In a normal skiing experience, a man of my limited skill level shouldn’t be this high off the snow. And, the bottom of his skis probably shouldn’t be facing the sky. Likely he shouldn’t be tumbling, poles sort of flailing, ski helmet more or less even with his ski boots.
Cristina Alger’s debut novel, “The Darlings,” should make you glad you’re not a rich Wall Street financier running an impressively large hedge fund. And if you are among that 1 percent, “The Darlings” will probably inflate your sense of self because you simply cannot be as unscrupulous, as boring or as superficial as the Darlings.