I didn't expect this to be a breed of "life is obscenely full of itself and then you die", but I've had wildly incorrect presumptions about works before. Granted, I've never watched 'Sex and the City', so I never underwent what is likely one of the more accurate litmus tests for whether this was my kind of book or not, but Book Riot's 100 Women's Classics combined with other unread (for who knows how much longer now) on my shelves combined with a vague hope of something useful started me off, and now that I've finished, I'm rather sick of it all. None of the characters appealed, most of the events were horrid in a cheap sort of way despite the emphasis on Rich People Things™, the inevitable hoard of those screaming "SATIRE" at me doesn't justify the effort it would take me to take that claim seriously, and I found the behavior of most of the characters in the final scenes repulsive in how willingly they were able to form the titular group once one of them was dead, in contrast to the turgid isolation each had willingly bound themselves to previously. It all seemed so careless, to be perfectly honest, and the fact that so many of them were bigoted little brats when the almost all of them would've starved on the streets without their precious little trust founds took the cake. I give two stars to realistic to the point of banality views of a US world on the cusp of WWII, but hindsight is a bitch, and after reading this, I really understand where the phrase "eat the rich" came from.

As a social document, this has some worth in terms of observing the behavior and norms of a very specific, very elevated, very unfit group of people who largely watched the Great Depression and incoming fascism as highlights of articles in the likes of CNBC or Fox News, depending on their political predilection. As a work of literature, it had a lot to say about a very blinkered set that wouldn't even put their obscene privileges of whiteness and straightness and classness to narratively interesting use. If anything, it showed me that the boring daytime soap opera/comedy shit that plagues both live action and animated shows television today has had a very long history of pretending 95% of the world doesn't exist, and a sprinkling of classical lit is expected to go a long way in convincing one to pay attention to a bunch of hapless no nothings whose preconceptions of love and life and non white people are barely jostled, and save for a touch of tragedy porn near the very end, none of them reap the rewards for such weak willed obtuseness. Elinor, alias Lakey,

Spoiler

alias the Lesbian,

was the most interesting one out of all of them, and of course she is the one anyone barely gets to see. Lots of name drops, lots of petty domestic infighting, very little meat or wit. All in all, informative, but what a slog for the most part.

I'm obviously not the target audience for this book. It holds value for me as an artifact that some would lazily characterize as "hasn't aged well", but all that phrase really denotes is how much the speaker buys into the artificial narrative of progress built up by brutality and brainwashing. In terms of whether this is a classic, I say thee nay. It subsists on a substrate the world would be better off not keeping around, and has little to offer that makes up for such. In any case, I'm glad it's over. I'm in the mood to move back a millennium or so and see how "well" those times have aged.

All I knew that night was that I believed in something and couldn't express it, while your team believed in nothing but knew how to say it—in other men's words.