I got a hand-me-down copy of this long ago from A’s mother, but resisted reading it for a long time even though I love the other Edith Wharton books I’ve read (The Age of Innocence, Ethan Frome, and particularly The House of Mirth). I suspected there was a reason it was one of her more obscure efforts; most summaries include words like “biting” and “satirical,” which is often code for “unlikeable.” And indeed, the main character, the ruthless, materialistic social climber Undine Spragg (is it a coincidence her initials are U.S.?), who repeatedly marries and divorces in search of the wealth and status she feels she is entitled to, is hard to sympathize with and often made me want to throttle her. Yet I found this book completely fascinating and surprisingly enjoyable—the satire isn’t laugh-aloud funny, but there’s a grim, riveting pleasure in Wharton’s vivid, incisive, unrelenting dissection of the era, class, and characters she depicts.
But while it’s easy to read the book as just a what-is-society-coming-to/get-off-my-lawn takedown of a new age of bloodless noveau riche opportunism, there’s more to it than that. Wharton also underscores that if Undine had been a man, her determination and ambition might have been productively channeled into business, but as a woman, her only recourse is to desperately jump from man to man, eternally frustrated (whatever she manages to get, it is never enough) and causing collateral damage right and left. I might not recommend this as someone’s first taste of Wharton, but it’s as powerful and brilliant as any of her other masterpieces.
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