Diana Vreeland was "the Empress," the avatar of the age. An old name or old money were not enough to get you into Studio 54 - or Interview magazine, for that matter. You had to have a lot of something else, like looks or brains or wit or fabulous clothes.
Don't think of Diana Vreeland's memoir as a book; it's more like a lunch. A bit of souffle, a glass of champagne, some green grapes - light, bubbly and slightly tart - all served up by an egocentric but inventive hostess.
I wish I could swap closets with Diana Vreeland, but I think only my left thigh would fit into her clothing.
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