It pays to be patient with Ethan Frome as its melancholic conflict doesn't truly take hold until the breaking of a pickle dish. From that moment on, author Edith Wharton wrings a towel of tension tighter and tighter as an unassuming and pathetic farmer works up the nerve to escape his domineering and ailing wife. And then, when we've settled into one expected outcome or another, the author snaps the one wet end of the taught towel, hitting us with an unfulfilling but ironic twist.

The appeal of this timeless and tragic novel can only be explained by a never-ending audience of people who can relate to Frome's circumstances. He has made his bed and expects to lie in it for better or worse, mostly worse. Setting the story against the harsh cold of a New England winter only underpins his misery. He is a man who works an unproductive farm, shoulders additional burdens for his neighbors, and supports a hopeless marriage to an unappreciative spouse.

Is it any wonder that Frome will fall for his wife's life-in cousin after being granted the smallest of courtesies and kindnesses? And is it any wonder that he would struggle with making even one bold move toward his happiness? And is it any wonder that his crime of indecision should solidify a life sentence? The real tragedy is that Ethan Frome, even after 110 years, is not alone.