharton’s antique references distract from what is really being offered here: a soul-crushing buffet of confessional gossip more contemporary in texture than one might think. Masterpieces like The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth often get shunted over to the retirement village section of the bookstore (those shitty rotating racks of classics that are tucked discreetly in a corner so they don’t offend culture’s youthful sensibilities), but if you can’t find them there, don’t be afraid to march right up to the counter and ask in your loudest and most self-righteous voice what kind of establishment doesn’t carry Edith Wharton. Read The Custom of The Country for Edith’s eviscerating portrait of Gilded Age venality and follow it up with a couple of her ghost stories.
