India, Feb. 1 -- Dear Reader,

I have decided to trade my digital dopamine loops for literary plot twists. The rule is simple: every time I feel the itch to scroll through social media, I open a short story instead.

On Monday morning, the air outside the window is still. The palm trees feel painted, not a frond stirs. Inside, at my desk, papers have not yet had a chance to pile up; I returned home only last week. A red china mug with yellow paper flowers handmade by my youngest sits by my elbow. The room smells of candied apple; I have, I admit, become Goop-like about scented candles.

I am reading Edith Wharton, the writer of favorite novels like The House of Mirth and The Age of Innocence. Wharton feels to me like the American equivale...