My first contact with the works of Edith Warton came, regrettably, from my sophomore high school English course where we read Ethan
Frome. It isn’t that it’s a bad book, it’s just the kind of text that makes you feel like a piece of your soul was a potato hidden in the ceiling by a disgruntled former coworker. It’s impossible to find but impossible to get away from as well.
I’m getting depressed just thinking about it.
But Edith Warton also wrote some erotic literature as anyone might if they were living in Paris in the 1910s. Check it out for yourself here.