A Backward Glance
is Edith Wharton's vivid account of both her public and her private life. With richness and delicacy, it describes the sophisticated New York society in which Wharton spent her youth, and chronicles her travels throughout Europe and her literary success as an adult. Beautifully depicted are her friendships with many of the most celebrated artists and writ
A Backward Glance
is Edith Wharton's vivid account of both her public and her private life. With richness and delicacy, it describes the sophisticated New York society in which Wharton spent her youth, and chronicles her travels throughout Europe and her literary success as an adult. Beautifully depicted are her friendships with many of the most celebrated artists and writers of her day, including her close friend Henry James.
In his introduction to this edition, Louis Auchincloss calls the writing in
A Backward Glance
"as firm and crisp and lucid as in the best of her novels." It is a memoir that will charm and fascinate all readers of Wharton's fiction.
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A Backward Glance: An Autobiography
takes readers up to 1934, but Wharton's account of the years post-1918 barely amount to an epilogue. She is not desolate, she still draws from her usual sources of joy. Writing, reading, the conversation of a circle of brilliant though fast-dwindling friends, travel, especially yachting the Aegean and motoring in far reaches (given her identification with the French elite, I found it perfect that her exploration of Morocco was smoothed by none other than Gener
A Backward Glance: An Autobiography
takes readers up to 1934, but Wharton's account of the years post-1918 barely amount to an epilogue. She is not desolate, she still draws from her usual sources of joy. Writing, reading, the conversation of a circle of brilliant though fast-dwindling friends, travel, especially yachting the Aegean and motoring in far reaches (given her identification with the French elite, I found it perfect that her exploration of Morocco was smoothed by none other than General Lyautey). But, she says, life is not the same, many have died, much is ended. Her account of Henry James' decline and death during the war, in a nightmare of empathetic anguish, is hard reading:
I have never seen any one else who, without a private personal stake in that awful struggle, suffered from it as he did. He had not my solace of hard work, though he did all he had strength for, and gave all the pecuniary help he could. But it was not enough. His devouring imagination was never at rest, and the agony was more than he could bear. As far as I know the only letters of mine which he kept were those in which I described my various journeys to the front, and when these were sent back to me after his death they were worn with much handing about. His sensitiveness about his own physical disabilities gave him an exaggerated idea of what his friends were able to do, and he never tired of talking of what he regarded as their superhuman activities. But still the black cloud hung over the world, and to him it was soon to be a pall. Perhaps it was better so. I should have liked to have him standing beside me the day the victorious armies rode by; but when I think of the years intervening between his death and that brief burst of radiance I have not the heart to wish that he had seen it. The waiting would have been too bitter.
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EW's "autobiography," written in the mid30s, is preposterous
bunkum. As much as I appreciate her novels, her debutante
preening here makes me dislike her. She constantly refers to
her husband and never mentions that they were divorced in 1913. When she observes that after "The House of Mirth" was published (1905) "my husband and I decided to exchange our little house in NY for a flat in Paris," we know that the hovel accomodated 3-4 servants and could be divided into 6 apartments.
Edie needs a vill
EW's "autobiography," written in the mid30s, is preposterous
bunkum. As much as I appreciate her novels, her debutante
preening here makes me dislike her. She constantly refers to
her husband and never mentions that they were divorced in 1913. When she observes that after "The House of Mirth" was published (1905) "my husband and I decided to exchange our little house in NY for a flat in Paris," we know that the hovel accomodated 3-4 servants and could be divided into 6 apartments.
Edie needs a villa in Paris to replace "the emptiness of life in a hotel." Meanwhile, off to the French and Italian Rivieras. Salons and parties with "my dear friend the Marquis de Segur," or Comte Alexandre de Laborde - aah, the pre-war society of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. The name of Morton Fullerton, the American journalist who allegedly gave her a Lady Chatterley thrill, is omitted from this memoir. The company Edie kept was mostly men, brilliant aesthetes like Henry James, Walter Berry, Howard Sturgis -- professional "bachelors." However, her portrait of James is genuinely warm and admirable.
She does include a Fun Fact : in France, at a dinner party, the
"host and hostess sit opposite one another in the middle of the
table." Or did pre-war. I'm told Hearst did the same at San Simeon. Guests descend, r and l, in dwindling importance.
"Life is the saddest thing there is, next to death," she concludes
in the last lines. (What the devil is she gurgling about?) She won
prizes, was acclaimed for her best-sellers, made 62 transatlantic
crossings First Class, had stately homes here and there, chartered yachts, and, frankly, never sat still - until she died in 1937.
Post-war America offended her. She couldnt bear to see any breakup of the the social and class structure that enhanced her Gilded Age. Dont misunderstand my irreverence. Edie was a lady. Her stories capture a prehistoric period. It seems she and Fullerton could never get-it-on because her servants were always about. Elsewhere we read they finally pulled the shades in London at the Charing Cross Hotel. I bet it didnt go beyond frottage.
Edith Wharton is one of my favorite authors, and I've been waiting to read this autobiography since I saw all of the great reviews when it first came out. It certainly did not disappoint-- chock full of insights about the books and Wharton's life without being too confessional.
I was a little confused by some of the criticism of this here on Goodreads. It's a memoir, not an autobiography, which may seem like splitting hairs, but the whole point of a memoir is that you share bits and pieces of your life that you feel are worth relating, not the whole thing. So yeah, she leaves out her divorce and many other important events, but the point is that she's trying to focus on more pleasant memories. However, this brings its own drawbacks. Too often these memories just amount
I was a little confused by some of the criticism of this here on Goodreads. It's a memoir, not an autobiography, which may seem like splitting hairs, but the whole point of a memoir is that you share bits and pieces of your life that you feel are worth relating, not the whole thing. So yeah, she leaves out her divorce and many other important events, but the point is that she's trying to focus on more pleasant memories. However, this brings its own drawbacks. Too often these memories just amount to a list of people she knew or various anecdotes that were probably funny at the time but left me a little cold. But as always, her prose is fantastic and as a result it's still pretty pleasant to read.
It's hard to not compare A Backward Glance to Speak, Memory. Nabokov and Wharton were both insufferably aristocratic and they were both fantastic prose stylists. The main difference is that Nabokov made his world seem real and beautiful, while Wharton's seems strangely distant. Her aristocratic snobbishness is pretty amusing at times, though (at one point she relates that Melville wasn't welcome in high society because of his "deplorable bohemianism"). It's also interesting, because in her novels she seemed extremely sympathetic to the plight of women in society and the poor in rural New England, but here she reveals that she was incredibly dismissive and condescending to the latter and held views that are pretty incompatible with feminism. She was a complex lady.
P.S. On her great grandfather’s estate: “It stood, as its name suggests, on a terraced height in what is now the dreary waste of Astoria[.]” :((((
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Some people accused John Galsworthy, author of a similar "Study of manners",The Forsyte Saga, of being a hypocritical member of the very class he criticized. I will save that argument for another time, but I think it very much applies to Wharton. This autobiography is little more than a romp down memory lane, from her giddy, embarrassingly girlish descriptions of her Victorian clothing and even bonnets, as a child and outings with her beloved father.
Just when people like Henry James are introduc
Some people accused John Galsworthy, author of a similar "Study of manners",The Forsyte Saga, of being a hypocritical member of the very class he criticized. I will save that argument for another time, but I think it very much applies to Wharton. This autobiography is little more than a romp down memory lane, from her giddy, embarrassingly girlish descriptions of her Victorian clothing and even bonnets, as a child and outings with her beloved father.
Just when people like Henry James are introduced and she starts traveling and hanging out with literati in Newport, we think, "Oh! Finally, something interesting!" But no. All we get are little, nitpicking details about James' eccentricities, written with condescending affection, and supposedly humorous, yet omniscient anecdotes about her "knowledge" of the "hill folk" of the Berkshires, once she gets her summer mansion, "The Mount", in Lenox, Massachusetts.
This supposed intimacy is a figment of Wharton's self-impressed imagination, and almost as boring as her name-dropping list of European celebrities and nobility while touring ancient castles and villas in Italy, whose detail she somehow glosses over in favor of other cute anecdotes about her hair getting messed up as she drives in her infuriating motor car over bumpy roads.
If you are used to her novels and expect any insight into her life: don't! If you want some juicy details about her life, they're there. But for pithy wit, wait for some of Henry James' quotes.
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I found Edith Wharton’s autobiography very limited (and in many ways) condescending. Wharton loved to share all the details of her exciting, elitist’s lifestyle but when it came to her losses, Wharton completely ignores them. According to her publisher in 1934, regarding her autobiography, “it was so unrevealing that its publishers, to Wharton's fury, tried to adjust their contract to permit severe cutting of what they called long "dull" parts.”
www.http:www.penguinclassics.co.uk/nf...
Most likel
I found Edith Wharton’s autobiography very limited (and in many ways) condescending. Wharton loved to share all the details of her exciting, elitist’s lifestyle but when it came to her losses, Wharton completely ignores them. According to her publisher in 1934, regarding her autobiography, “it was so unrevealing that its publishers, to Wharton's fury, tried to adjust their contract to permit severe cutting of what they called long "dull" parts.”
www.http:www.penguinclassics.co.uk/nf...
Most likely in order to keep her reputation, Wharton decided not to include both her 1913 divorce with her husband Teddy, who took a mistress, embezzled money, and suffered from mental illness. And her brief, passionate love affair (at age 46) with journalist Morton Fullerton. Wharton had destroyed her photos and letters and asked Fullerton to do the same. But he did not, and many years after her death, they were published. Overall I found it a challenging read.
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Wharton's writing is every bit as clear and lucid as in her novels, and I really liked the look at her own life and background. I especially liked her understated wit and her early amazement at becoming a well-known writer, which makes her seem very human and approachable; here's a favorite passage: "I had written short stories that were thought worthy of preservation! Was it the same insignificant I that I had always known? Any one walking along the streets might go into any bookshop, and say:
Wharton's writing is every bit as clear and lucid as in her novels, and I really liked the look at her own life and background. I especially liked her understated wit and her early amazement at becoming a well-known writer, which makes her seem very human and approachable; here's a favorite passage: "I had written short stories that were thought worthy of preservation! Was it the same insignificant I that I had always known? Any one walking along the streets might go into any bookshop, and say: 'Please give me Edith Wharton's book'; and the clerk, without bursting into incredulous laughter, would produce it, and be paid for it, and the purchaser would walk home with it and read it, and talk of it, and pass it on to other people to read!"
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wanted to love this, i really did. but i also wanted to know something more personal about edith wharton, and although i heard a lot about her friends and europe and new york, i didn't feel like it went as deep as i wanted it to. for instance, what was her marriage really like? her husband seems to be a minor figure in her life based on this account--can that really be true? so although i enjoyed the tone and the writing itself, it was very unsatisfying.
For the most part I absolutely loved Wharton's autobiography. If there's one thing I appreciate in an author it's the ability to write a beautiful sentence, and Wharton is a master:
Norton was supremely gifted as an awakener, and no thoughtful mind can recall without a thrill the notes of the first voice which has called it out of its morning dream.
I can't think of any better way to express the feeling you get when you are learning from a great teacher. And her outlook on life was inspiring:
In sp
For the most part I absolutely loved Wharton's autobiography. If there's one thing I appreciate in an author it's the ability to write a beautiful sentence, and Wharton is a master:
Norton was supremely gifted as an awakener, and no thoughtful mind can recall without a thrill the notes of the first voice which has called it out of its morning dream.
I can't think of any better way to express the feeling you get when you are learning from a great teacher. And her outlook on life was inspiring:
In spite of illness, in spite even of the archenemy sorrow, one can remain alive long past the usual date of disintegration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in big things, and happy in small ways.
I also cannot express how much I enjoyed the stories Wharton told about her beloved friend, the Master, Henry James. I've read biographies of James, his novels, biographies of his brother William and sister Alice, and Wharton's account is the best at providing a look at a different side of James. Not a brother, not the famous novelist, but a dear friend.
Many have criticized Wharton for not going into the details of her divorce or her affair with Morton Fullerton. I do not. Can you really expect someone raised in the society described in The House of Mirth and The Age of Innocence to go into such personal details in an autobigoraphy?
A few things prevented this book from achieving five star status. At times the lists of friends grew tiresome, especially the Paris chapter. I also wish more time had been given to her thoughts about her work (The Age of Innocence gets a mere two paragraphs). But overall, a very enjoyable look into the life of one of my favorite writers.
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Found this book by accident at a used book store. It reads slowly, but she's fun to listen to, a Victorian diction, true 'old-school' manner. It was like visiting with an old aunt. As a feminist, it reminded me that it was not so long ago that women were not encouraged to have a career of any sort, and that many of us were functionally illiterate, even the wealthy.
Edith Wharton was a remarkable woman. In this book, she writes about the highlights of her life. The beginning focuses on her privileged childhood and how her love of books developed, leading to her becoming a successful writer. Throughout the book, she describes in depth, the people who were influential in her life. She captures the gilded era that ended with World War I which she experienced first hand, living in Europe and volunteering to help refugees in Paris. I highly recommend to those wh
Edith Wharton was a remarkable woman. In this book, she writes about the highlights of her life. The beginning focuses on her privileged childhood and how her love of books developed, leading to her becoming a successful writer. Throughout the book, she describes in depth, the people who were influential in her life. She captures the gilded era that ended with World War I which she experienced first hand, living in Europe and volunteering to help refugees in Paris. I highly recommend to those who enjoy her novels, as well as those who are interested in the lives of literary people and the upper class during the late 19th and early 20th century.
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Edith Wharton has written many novels, some of which (House of Mirth; Ethan Fromme; The Age of Innocence) have been made into movies. Her autobiography is as much of a depiction of the now-lost era of pre-WW1 New York and European society as it is about her own life. Although I felt put off once or twice at a touch of snobbishness due to her upbringing, I fell in love with her written words. I most especially enjoyed her stories about her friend Henry James. But it is her final two chapters ("Th
Edith Wharton has written many novels, some of which (House of Mirth; Ethan Fromme; The Age of Innocence) have been made into movies. Her autobiography is as much of a depiction of the now-lost era of pre-WW1 New York and European society as it is about her own life. Although I felt put off once or twice at a touch of snobbishness due to her upbringing, I fell in love with her written words. I most especially enjoyed her stories about her friend Henry James. But it is her final two chapters ("The War"; "And After") that touched me greatly. It is here that Edith Wharton is at her most poignant.
I recommend this book to anyone who has read her novels or the novels of Henry James, or who is interested in pre-WW1 life.
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Another glimpse of the history of the autobiography, this one half a century before Eleanor Roosevelt. Wharton reveals very little about her inner self. The book is a combination travelogue and celebrity listing of all her many friends (most of whom I've never heard of). She writes in much more detail about her many arty friends than about herself. In particular, she writes nothing about her marriage, which is the subject I was most interested in. Her husband suffered from depression and bankrup
Another glimpse of the history of the autobiography, this one half a century before Eleanor Roosevelt. Wharton reveals very little about her inner self. The book is a combination travelogue and celebrity listing of all her many friends (most of whom I've never heard of). She writes in much more detail about her many arty friends than about herself. In particular, she writes nothing about her marriage, which is the subject I was most interested in. Her husband suffered from depression and bankrupted her finances so that she had to sell the home she dearly loved. That must have influenced her significantly, but his history is mentioned only in passing. Such a contrast to today's environment of everybody knows every little thing about everybody else -- instantly.
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When I finished this book I looked at the reviews and agreed with them. I was wanting more. Wharton didn't include many juicy details, but seemed more intent on naming names of people and places she had been. There was something lacking. Maybe her own brutal honesty that she gave her characters? She seemed trapped, to me, in this book. Perhaps because as her only biographical piece, she wasn't as able to be as open as when she writes about a fictional character.
"I was born happy every morning."
When I finished this book I looked at the reviews and agreed with them. I was wanting more. Wharton didn't include many juicy details, but seemed more intent on naming names of people and places she had been. There was something lacking. Maybe her own brutal honesty that she gave her characters? She seemed trapped, to me, in this book. Perhaps because as her only biographical piece, she wasn't as able to be as open as when she writes about a fictional character.
It was interesting still, especially just to hear of how she began and developed her writing career and how her characters appeared in her mind already with names attached. I also enjoyed reading of her experiences with the war and her opinions. It just seemed like something was lacking. This was more of a travellogue and thank you (she wanted to make sure to mention certain names, to thank people). Maybe she was just getting older and that is precisely what it was.
I was also rather disappointed to feel a sort of ...superiority in her towards wWhat was acceptable socially. It seemed important to her to run in certain circles and be fashionable. With her recognition in her novels of how unimportant those things were, I guess I would have hoped she lived with the same conviction.
I did enjoy her explanation as to how writers were perceived as being a threat and bohemian at the time in New York. It was an insight to that society. Men who didn't have jobs, people who lived off of trusts. "The leisure class" as she called it. How she enjoyed the daily visiting and social proprieties. It did seem however like they just wasted an awful lot of time. Motoring and dining. When her works came out and her name better known, she dealt with people's opinions and seemed to have a headstrongness about her.
I was just at the Rue de Varennes in France I few months back and thought of her as I walked down the street, not far from the river Seine. She was an independent woman, driving to the war fronts and reporting. Living alone in beautiful Paris.
She spoke nothing of her personal life, which I think was a pity. Would have been much more interesting.
Respect her love of travel. Reading. Her need to write. Love of conversation.
I loved this memoir by Edith Wharton. I should probably add that if you love Edith Wharton's work, you will almost certainly also love this memoir - if you've never read Wharton, or don't care for her writing, then this is probably not the book to start with or try.
This isn't an "autobiography," but more of a collection of reminiscences, although it does proceed in a roughly chronological way. I found Wharton's descriptions of her early childhood years, when she was just discovering books, fasci
I loved this memoir by Edith Wharton. I should probably add that if you love Edith Wharton's work, you will almost certainly also love this memoir - if you've never read Wharton, or don't care for her writing, then this is probably not the book to start with or try.
This isn't an "autobiography," but more of a collection of reminiscences, although it does proceed in a roughly chronological way. I found Wharton's descriptions of her early childhood years, when she was just discovering books, fascinating in the glimpse they give of a developing artist. Her chapters on her later life, at the Mount and then in Paris, her many friendships, and her experiences in the War are all interesting as well.
One thing I've noticed in reading both Wharton's novels and this book is that it is helpful - for me, necessary - to have a dictionary and computer nearby so I can look up the many words I don't know and the many references to people and places unfamiliar to me. Wharton was fluent in at least four languages and far more widely read than I could ever hope to be. I always feel a little smarter after reading one of her novels and I felt even more so after reading this book.
Unsurprisingly, Wharton doesn't go into much detail regarding her husband's serious mental problems and their doomed marriage; nor does she discuss at all her mid-life affair or other private matters. I'm sure there are many biographies that go into these subjects in great detail. What this book offers is a look at moments in Wharton's life which she felt were most important to set down as the most influential. In that respect I think it succeeds beautifully.
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And I do mean overwhelmingly pleasant - not so much in the enjoyable sense, but in the oh so mannered sense of the time it is about (though maybe not the time in which it was written). So it was good, but as this is the first thing I've read of Wharton - I admit, an odd choice - I found myself not overwhelmingly drawn in by the subject matter.
Add to that my general ignorance of the literary time period in which, and of which, she wrote and the whole thing was kind of
A mostly pleasant diversion.
And I do mean overwhelmingly pleasant - not so much in the enjoyable sense, but in the oh so mannered sense of the time it is about (though maybe not the time in which it was written). So it was good, but as this is the first thing I've read of Wharton - I admit, an odd choice - I found myself not overwhelmingly drawn in by the subject matter.
Add to that my general ignorance of the literary time period in which, and of which, she wrote and the whole thing was kind of disposable to me. People come and go - a lengthy list of names I'm sure making up the who's who of the time - but almost all of them are unknown to me (though H.G. Wells makes a brief -as in one sentence - appearance).
There were exceptions to what saw as disposable. The sections about Henry James were excellent and it was wonderful to get a personal view into his character, especially from someone who was so close to him. Also - and this is where the "mostly" of mostly pleasant comes in - I particularly loved the couple chapters devoted to her experiences during World War I, and the immediate happenings afterwards as she began to see the immutable ways in which the world had changed.
So, overall, this was good. I'm sure I'd have appreciated it more had I been more familiar with her books, but I suppose I'll have to approach this backwards and read some of her novels after the fact. It was good enough to inspire me to do that, so I suppose that will have to do.
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I was so excited to read this book because I've been finding myself lately so intrigued by Wharton's novels and in the one-pager summary of her life that appear at the back of her books, there was always a hint of spunk that I was determined to uncover.
In this autobiography, Wharton documents her travels across Europe, her friendships and her journey through becoming a writer. That image of her and Henry James riding a motor car traversing through the English countryside with James fumbling thro
I was so excited to read this book because I've been finding myself lately so intrigued by Wharton's novels and in the one-pager summary of her life that appear at the back of her books, there was always a hint of spunk that I was determined to uncover.
In this autobiography, Wharton documents her travels across Europe, her friendships and her journey through becoming a writer. That image of her and Henry James riding a motor car traversing through the English countryside with James fumbling through his request for directions is my favorite Henry James memory of her.
I was filled with frustration to know that my favorite author had planned to share her journeys through Greece, a country that I fell truly and deeply in love with, never happened. I would have to make-do with the short snippet that she shared here of her sailing through the Cyclades, down south to the Dodecanese and Crete of what would've been a travel book titled, "The Sapphire Way".
Of her Greek journey she says, "Only twice in my life have I been able to put all practical cares out of my mind for months, and each time it has been on a voyage in the Aegean."
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I love Edith Wharton. Love her books. Admire and want to write like her.
I picked up this book to try to learn about becoming a writer. Wharton barely addressed her creative process in this book - she spent much more time on Henry James in her own memoir! And I'm a little alarmed by what she did write. Her characters and scenes sprang from her mind fully formed, fictitious people with their own names and histories. Is that normal? Because that's sure not how my mind works. Maybe I'm not cut out t
I love Edith Wharton. Love her books. Admire and want to write like her.
I picked up this book to try to learn about becoming a writer. Wharton barely addressed her creative process in this book - she spent much more time on Henry James in her own memoir! And I'm a little alarmed by what she did write. Her characters and scenes sprang from her mind fully formed, fictitious people with their own names and histories. Is that normal? Because that's sure not how my mind works. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a fiction writer after all.
Unlike her fiction, this book probably made most sense to her contemporaries. She peppers the pages with names and places that no doubt were instantly recognizable 80 years ago. I got a little tired of reading about So-and-so, the countess, and the French countryside, because I felt I had nothing to hang on to.
And then I realized that I had the same life in Egypt. Literati, adventure, archaeologists, journalists, the lure of travel. The details may be different, but she filled her life with the stories that I only lived for 2 years.
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This autobiography contains lots of interesting anecdotes and makes me want to start having dinner parties at which I throw together all sorts of people- she values all her friends so much, and one of the cool things about her life is the way she is constantly mixing with all different kinds of people, although her companions are very clearly delimited by class, and that insulated world with all that wealth and name-dropping made the book a little hard to get through in parts, even though I don'
This autobiography contains lots of interesting anecdotes and makes me want to start having dinner parties at which I throw together all sorts of people- she values all her friends so much, and one of the cool things about her life is the way she is constantly mixing with all different kinds of people, although her companions are very clearly delimited by class, and that insulated world with all that wealth and name-dropping made the book a little hard to get through in parts, even though I don't feel that way about her novels. She spends lots of time writing about Henry James, which is interesting, although I don't know if I'd particularly want to meet the guy myself- she really tries to emphasize how funny and charming and loyal he is but it still comes out that he's kind of a jerk, too. She barely talks about her husband and I had to read the part where he dies twice because I almost missed it, but I think I was supposed to assume he was there with her most of the time even when she didn't mention him. The couple does go on lots of adventures together, especially when they are young- I like the part where they decide to spend all their money to go hang out in Italy even though they're not sure how they'll manage financially when they get back- it partly inspired my summer vacation plans (although I don't know if my problems will all be solved by the same means as hers were- there's not that kind of money in my family!) Overall, I wish the writing had been a bit more personal, and that I got more insight into Wharton's writing process, and less rhapsodic detail about all her amazing friends.
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Some people owe it to history to write their memoirs. Edith Wharton was certainly one of them. While enjoying the advantage of wealth and position, Wharton's many accomplishments and passions made her a Gilded Age trailblazer. Nothing in her childhood dictated that she become a prolific author, that she earn a living through work (which few of her social acquaintances did), or that she educate herself in fields such as aesthetics or European history about which most Americans knew nothing. While
Some people owe it to history to write their memoirs. Edith Wharton was certainly one of them. While enjoying the advantage of wealth and position, Wharton's many accomplishments and passions made her a Gilded Age trailblazer. Nothing in her childhood dictated that she become a prolific author, that she earn a living through work (which few of her social acquaintances did), or that she educate herself in fields such as aesthetics or European history about which most Americans knew nothing. While Wharton was undeniably a creature of her class, she remains one of 19th-century America's true luminaries. I appreciate all that she did in this memoir to capture the character of a vanished world (Europe and the US prior to WWI), a world in which women were not supposed to be particularly active or assertive and which did not encourage their autonomy. Bravo, Edith.
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I really liked this book in the beginning. However, as the book went on it started dragging. Then I got bored. I can't remember the last time it took me a month to read a book this short. I just couldn't stay in it.
It's supposedly an autobiography, but I'm not sure I by it. If it is it may be one of the most self-indulgent autobiographies ever. There is more than enough of the book dedicated to talking about her wealth in a very passive aggressive way. She didn't live in a small NY house despite
I really liked this book in the beginning. However, as the book went on it started dragging. Then I got bored. I can't remember the last time it took me a month to read a book this short. I just couldn't stay in it.
It's supposedly an autobiography, but I'm not sure I by it. If it is it may be one of the most self-indulgent autobiographies ever. There is more than enough of the book dedicated to talking about her wealth in a very passive aggressive way. She didn't live in a small NY house despite what she wants the reader to believe. A house that can hold multiple servants isn't small.
Maybe read it if you need some light reading, but it is far less well written than any of her novels.
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This beautifully told autobiography recounts Edith Wharton's childhood in New York City, with months in Europe and Newport, Rhode Island.
Edith Wharton explores her beginnings as a writer. She describes The Mount in Lenox, Massachusetts, and her homes in France. She recounts her troubled marriage with tact and focuses on the friendships she shared with Henry James and other writers of her generation.
Edith Wharton wrote many books, and their quality varies. This is her best book.
Although full of names lost through time and focus on intellectual pursuits and itinerary,still well worth the read--a very singular woman whose novels I have always loved...
A Backward Glance
(1934) - Edith Wharton
Her autobiography. Very well done and interesting. Good insight on her writing, travels, her friendship with Henry James and more.
I read this (a while back) side by side with
Edith Wharton: a Biography
by R.W.B. Lewis. [I'm sure this would be good with the more recent biography by Hermoine Lee.] It was great to compare the two, to see what Wharton said about her life, what she included and what she left out.
I'd love to find a literary biography on Wharton'
A Backward Glance
(1934) - Edith Wharton
Her autobiography. Very well done and interesting. Good insight on her writing, travels, her friendship with Henry James and more.
I read this (a while back) side by side with
Edith Wharton: a Biography
by R.W.B. Lewis. [I'm sure this would be good with the more recent biography by Hermoine Lee.] It was great to compare the two, to see what Wharton said about her life, what she included and what she left out.
I'd love to find a literary biography on Wharton's works more like the book
Charles Dickens
by Jane Smiley, that looks at the novels and aspects of the author's life that affected those works.
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There's a fabulous quote in the first few paragraphs of her autobio-- to the effect that one can endure all life's sorrows if one remains curious; happy in small things and interested in big ones-- which (I should be able to quote exactly from memory but can't at the moment-- However-- it is how I have always approached life and it's served me well all these years. If anyone recalls the exact quote-- would be happy to hear from her or him... .
Edith Wharton, to me, was one of the best authors of the 20th century. The excellence of her entire body of work ranks her with Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and James. In this volume she takes a look back at her own life; the novels, her marriage, her friends, and her life as an American living in Paris. Her good friend, Henry James, wrote the introduction and her skills as a writer make this autobiography very enjoyable to read.
It was interesting to read about the privileged life of a New Yorker at the turn of the 20th century. I got bored with some of the chapters about writers I have never heard of, but I loved the Henry James stories; he really came to life. The book did a good job of creating the vision of what Wharton's life was like. I wouldn't mind reading a biography now to get the personal details that Wharton omitted.
This only barely scratched the surface of what I wanted to know from HER. An inordinate amount of time spent on Henry James, and only the smallest references to her marriage (and subsequent divorce).
I thoroughly enjoyed the teeny-tiny account of her creative process, especially regarding the appearance of characters already named. On to the Hermione Lee biography for more!
The first half of this I was going to give it a 5 but got a bit tired of it towards the end. Do not get me wrong it could have not been written any better but I got tired of her forever talking about this this person and that with out going into much detail about many of them. I am going to order some of her books to read though. I guess I should have given it a 4.
Edith Newbold Jones was born into such wealth and privilege that her family inspired the phrase "keeping up with the Joneses." The youngest of three children, Edith spent her early years touring Europe with her parents and, upon the family's return to the United States, enjoyed a privileged childhood in New York and Newport, Rhode Island. Edith's creativity and talent soon became obvious: By the a
Edith Newbold Jones was born into such wealth and privilege that her family inspired the phrase "keeping up with the Joneses." The youngest of three children, Edith spent her early years touring Europe with her parents and, upon the family's return to the United States, enjoyed a privileged childhood in New York and Newport, Rhode Island. Edith's creativity and talent soon became obvious: By the age of eighteen she had written a novella, (as well as witty reviews of it) and published poetry in the Atlantic Monthly.
After a failed engagement, Edith married a wealthy sportsman, Edward Wharton. Despite similar backgrounds and a shared taste for travel, the marriage was not a success. Many of Wharton's novels chronicle unhappy marriages, in which the demands of love and vocation often conflict with the expectations of society. Wharton's first major novel,
The House of Mirth,
published in 1905, enjoyed considerable literary success.
Ethan Frome
appeared six years later, solidifying Wharton's reputation as an important novelist. Often in the company of her close friend, Henry James, Wharton mingled with some of the most famous writers and artists of the day, including F. Scott Fitzgerald, André Gide, Sinclair Lewis, Jean Cocteau, and Jack London.
In 1913 Edith divorced Edward. She lived mostly in France for the remainder of her life. When World War I broke out, she organized hostels for refugees, worked as a fund-raiser, and wrote for American publications from battlefield frontlines. She was awarded the French Legion of Honor for her courage and distinguished work.
The Age of Innocence,
a novel about New York in the 1870s, earned Wharton the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1921 -- the first time the award had been bestowed upon a woman. Wharton traveled throughout Europe to encourage young authors. She also continued to write, lying in her bed every morning, as she had always done, dropping each newly penned page on the floor to be collected and arranged when she was finished. Wharton suffered a stroke and died on August 11, 1937. She is buried in the American Cemetery in Versailles, France.
- Barnesandnoble.com
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“The real marriage of true minds is for any two people to possess a sense of humor or irony pitched in exactly the same key, so that their joint glances on any subject cross like interarching searchlights.”
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“I cannot picture what the life of the spirit would have been without him. He found me when my mind and soul were hungry and thirsty, and he fed them till our last hour together. It is such comradeships, made of seeing and dreaming, and thinking and laughing together, that make one feel that for those who have shared them there can be no parting.”
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