It seems I never tire of reading about the problems of upper crust New Yorkers, whether it’s the Archers (Isabel and Newland - no familial, much thematic relation) of the 19th C. or three Brown U friends on the cusp of their thirties in the last months before 9/11. Although The Emperor’s Children doesn’t punch a hole in my heart the way a James or Wharton novel would, I enjoyed reading it. How could I not? These are my people: entitled, Ivy League-educated young professionals, blessed with talent, reared on a steady diet of feel-good feeling-special, now reeling under the blows of real life and the brutal realization of our own mediocrity. We deserve to be satirized. At the very least, it means someone is paying attention to us.