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Title: Reading Ethan Frome has all the pleasures of swallowing a porcupine
Review: I hate this book more than any other I've read. Edith Wharton indulges herself in a meticulous catalog of imaginary human misery. It is, in it's way, the spiteful grandmother of all the modern fiction that rejoices in the pathetic dysfunction of annoying nobodies. Read it and you have wasted precious hours of your life that you could have spent seeking real joy.
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