The Children Book

Edith Wharton wrote about things like telegrams, ball gowns, steamer ships. She wrote about money, and fancy dinner with china and crystal, and jewelry and fashion.

I know nothing about these things. And I don't particularly care about them either, not on a day-to-day basis. (Though receiving a telegram might be highly romantic and sort of fun.) But Wharton was able to make her readers care about those things; so much so that readers (no matter what their past or present holds, no matter who they are or who their daddy is) can actually relate to her characters. That's the power of literature, if said power is wielded by the right person.

The Children is about all the abovementioned things, just like
The Age of Innocence or The House of Mirth also focus heavily on high society and the relationships between the members. Unlike those other, more familiar Wharton texts, The Children involves... well... children. I can't think of another Wharton book or story that has children characters worth mentioning, so this story of societal matters is already different from the word Go.

There are seven children in the Wheater family, but they're actually a happy bunch of stepbrothers and sisters hoping that their parents will reconcile and they can all live together happily ever after. The glue holding them all together is Judith, a 15-year-old who has been forced by circumstances to be older than her stated years by acting as a surrogate mother for her younger steps. Martin Boyne, an older gentleman, meets them for the first time on a ship and becomes so involved in the family dynamic that he actually falls a little in love with Judith. Um, dirty old man!

I seem to be reading books about older men and their lust for little girls lately. Even more disturbing is the fact that these have been good books. Wharton includes all the feelings of confusion, all the awkwardness, all the questionable motives, and in the end one walks away feeling like they need a shower, but holy crap was that a delicious story, beginning to end, holy crap, holy crap.

Despite my high praise of this book I can't even say it's Wharton's best. Which just goes to show you how highly I think of other things she wrote. Additionally I should add that I finished this on my lunch break, despite the fact that I didn't have time to grab a back-up book when I left the house this morning. I never do that because I read on my commute (lest I have to actually listen to my neighbors)... and now I'm screwed.

Thank you, Edith Wharton. Thank you.