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monasterymonochrome 's review for:
The House of Mirth
by Edith Wharton
"Ah, there's the difference - a girl must [marry], a man may if he chooses." She surveyed him critically. "Your coat's a little shabby - but who cares? It doesn't keep people from asking you to dine. If I were shabby no one would have me: a woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for herself. The clothes are the background, the frame, if you like: they don't make success, but they are a part of it. Who wants a dingy woman? We are expected to be pretty and well-dressed till we drop - and if we can't keep it up alone, we have to go into partnership."
So begins the harrowing tale of Lily Bart, a young (but not so young) woman living above her means because she has been bred to, who is ultimately - and fatefully - made a victim of circumstances no matter how desperately she attempts to claw her way back to the highest rung on the societal ladder. Lily is an intriguing character because she falls into disrepute and eventual tragedy, yes, partly as a result of her own naivety but also because of the pervasiveness of class and gender restrictions in the early twentieth century and the ruthlessness of high society, which, in a cruel twist of irony, sustains her as much as it wrings the life from her entirely.
As is the case with many classic works, at times, I found myself struggling to unpack the prose and relate to the characters' experiences, but I became far more immersed in the world of the book as it progressed, and the emotional impact of Wharton's unflinching depiction of women's experiences during the period is undeniable. While I found the first half of the book to be reasonably entertaining, I grew a bit tired of the endless exploits of the wealthy and glamorous and, for this reason, much preferred the latter portion, despite (or perhaps because of) its increasing bleakness. I'm still not sure how I feel about the ending, which may have been a little too crushingly hopeless even for my tastes, but, overall, Wharton's command of her themes and characters is admirable and the rapid deterioration of Lily Bart's societal stock and self-purpose all too terrifyingly real.
So begins the harrowing tale of Lily Bart, a young (but not so young) woman living above her means because she has been bred to, who is ultimately - and fatefully - made a victim of circumstances no matter how desperately she attempts to claw her way back to the highest rung on the societal ladder. Lily is an intriguing character because she falls into disrepute and eventual tragedy, yes, partly as a result of her own naivety but also because of the pervasiveness of class and gender restrictions in the early twentieth century and the ruthlessness of high society, which, in a cruel twist of irony, sustains her as much as it wrings the life from her entirely.
As is the case with many classic works, at times, I found myself struggling to unpack the prose and relate to the characters' experiences, but I became far more immersed in the world of the book as it progressed, and the emotional impact of Wharton's unflinching depiction of women's experiences during the period is undeniable. While I found the first half of the book to be reasonably entertaining, I grew a bit tired of the endless exploits of the wealthy and glamorous and, for this reason, much preferred the latter portion, despite (or perhaps because of) its increasing bleakness. I'm still not sure how I feel about the ending, which may have been a little too crushingly hopeless even for my tastes, but, overall, Wharton's command of her themes and characters is admirable and the rapid deterioration of Lily Bart's societal stock and self-purpose all too terrifyingly real.