Maybe the true tragedy is that in our lovers, we look for the reflection of ourselves. Linda’s lovers didn’t really see her; and she didn’t really see her lovers for what they were. (Image via Wikimedia Commons)

I just finished Nancy Mitford’s 1945 novel, The Pursuit of Love. Mitford writes in that light, British upper-class, devil-may-care manner that I adore in P.G. Wodehouse and Dorothy Sayers, and her words don’t disappoint. It’s not the kind of novel you can think about too deeply, though, or everything will turn sour and sordid.

The Pursuit of Love sounds like a romance, and it is involved with romantic love. The heroine, Linda, follows her passions to catch a wealthy banker, Continue reading →