Wharton Edith eBooks
eBooks di Wharton Edith editi da Perennial Press
Chi cerca i libri di Edith Wharton desidera immergersi nella raffinatezza dell'alta società americana tra il XIX e il XX secolo, analizzata attraverso una prosa ironica e tagliente. Seguire i libri in ordine cronologico di Edith Wharton permette di apprezzare l'evoluzione della sua critica sociale e la profonda introspezione psicologica dei suoi personaggi, offrendo al lettore una panoramica completa sulla trasformazione delle convenzioni borghesi e dei dilemmi morali nell'età del jazz e oltre.
Biografia dell'autore
Edith Wharton nasce a New York nel 1862. Cresciuta in una famiglia aristocratica, riceve un'educazione privata che alimenta la sua precoce passione per la letteratura. La sua carriera si sviluppa tra Stati Uniti ed Europa, dove risiede per lunghi periodi stringendo legami con intellettuali del tempo. La sua profonda conoscenza delle dinamiche dell'alta società newyorkese influenza ogni sua pagina. È stata la prima donna a ricevere il Premio Pulitzer per la narrativa nel 1921 grazie al suo lavoro più celebre. Muore in Francia nel 1937, lasciando un'impronta indelebile nella letteratura americana moderna.
Stile di scrittura
I libri di Edith Wharton sono caratterizzati da uno stile elegante, preciso e caratterizzato da un'ironia sottile rivolta ai costumi sociali. L'autrice è celebre per aver creato personaggi iconici come Ellen Olenska e Newland Archer in L'età dell'innocenza, icone di un conflitto eterno tra desiderio individuale e rigide aspettative sociali. La sua capacità di tratteggiare l'infelicità nascosta dietro facciate rispettabili, come accade in Ethan Frome o La casa della gioia, ha lasciato il segno nei lettori per la straordinaria modernità con cui descrive le trappole sociali che ancora oggi risuonano come moniti universali.
The Age of Innocence. E-book. Formato EPUB Edith Wharton - Perennial Press, 2018 -
On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson was singing in Faust at the Academy of Music in New York. Though there was already talk of the erection, in remote metropolitan distances "above the Forties," of a new Opera House which should compete in costliness and splendour with those of the great European capitals, the world of fashion was still content to reassemble every winter in the shabby red and gold boxes of the sociable old Academy. Conservatives cherished it for being small and inconvenient, and thus keeping out the "new people" whom New York was beginning to dread and yet be drawn to; and the sentimental clung to it for its historic associations, and the musical for its excellent acoustics, always so problematic a quality in halls built for the hearing of music. It was Madame Nilsson's first appearance that winter, and what the daily press had already learned to describe as "an exceptionally brilliant audience" had gathered to hear her, transported through the slippery, snowy streets in private broughams, in the spacious family landau, or in the humbler but more convenient "Brown coupe." To come to the Opera in a Brown coupe was almost as honourable a way of arriving as in one's own carriage; and departure by the same means had the immense advantage of enabling one (with a playful allusion to democratic principles) to scramble into the first Brown conveyance in the line, instead of waiting till the cold-and-gin congested nose of one's own coachman gleamed under the portico of the Academy. It was one of the great livery-stableman's most masterly intuitions to have discovered that Americans want to get away from amusement even more quickly than they want to get to it. When Newland Archer opened the door at the back of the club box the curtain had just gone up on the garden scene. There was no reason why the young man should not have come earlier, for he had dined at seven, alone with his mother and sister, and had lingered afterward over a cigar in the Gothic library with glazed black-walnut bookcases and finial-topped chairs which was the only room in the house where Mrs. Archer allowed smoking. But, in the first place, New York was a metropolis, and perfectly aware that in metropolises it was "not the thing" to arrive early at the opera; and what was or was not "the thing" played a part as important in Newland Archer's New York as the inscrutable totem terrors that had ruled the destinies of his forefathers thousands of years ago. The second reason for his delay was a personal one. He had dawdled over his cigar because he was at heart a dilettante, and thinking over a pleasure to come often gave him a subtler satisfaction than its realisation. This was especially the case when the pleasure was a delicate one, as his pleasures mostly were; and on this occasion the moment he looked forward to was so rare and exquisite in quality that—well, if he had timed his arrival in accord with the prima donna's stage-manager he could not have entered the Academy at a more significant moment than just as she was singing: "He loves me—he loves me not—HE LOVES ME!—" and sprinkling the falling daisy petals with notes as clear as dew...
The Age of Innocence. E-book. Formato Mobipocket Edith Wharton - Perennial Press, 2018 -
On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson was singing in Faust at the Academy of Music in New York. Though there was already talk of the erection, in remote metropolitan distances "above the Forties," of a new Opera House which should compete in costliness and splendour with those of the great European capitals, the world of fashion was still content to reassemble every winter in the shabby red and gold boxes of the sociable old Academy. Conservatives cherished it for being small and inconvenient, and thus keeping out the "new people" whom New York was beginning to dread and yet be drawn to; and the sentimental clung to it for its historic associations, and the musical for its excellent acoustics, always so problematic a quality in halls built for the hearing of music. It was Madame Nilsson's first appearance that winter, and what the daily press had already learned to describe as "an exceptionally brilliant audience" had gathered to hear her, transported through the slippery, snowy streets in private broughams, in the spacious family landau, or in the humbler but more convenient "Brown coupe." To come to the Opera in a Brown coupe was almost as honourable a way of arriving as in one's own carriage; and departure by the same means had the immense advantage of enabling one (with a playful allusion to democratic principles) to scramble into the first Brown conveyance in the line, instead of waiting till the cold-and-gin congested nose of one's own coachman gleamed under the portico of the Academy. It was one of the great livery-stableman's most masterly intuitions to have discovered that Americans want to get away from amusement even more quickly than they want to get to it. When Newland Archer opened the door at the back of the club box the curtain had just gone up on the garden scene. There was no reason why the young man should not have come earlier, for he had dined at seven, alone with his mother and sister, and had lingered afterward over a cigar in the Gothic library with glazed black-walnut bookcases and finial-topped chairs which was the only room in the house where Mrs. Archer allowed smoking. But, in the first place, New York was a metropolis, and perfectly aware that in metropolises it was "not the thing" to arrive early at the opera; and what was or was not "the thing" played a part as important in Newland Archer's New York as the inscrutable totem terrors that had ruled the destinies of his forefathers thousands of years ago. The second reason for his delay was a personal one. He had dawdled over his cigar because he was at heart a dilettante, and thinking over a pleasure to come often gave him a subtler satisfaction than its realisation. This was especially the case when the pleasure was a delicate one, as his pleasures mostly were; and on this occasion the moment he looked forward to was so rare and exquisite in quality that—well, if he had timed his arrival in accord with the prima donna's stage-manager he could not have entered the Academy at a more significant moment than just as she was singing: "He loves me—he loves me not—HE LOVES ME!—" and sprinkling the falling daisy petals with notes as clear as dew...