Book 9 is Ethan Frome, by Edith Wharton.
Why I own this book: I acquired a nice hardcover castoff copy from my dad.
Why I hadn’t read it: What I knew of the plot (mainly from watching bits and pieces of the Masterpiece Theater adaptation starring Liam Neeson years ago) didn’t appeal to me much. It seemed slight, and different from Wharton’s other books.
Why I still own it: I love The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth.
And the verdict? Wow. It may be a short book, practically a novella, but man, is it well-written—efficient, economical, and depressing as all hell. The introduction in the copy I read talked about how ironic it is that Wharton’s least representative work should have become her most famous (apparently she herself didn’t think much of Ethan Frome), but I can sure see where it gets its rep.
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