I finished the novella Ethan Frome today. It was a short but memorable read, though I do prefer Edith Wharton’s longer novels. Besides the beautiful writing, heartbreakingly tragic in its tone from start to finish, the idea that haunts me is how life, and some lives, can be so affected by sadness that one wonders how they even can be borne by those living them. Perhaps we are so fortunate, we don’t even realise it.
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