This book was strange for me, at points, it was a 5, at other points a 1. There were passages (usually not parts of the narrative, but Katy's aphorisms - presumably the product of her middle-aged mind looking back) that moved me nearly to tears. These little nuggets are Katy's own "Rules of Civility" and they made the book worth reading. (E.g., "Right choices are the means by which life crystallizes loss.").
But those little tidbits are not the bulk of this quite plotty pacey novel, which is a fairy tale about a mad cap girl with a fairy tale name (Katey Kontent) in a fairy tale New York of 1938, where Bentleys prowl the streets, all the women are beautiful, all the boys are plucky, the furs are furry, the jewels chandelier sized, the cocktails ever flowing, the underclasses ably represented by a bosomy wisecracking Italian girl from Jersey and several kindly Negro workers and musicians, and the Depression mumbles by at a safe remove. Instead of hardship, we get lovingly detailed tours of the hangouts of moneyed New York then and now (the Beresford, the 21 Club, the bar at the St. Regis, the Plaza, the University Club, Long Island, "camps" upstate...).
What's wrong with that, you say? Isn't a fun fairytale, with a few good plot twists, some soapy love stories, and a crafty villainess, worth the candle? Well, yes, and no one loves time-travel voyeurism with lush descriptions of meals, clothes and décor more than me. (See also The Age of Innocence and Mad Men (but more on the latter, later)). And if that were all that Rules of Civility was meant to be - a frothy little cocktail for a summer's night - it might leave a saccharine taste in your mouth, but it wouldn't irk, or leave a sense of hollowness, as ultimately this book did for me.
In the end, Rules DID remind me of Mad Men, more than Age of Innocence or House of Mirth or the Great Gatsby, all of which had self-conscious echoes in this novel. Both Mad Men and Rules indulge my desire for trans-decade New York lifestyle porn, mostly of the well to do, as well as my arch sense of knowingness at getting the landmarks, the signposted history, the name-dropping literary tie-ins, but I find both cold at the core, with a cipher for a hero/ine. I feel a bit sad and worse for wear after visiting these worlds.
Katy, like Don Draper, is a woman with a new name and without a past. And this is a fundamental problem for the novel. We're told at the beginning that New York is a place where "Katyas become Katies", and while we're never told as much, we imagine that Kontent (a wonderful fairy tale name) is also a shortening of some unwieldy Russian surname (the inverse of Gatz to Gatsby, one imagines). But while viewers who persevere will eventually learn how and why Dick became Don, the more historically common but still interesting transformation of Katya to Katy is never explored. You spend the whole novel waiting for more than perfunctory references to Brooklyn, her immigrant laborer father and MIA mother, as well as for some insight into the amazing labor of reconstruction needed to make that bookish Brooklyn ethnic working class girl into the toast of WASP society, capable of making not only 4 (count 'em -4!) scions of highborn families (albeit one down on his luck) fall in love with her, but also (far more credulity stretching) of winning the social acceptance and trust of those scions' assorted female friends and relations. You will wait in vain, however, because despite the early acknowledgement of this transformation, Rules ends up asking us to take on fairy-tale faith that Cinderella can go to the ball, that a plucky Katya can shed the accent, learn the mannerisms and pole vault her way into the world of the Social Register with nary a wrong fork, social faux pas, cold shoulder or cutting remark.
Similarly, despite the framing of the novel as being rooted in Walker Evans' photos of Depression-era working class commuters and the early discussion of the Depression and its "hunger and hopelessness", the novel is ultimately ahistorical, or at least set in a pleasant social register (no caps this time) where the Depression doesn't intrude. This is part of what creates the feeling that reading the novel is like over-indulging in candy - it's all fun and games in this make-believe version of 1930s New York, and again, that's OK, as far as it goes, but it prevents the novel from being multi-dimensional and more meaningful.
To close on a personal note: in the 1930s, both sets of my grandparents were young adults in New York, constructing their own bridges out of the working class. Like Katie, all 4 were the children of immigrants, some from Russia, all were smart, bookish, motivated. Unlike Katie, no one ever invited them to tea at the Ritz. They ended up accomplishing a lot, but their Brooklyn accents with the ghost of Yiddish behind marked them as far from blue blood their entire lives. So did their memories of Depression penury, which, combined with their inherited shtetl thriftiness, made them suspicious of conspicuous consumption to their dying days. Nothing in Rules is true to that lived history of 1930s New York. Of course, Katie wasn't Jewish, and it was certainly possible to cross great social divides - show girls became duchesses and the like, but there should be a story - more than a fairy tale - to explain this miracle, and because there isn't, Rules of Civility disappointed me in the end.