I am not familiar with this author. Or her book.
But reading the review, an odd thought comes to me:
Americans are starved for class.
Things--people--settings that are elegant. Tastefully furnished. Contrived with a real sense of beauty or distinction. And there's more:
A sense that, as we read, we have entered into a sort of sanctum. Surrounded by suave, elegant persons like ourselves--or the selves we would like to be--
--while the brawling vulgar, the great unwashed, hoi polloi--
--are carrying on outside.
"The loud vociferations of the street
Sink to an indistinguishable roar"
--as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow put it. Long ago.
The miseries of winning the lottery! Gimme a break!
Years back, a dreadful murder occurred. Some woman was involved (a friend of the murdered woman) and she wrote a personal memoir. How to say this?
She was (as the Brits used to say) no better than she should be. Her account of her own doings, her friend's doings--
--raised eyebrows--
--into the stratosphere. No lie.
But she confessed to a private passion.
Old silver.
I read this--I thought, "Here is a woman FAMISHED for class. Something just a bit aristocratic. Something with distinction. Set apart. Special."
And THAT, I firmly believe, is could be said of Americans right now. We look at our leaders--our government--our country--
--and we too--
--are pining for a touch of class.
Will Ms. Moriarty's novel supply that want?
You tell me.
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