Oh, the rarified life of Edith Wharton. Beautifully written but the details of her entitlement...ick.

An extraordinary woman who became a leading writer of the day--even more extraordinary because she became a writer in an age when women in her day in upper crust NYC were expected only to attend society events. Edith Wharton's Backward glance explains her love of books and writing at an early age. Born during the Civil War, she lived through the turn of the century during WWI and into the 1930s. She was an intrepid traveler embracing the earliest motor cars. During WWI she traveled to the western front in Belgium and France bringing relief supplies to hospitals and refugees. If there is any part that lost my interest it was the extensive list of names she references with her English and French literary circles. Her books ends:

Life is the saddest thing there is, next to death; yet there are always new countries to see, new books to read (and, I hope to write), a thousand little daily wonders to marvel at and rejoice in.... The visible is a daily miracle for those who have eyes and ears; and I still worm my hands thankfully by the old fire, through every year it is fed with the dry wood of more memories.

A really interesting read and one of Edith Wharton’s most underrated! While I think she does spend too much time drawing character portraits of every close friend she had over the course of her life, even these were often interesting (especially those of Henry James and Teddy Roosevelt). Edith lived during such an interesting time in the world. She was witty, observant, good-natured, and well-traveled. This book really captures her joyous spirit and relatively carefree approach to life and the pursuit of adventure. Nothing in here of any personal drama. Her husband is usually only mentioned in the context of “my husband and I next went to Spain,” and there’s no mention of unhappiness or even of her divorce.

Definitely worth reading!

For such a fascinating lady, this was a little slow but worth the time invested. Her friendship with Henry Jones was the highlight of this memoir. I also didn't realize she had such an affluent upbringing which was interesting. Informative and well written.

good to know more details about one of my fave classic authors -- especially her really sweet friendship/mentorship with Henry James -- but not nearly as enjoyable as her fiction. My favorires are Age of Innocence and House or Mirth. Check those out!!

Very charming autobiography. It is more of a selection of memories and stories than a detailed account of Wharton's life. She never mentions her divorce, but does talk about her time in Europe. It is a delightful book.

I would rate this a 3.5-4. I honestly expected to enjoy it more than I did, but it frequently slowed to a crawl for me. Thankfully it would pick up again, but then back to a crawl. Although she led an interesting life of privilege, I never got a real sense of her as a person as I have with autobiographies written by other people. Her "House of Mirth" remains my favorite of her books.

The unbending warning from Wharton herself in the preface hinted her determined restraint not to share personal life with us. Does it matter that we must be entertained by the anecdotes if she treated her servant angelically but called them relentlessly to bring her this and that; or her unmatched marriage which leads to ultimate divorce? We all have personal shames, guilt, privacy that are difficult to confide to even intimate friends, let alone saying revealing everything from flesh to bones to unsympathetic readers?

Wharton was restraint, that is certain; however, what she brought us closer to was the oasis-- the inner land where she sprouts after years of solitary reading and grows into a writer. By sharing the books she read we form a congenial familiarity through the same companionship as Byron, Moore, Wordsworth, Shelly, etc.
She was inspired, and we become acquainted with enchanting artists such as Berenson, Vernon Lee, etc. Her candid observations of Henry James also exhibit a vivid and humane portrait of him, although occasionally it can appear a bit overbearing on the subject

Wharton remained Victorian in her taste for lucidity but elegant statement.
That is her standard, despite the notable formal tone, her prose is stylish. Wharton has her class limit, but listen to herself and give a chance to "Ethan Frome" or short story "Summer," we ought to find the brave and emphatic silhouette of hers breaking from stifling society and became the frontier reporter near the French trench at WW1. Perhaps it was her redeemable emotional compensation for her failed personal happiness. Regardless, I held her in esteem more than a writer.

Last, to say, Wharton's sharing opinions of other artists or discussion of her writing is at modest enchanting volume, but the glance is sweetly enough.

I was disappointed by this -- a book I've heard wonderful things about for a long time. The writing is rather prosaic: descriptions of her developing forays into writing, character sketches of many people she knew (Henry James most prominently), but not about her marriage and little of emotional interest. Pale and dull in comparison to Iris Origo's memoir, Images and Shadows.

Some people accused John Galsworthy, author of a similar "Study of manners",The Forsyte Saga, of being a hypocritical member of the very class he criticized. I will save that argument for another time, but I think it very much applies to Wharton. This autobiography is little more than a romp down memory lane, from her giddy, embarrassingly girlish descriptions of her Victorian clothing and even bonnets, as a child and outings with her beloved father.

Just when people like Henry James are introduced and she starts traveling and hanging out with literati in Newport, we think, "Oh! Finally, something interesting!" But no. All we get are little, nitpicking details about James' eccentricities, written with condescending affection, and supposedly humorous, yet omniscient anecdotes about her "knowledge" of the "hill folk" of the Berkshires, once she gets her summer mansion, "The Mount", in Lenox, Massachusetts.

This supposed intimacy is a figment of Wharton's self-impressed imagination, and almost as boring as her name-dropping list of European celebrities and nobility while touring ancient castles and villas in Italy, whose detail she somehow glosses over in favor of other cute anecdotes about her hair getting messed up as she drives in her infuriating motor car over bumpy roads.

If you are used to her novels and expect any insight into her life: don't! If you want some juicy details about her life, they're there. But for pithy wit, wait for some of Henry James' quotes.

If you had to choose one hundred people from your life to include in a memoir, whom would you choose? What would you write about each person? Such is the essence of A Backward Glance. Key details of Wharton's own life are often glossed over or excluded.

I loved this memoir by Edith Wharton. I should probably add that if you love Edith Wharton's work, you will almost certainly also love this memoir - if you've never read Wharton, or don't care for her writing, then this is probably not the book to start with or try.

This isn't an "autobiography," but more of a collection of reminiscences, although it does proceed in a roughly chronological way. I found Wharton's descriptions of her early childhood years, when she was just discovering books, fascinating in the glimpse they give of a developing artist. Her chapters on her later life, at the Mount and then in Paris, her many friendships, and her experiences in the War are all interesting as well.

One thing I've noticed in reading both Wharton's novels and this book is that it is helpful - for me, necessary - to have a dictionary and computer nearby so I can look up the many words I don't know and the many references to people and places unfamiliar to me. Wharton was fluent in at least four languages and far more widely read than I could ever hope to be. I always feel a little smarter after reading one of her novels and I felt even more so after reading this book.

Unsurprisingly, Wharton doesn't go into much detail regarding her husband's serious mental problems and their doomed marriage; nor does she discuss at all her mid-life affair or other private matters. I'm sure there are many biographies that go into these subjects in great detail. What this book offers is a look at moments in Wharton's life which she felt were most important to set down as the most influential. In that respect I think it succeeds beautifully.