Edith Wharton and Dawn Powell owned their writerly worlds.

Re-visited House of Mirth. Wharton was my mother's favorite author and I'm reminded exactly why, her writing style referred to as dramatic irony. Wharton not only understood her world, she owned her world. Both she and Dawn Powell had perfect pitch respective of their geographically unique New York addresses.

Dawn Powell, doyenne of Greenwich village knew bohemian, writers, poets mixed with professional ad men, salesmen, working woman sans white glove and romance. Wharton's milieu was class, manners, Powell preferred those on the make and how they all drank, highballs from morning til night. Wharton captured upper, rarefied, protocol, gilded, Powell covered everyone else.  I love Dawn Powell.

But I also understand why Muv loved Edith Wharton, her world in San Fran not too far from the other coast. This novel, House of Mirth, a particular masterpiece. Her command so clear as she locates her prey, her motive, she swoops in so gracefully, effortlessly, not a spot of blood left behind, nothing but a softly jarring sensation she must know every single thought you've ever experienced throughout your entire life. Dawn does the same, both women so extraordinarily well read, curious and compassionate, a way of yesterday perhaps.
There is this moment, a moment with which I can identify, when Wharton's character sees through another person's retina, her view quickly shifts, the rosy glow fades away as the path looks long, straight, free of any promise of detour, even when absolutely necessary.  Change is imminent.
Neither writers rebelled against change but rather embraced it, forgave it, their profound sense of empathy overriding everything, underlining their acute sense of us, our motives, without ever having to hit the couch. No guilt, no concentric circles, just deep, warm, humorous comprehension.