What Edwina did was write a 19th century-style novel praising the CTW and readers never noticed or didn't care. The easily impressed and highly enthusiastic masses cried: This book is amazing! However, when one's main character is emotionally dependent on others, intellectually incurious, and ill-equipped to think critically, we may as well root for the potted dieffenbachia in the corner of the protagonist's living room. Meaningful, thought-provoking narrative does a body good, but it also seems to be an acquired taste. Life's bitter moments often teach us a more valuable lesson than the sweet and quick fix of a happy ending that goes down smooth as butter. But what defines 'happy?' What is 'The End' and how does one get there? Why the hell, in 2015, do we cling so tenaciously to gender stereotypes? Don't bother asking Edwina.
Rlargusa: He lived louder than love.
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